Chapter 24
I wake up before he does.
That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Everything about this feels like it should be disorienting, uncomfortable, wrong in ways I can’t fully explain. Instead, the first thing I register is warmth. Solid. Steady. Surrounding.
Him.
Cobra’s arm is still wrapped around me, heavy and secure across my waist, his chest pressed against my back like he never let go once he pulled me in. His breathing is slow, deep, even. Not the kind of sleep where someone’s half-aware, ready to wake at the slightest shift.
Carefully, I shift just enough to turn my head.
His face is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen yet.
The hard edges are still there, the lines that come from a life that didn’t give him much room for anything soft, but they’re…
looser. Less guarded. He looks younger like this.
Not harmless. Never that. But human in a way he doesn’t allow anyone to see.
Something in my chest tightens. I don’t touch him. I don’t move closer. I don’t do anything that might break this moment. I just watch. And then his eyes open. Not slow. Not groggy. Sharp. Focused. On me.
There’s no confusion there, no hesitation as he registers where he is, who he’s holding, what happened last night.
His grip tightens slightly. Not trapping.
Anchoring. The air shifts. The tension between us isn’t awkward.
It isn’t soft either. It’s charged. Unspoken.
Like something changed and neither of us is pretending it didn’t.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
His gaze flicks over my face like he’s checking something, making sure I’m still here, still real. “Yeah.” That’s it. That’s all he gives me. But it’s enough. Because I can feel everything he’s not saying.
I shift again, pushing up slowly.
His arm drops away without resistance, but I feel it.
The absence. He sits up a second later, running a hand over the back of his neck, his body already resetting into something more controlled, more contained.
Distance again. Not physical. Not fully.
But it’s there. He stands, moving toward his dresser, movements efficient, deliberate, like last night didn’t crack anything open at all.
But it did.
I saw it. I felt it. And now I’m watching how he puts it back together. That matters. More than anything he could say. I don’t mean to notice his scars. Not like this. Not all at once.
His bare back is facing me, reaching for something near the dresser, the light catches across his back and there’s no missing them.
They’re not small. Not hidden. They run across him in layers.
Old. Faded in places. Sharp and raised in others.
Lines that don’t come from accidents. Marks that don’t come from anything good.
My breath catches. I don’t say anything. Don’t move toward him. Don’t ask. I could.
God, I want to.
I want to know what did that to him, who did that to him, how he survived it.
But something in me understands. That’s not mine to take.
Not yet. Maybe not ever. So I don’t reach out.
I don’t soften my expression. I don’t give him pity.
I don’t give him anything that makes those scars into something he has to explain.
I just see them, and accept them. Like they’re part of him. Like they don’t change anything.
He stills for half a second. Barely noticeable. But I see it. He felt it. He knows I saw. Slowly, he turns his head. Our eyes meet. There’s something sharp in his gaze for a second, something waiting.
For what?
Rejection. Discomfort. Questions.
He doesn’t get any of it. I hold his gaze. Steady. Unafraid. Then I look away like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s just another thing. That’s when something shifts. Subtle. But real.
And I know…
That mattered more than anything I could have said.
Leaving the clubhouse feels different than I expected. Not because I’m scared. I should be. I was almost taken off the street less than twenty-four hours ago. But the fear isn’t sharp anymore. It’s quieter. Controlled. Contained. Like everything else here.
Cobra doesn’t argue when I tell him I’m going to work. He doesn’t push back. He doesn’t try to stop me. He just moves. Grabs his keys and looks at me. “Helmet.”
I take it without arguing. Because I already know. He’s coming with me. That’s not up for discussion. I step outside, the cold air hitting my face harder than I expect after being inside for so long. It wakes me up instantly, sharp and clean.
The bike is already waiting. I hesitate for half a second. I’ve never done this before. Never been on the back of a motorcycle, never had to think about balance, about where to put my hands, about how close I’ll have to be to him.
Cobra notices. “Foot here,” he says, nodding slightly. “Swing over.”
I follow his instructions, a little awkward at first, but I manage it. Then I’m there. Behind him. Close.
Too close.
My breath catches. Because there’s no distance now. No space to pretend this isn’t what it is. I place my hands lightly on his sides at first. Testing.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. “Hold on,” he says. Simple. Direct.
I do. My arms slide around him, tightening slightly as I settle in.
And… God.
It hits. The heat of him. The solid line of his body under my hands. The way I have to press into him to stay balanced. It’s intoxicating. Not soft. Not gentle. Something deeper. More dangerous.
The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my body, through him, through everything. I don’t think. I just hold on. And when we pull out, when the wind hits, when the world starts moving around us…
I don’t let go.
The salon feels like another life. Bright lights. Mirrors. The hum of dryers. The constant flow of voices that should feel familiar but don’t quite fit the same way they did before.
Tessa sees me immediately. Her eyes light up, then she sees him. And everything else disappears. “Jesus Christ, Liv,” she breathes, her gaze dragging slowly over Cobra like she’s not even trying to hide it. “Where have you been hiding that?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “He’s not—”
“Does he have brothers?”
That does it. I laugh harder, shaking my head. “If you only knew…”
Cobra stands behind me. Silent. Still. Watching everything. His presence fills the space without him saying a word, without him needing to do anything at all.
Tessa glances between us, something sharp and curious flickering in her eyes. “Well,” she says, leaning closer, lowering her voice just slightly. “We’re still on for tomorrow night, right?”
I blink. Tomorrow night. That feels like a lifetime away. “I…yeah. I think so.”
Her gaze flicks back to Cobra. “Is he coming?”
I glance over my shoulder. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t react. But I can feel his attention sharpen. “That depends,” I say slowly.
“On?”
I turn back to her, a small smile pulling at my lips. “On him.”
Tessa grins. “Oh, I like him already.”
I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know what that means yet.
After a few hours I look over at Cobra. He hasn’t moved.
Not since we walked in. Not since Tessa clocked him.
Not since every set of eyes in this place quietly adjusted around him without anyone saying a word.
He’s leaning against the wall now, arms loose at his sides, expression flat in that way that doesn’t read as bored so much as… contained.
Watching.
And for the first time since we got here, I realize that he might actually be dying of boredom. That thought shouldn’t make me smile.
It does.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur to Tessa, already stepping away before she can respond.
She watches me go with a knowing look I choose to ignore.
The closer I get to him, the more I feel it. That pull. That awareness that’s starting to live under my skin whenever he’s near. He doesn’t move when I stop in front of him. Doesn’t shift. But his attention sharpens. Focus narrowing until it’s just me again.
“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
His brow pulls just barely. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I gesture vaguely around us. “This doesn’t exactly seem like your scene.”
His gaze flicks once across the salon, then back to me. “It’s where you are.” That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. But it does.
I swallow it down, forcing a small smile instead. “Still. You look like you’re two seconds away from falling asleep.”
“I’m not.” Simple. Final.
I believe him. That’s the problem. I step closer without thinking about it. Close enough that I can reach him without stretching. Close enough that the space between us disappears again.
His body stills instantly.
I lift my hand slowly, giving him time to pull back if he’s going to.
He doesn’t.
So I let my fingers slide into his hair. It’s softer than I expected. Thicker. My hand moves through it easily, pushing it back slightly like I’ve done this a hundred times instead of never. “Still think you could use that trim,” I say lightly.
The second I touch him, everything changes. His entire body goes tight. Not aggressive. Not pulling away.
Just… coiled.
Like something in him is bracing for impact that isn’t coming. His eyes lock onto mine.
God, they burn.
Not anger. Not frustration. Something deeper. Something heavier. Something that feels like if we weren’t standing in the middle of a room full of people, he’d…
I don’t finish that thought. I don’t need to.
I can see it. Feel it. The way his jaw tightens.
The way his chest expands slightly like he’s forcing his breathing to stay even.
The way his hands flex at his sides like it’s taking effort not to reach for me.
Heat curls low in my stomach. Dangerous. Thrilling. Real.
“Maybe next time,” he says. His voice is rougher now. Lower. Controlled in a way that feels like it’s holding something back instead of simply existing.