Chapter 8 Valentina #2
If Xavier saw this—saw me in this outfit, saw Isaiah touching me like I was something he could claim, saw the way Asher is looking at me like he wants to drag me out of the room and into the dark.
He would want me to change. He would want me to stay dressed like that just for him.
Maybe he’d pull me close and snarl in my ear the way he always used to before saying something cutting, or maybe he’d haul Isaiah off me so fast the walls would shake.
The thought leaves my pulse thudding in my throat.
Isaiah’s hand steadies at my back. “Come on, Angel,” he murmurs, stepping closer until the heat of his body surrounds mine. “Let me take you in.”
He leads me forward with a gentle but possessive pressure at my spine, and I let him, though I can feel Asher’s gaze burning between my shoulder blades as we walk.
The moment we enter the main room, the air changes.
The music is thick—bass rolling like thunder under the floorboards.
Lights are low and warm, casting everything in gold and shadow.
Raiders line the walls, crowd the pool table, lean over the bars, talk in low voices; they turn when they see me, expressions shifting through surprise, interest, hesitation, and in more than a few cases, something like… approval.
Isaiah’s hand stays on my lower back, guiding me deeper into the party.
Every time his thumb brushes my skin, heat spirals up my spine.
His touch is gentle but proprietary, a warning to the room, a promise to me.
Losing Xavier for two weeks has turned him into something raw—more protective, more dangerous, more easily undone.
I can feel it in every small movement he makes around me.
People approach. I meet each of them with calm confidence, feeling every glance Asher and Isaiah exchange behind me.
I speak to a few older members, listen to complaints about routes and storage issues, laugh softly at jokes that take the edge off the tension.
I compliment a patched member’s wife on her hair, ask about someone’s new bike modifications, make small but sincere connections.
It surprises them. It surprises me.
Every interaction smooths the atmosphere a bit, earning nods and murmured approvals. Jackie was right—I don’t need people to fall in love with me. I just need them to stop rooting for my downfall.
Asher appears beside me with a drink, holding it out like an offering. His fingers brush mine when I take it, a soft glide of skin on skin that leaves a trail of awareness racing up my arm.
“Pace yourself,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes my cheek. “I need you sharp.”
“You always need me sharp,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies, eyes dropping unconsciously to the leather hugging my thighs. “Tonight more than ever.”
Isaiah hears us and steps closer, brushing the back of his hand along my hip like he’s calming a wild animal—or claiming one. “You want water instead?” he asks, voice surprisingly gentle. “I can get you water.”
“I’m fine,” I say softly, and he relaxes, but not fully. Neither of them relaxes around me. They orbit me like I’ve become gravity.
The music shifts, deepening, slowing, the beat turning thick and rolling. Asher takes my glass from me and sets it on a nearby table, his fingers sliding along the side of my wrist as he frees my hand. His eyes lift to mine with intention sharpened into something dark.
“Dance with me,” he says, not quite a command but not a question either.
I step into his space.
His hands slide to my hips—warm, firm, deliberate—guiding me onto the dance floor. He pulls me close, my chest brushing his as the heat of him wraps around me. His breath touches the curve of my throat every time he exhales, and he steadies me with a slow, controlled pressure at my lower back.
We start to move, bodies syncing to the bass that thrums low and steady beneath our feet.
His hands tighten slightly, pulling me against him, fitting the shape of me to the shape of him with unhurried precision.
The leather of my skirt slides against his jeans when I move, sending tiny sparks of friction up my legs.
A tremor works its way through my stomach as he leans closer, his lips brushing near my ear but not touching. “You feel unbelievable,” he murmurs, each word a hot stroke along my skin. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
My breath wavers, my body melting into his. “Maybe I do,” I whisper, though the boldness surprises even me.
He lets out a quiet, strained sound—half groan, half laugh—as if he’s trying to smother something feral. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, voice rough, “I’d think you were trying to get me in trouble.”
“With who?” I tease softly.
His fingers flex on my hips, pulling me tighter to him. “Everyone.”
His thigh shifts between mine as we turn, and the warmth of him, the presence of him, floods my senses. He’s aroused; he’s trying not to show it; he’s failing. My heart thuds in my chest, heat pooling low in my belly.
If Xavier walked in right now—if he saw Asher’s hands on me, saw Isaiah staring from across the room like he could swallow me whole—he’d either tear the walls down or drag me over his shoulder and disappear with me. The thought sends a shiver through my bloodstream.
Asher feels it. “Tell me what that was,” he whispers, tightening his grip.
“Nothing,” I breathe, though we both know it’s a lie.
Before he can press further, before the tension between us can snap into something irreversible, a warm hand glides across my arm.
Isaiah.
He walks past slowly, his body brushing mine just enough to jolt Asher’s hands on my hips. Zay throws us a knowing smirk, his dark eyes dropping to where Asher’s hands are holding me like a secret he wants to steal.
“Showtime,” he murmurs, letting the word roll off his tongue with a promise and a warning as he moves past us and disappears into the throng of people.