Chapter 8
Cruz
I know I’m gonna get punched before I even make it down the stairs.
I’ve not heard Rook sound this pissed in a long time.
As I walk into the main room, it’s quiet, too quiet.
I can feel the shift in the air, like a storm rolling in low and fast, pressure building before the first crack of thunder hits.
Tension coils in the air as everyone pretends they’re not watching, studying their drinks, but no one speaks; they’re waiting for the show.
I drag a hand through my hair, rolling my shoulders once as I walk toward him. I feel the charged energy crackling in the air, reminding me of when I was a boxer about to enter the ring.
Rook is standing near the table waiting. He’s motionless, a predator ready to strike. The only sign of his rage is the tightness of his jaw and the throbbing muscle as he clamps it shut. Yeah, this is happening.
“Well,” I say, easy, because that’s how I do everything, “you called?”
He doesn’t answer, staying perfectly still, watching me like a cat with a mouse. His gray eyes are flat, controlled, which is way worse somehow than if he were yelling that I’m a prick.
I take a few more steps forward, slow, measured. “Something you want to talk about, boss?”
We both know he heard. Fuck, everyone in this room heard.
That’s probably not helped my case. I’ve embarrassed him and made him look weak in front of his men.
A stunt like this could get me kicked out.
I wouldn’t have thought anything was possible to break mine and Rook’s bond, but suddenly, the notion that he might send me packing doesn’t seem too absurd.
Rook closes the distance in three strides and punches me square in the face.
The punch is clean, without hesitation or warning.
My head snaps to the side with the impact, the crack of it loud in the quiet room.
Across the room, a chair squeaks, and I vaguely notice that Boone is moving closer, ready to step in if needed.
He’s always been the level-headed one, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to break up a fist fight between me and Rook.
I taste blood immediately, copper sharp on my tongue, but I don’t swing back, don’t even raise my hands. I deserved that, so I let it land. I let the silence stretch after, waiting for more blows that don’t come.
I straighten slowly, rolling my jaw once to settle it back into place, wiping the blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “Okay,” I say calmly. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way.”
The second punch catches me off guard, making me stumble into a chair, which noisily clatters to the floor as I try to right myself with it.
I don’t go down, but it was close. I find my footing and jump up, fists raised, my old fighting instincts taking over.
Boone steps in between us. He doesn’t say a word, but his hulking presence lets us know that’s enough for now.
I take a few deep breaths, waiting for my anger to subside before lowering my fists and nodding at Boone.
He studies me for a moment and then nods once before stepping to the side.
Rook’s chest rises once, controlled breath, but I can see it now, underneath all that discipline, he’s furious. Not the kind of angry he is when it comes to club business, territory, money, or war. No, this kind of fury is personal.
“You crossed a line,” he says, his voice is low and even, but there’s steel under it.
Yeah. I did. I lean back against the table, casual, like my mouth isn’t bleeding or my ears aren’t ringing. “Yeah,” I say. “I figured that might be your opening line.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s my old lady.”
It pisses me off a little that he doesn’t even use her name, and the snarky reply comes out before I can soften it. Not that I would. “And you haven’t touched her.”
Rook takes a step forward, fists clenched. I don’t move, you don’t show fear to an apex predator. “You think that matters?” he asks.
“I think it matters to you,” I say. “Clearly.”
His fist clenches again, his chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath, his glare doesn’t leave mine, but I know he’s aware of the whole club watching us.
He needs to do this here, for them to see, but that also means I won’t get off lightly.
For a second, I think he might swing again.
Part of me almost hopes he does. It would make this cleaner.
Easier to just fight it out and leave it at that.
Instead, he stops himself with his usual superhuman control. Rook is always in control. “You don’t get to decide that,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “Sloane does.”
I see it, the flicker of pain and frustration that Sloane hasn’t chosen him even though he wants her. He doesn’t like to hear it because it’s true. Rook doesn’t like things he can’t control. Apart from Sloane, apparently.
I push off the table, standing straight now, and look him in the eye. “I know I crossed a line,” I say, quieter now. “I’m not arguing that.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?” he snaps.
I know he doesn’t necessarily mean right now; he wants to know why I did it, but we both know why. “I’m being honest.” Both in this conversation and in my pursuit of Sloane. Honest with her, and with myself about my feelings.
He laughs once, the short, sharp sound almost like a bark. “That’s what you call it?”
“That’s exactly what I call it.”
Silence stretches between us again, heavy. Someone clears their throat, and every eye darts accusingly toward them lest it spoil the show.
I can still feel the ghost of Sloane’s skin under my hands, still taste her on my tongue. I wonder if Rook can smell her on me, if it’s making things worse. I should feel guilty, but I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me, not guarded, not fighting, just open. God.
I drag a breath through my lungs, slow. I can’t think about Sloane right now, not if I want to remain a member of Iron Vale MC and keep all my limbs attached.
I feel as if I’m walking a tightrope over a cliff.
Still, I won’t lie to my brother. Rook is one of my oldest, closest friends. He deserves honesty.
“Look,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck. “You want me to say I regret it? I don’t,” I admit, because it’s the truth. How could I?
My lack of regret lands harder than the punch. His eyes narrow, waiting for an apology that I cannot give. Though perhaps, if I said it was just a casual fuck that meant nothing to me, that would be worse.
I should regret it,” I add, holding my hands up and taking a step back, fearing he’s about to pounce. “I know I should.”
“You’re damn right you should,” he growls, his president’s voice now, not the Rook I grew up with.
I meet his eyes, wincing internally at the hurt he’s hiding in them. “But I don’t.” The words sit there between us. Ugly. Real. “She’s not like anyone else we’ve had here,” I say, more controlled now. “You know that.”
“I know she’s mine.”
“There it is,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. For someone who likes to share, Rook sure as shit gets possessive.
He steps closer again, dangerously close. His voice is low and threatening. “Say that again.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “You’re acting like you already own something you haven’t even claimed.”
That does it. The control slips, just a fraction. “You think I haven’t claimed her?” he says, voice dropping lower. He doesn’t want everyone to hear this part.
“I think you’ve been circling her for a week like she’s going to just—what—fall into place because you decided she’s yours?”
His expression darkens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I step forward now, too. Matching Rook’s energy. “You’re holding back,” I say. “And she sees it.”
“You don’t know what she sees.”
“No,” I say. “But I heard what Sloane told me.”
That immediately gets his attention. His head snaps toward me sharply. “What?”
I hesitate for a second, because this part I really shouldn’t say.
It’s only gonna make this worse, but I say it anyway.
“Sloane’s not fighting this, Rook,” I say.
“Not the way you think she is.” I clear my throat, unsure about how to broach this without getting my head knocked off.
“During… She mentioned fantasizing about you, about us, all of us,” I clarify, looking at Boone too.
For the first time since I walked in here, Rook looks surprised. As does Boone, it’s clear he’s been smitten with Sloane from day one, but Boone’s a better man than I am. He’d never have made a move.
Rook doesn’t respond, still trying to process what I mean, I push before I lose the opening.
His jaw tightens again. “Sloane’s still my old lady.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And she knows what that means.”
His eyes flick, something calculating behind them now. The anger is still there, but there’s something else too.
“She knows what this place is,” I say. “What we are.”
“You think that gives you a pass?” he snaps.
“No,” I say immediately. “It doesn’t.” I shake my head once. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
I meet his eyes again.
“I’m saying you’ve been blowing your chance.” The words hang there, uncomfortable yet true. “And maybe,” I add, quieter now, “me crossing that line pushed things forward instead of screwing them up.”
His stare could cut steel. “You’re real good at justifying your shitty behavior.”
“I’m not justifying anything.” I pause before I say the part that matters, what he needs to hear, even though it’s not clever or kind, just honest. “I’m telling you I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t resist her. Sloane’s…” I trail off, searching for the word, then shake my head. “She’s different.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “I noticed.” He doesn’t state the obvious; that’s why he made her sign the agreement to be his old lady in the first place.
“And you still haven’t made a move.”
He glowers at me, lip curling in a sneer. “I don’t need your advice.”
“Yeah,” I say, a humorless huff leaving my chest. “You kind of do.”
The tension spikes again, sharp enough to really draw blood this time if it breaks. “You stay the fuck away from Sloane,” Rook says. The words are an order, not a request, flat and final.
“There it is,” I murmur, dejected.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” He’s my friend, my president, our leader, I can’t refuse. I nod once. “Fine.” The words taste wrong, feel wrong, but I say them anyway. “I’ll leave her alone.”
His gaze doesn’t soften or shift. “You better.”
I hold his stare for a second longer. Then I shrug slightly, putting back on my nonchalant, uncaring armor. “Your call.”
I turn, starting toward the front door. I need to go for a ride to clear my head. As much as I don’t want to tell him this, because I know what will happen next, I have to if we stand a chance of moving forward. “Sloane told me something else about you.”
His eyes lock on mine. “What did she say?”
I exhale slowly. “She said… If you want her, you should claim her.”
There’s a flicker of surprise and determination in his eyes. “Well then, maybe I will right now.” He turns toward the stairs, ready to go upstairs and claim his woman. Not mine. Never mine.
Defeated, I continue my slow walk toward the front exit, aware of the eyes boring into me like knives. I’m almost at the door when I stop. I can’t quite let it go. I’m not one to give up so easily. Even when I’m in the wrong. “Just one more thing,” I say without looking back.
“Yeah?” he asks gruffly.
“You don’t get to blame me if you lose her.”
I don’t wait for his answer, but I hear the creaking of the floorboards as he starts to climb the stairs.
I head outside, squinting in the late afternoon sun that glints off the chrome of my bike.
The blood is still drying at the corner of my mouth, jaw aching just enough to remind me of the punch. I deserved that—every bit of it.
I told Rook I’d stay away. I meant it when I said it, I think.
But as I climb into the familiar leather saddle of my bike and rev the engine, my mind wanders to what I know is about to happen, to Rook claiming Sloane as his own, and one thought sits heavy in my chest—I don’t know if I can actually do it.