8. DIESEL
DIESEL
Six weeks after Eloise climbed into my tow truck wearing a wedding dress, I followed her into the Bradford Holdings boardroom and discovered that rich men were no less obvious when they were afraid than bikers.
They simply hid their threats beneath silk ties, polished manners, and words such as stability and reputation.
The long walnut table could have seated twenty people, although only eleven directors remained after the investigation cleared out everyone connected to Preston’s deal.
Eloise’s father’s chair stood empty at the far end.
He was still cooperating with the task force while prosecutors decided how many charges his assistance might save him from, and Preston remained in custody awaiting trial for fraud, conspiracy, illegal weapons trafficking, and shooting me.
Rafe Maddox was still missing.
I wore a clean black shirt beneath my cut, although Eloise had tried to convince me that a tie would make the board less nervous. I told her I didn’t own one. She bought me three. I left all of them hanging over the back of a kitchen chair and kissed her until she stopped arguing.
The bullet wound beneath my ribs had finally healed enough that the doctor had cleared me for normal activity, but the damaged muscle still pulled when I moved too quickly.
Eloise noticed every time it happened, even when I hid it, and the look she gave me whenever I reached for anything heavy had become more effective than pain medication.
She sat at the head of the table in a dark green suit, her hair swept away from her face and her expression composed as the company attorney presented the final restructuring plan.
The frightened bride who had climbed into my truck was still part of her, but she no longer carried that fear as though it were something shameful.
It had become proof of everything she had survived.
“Bradford Holdings has retained every legitimate freight contract,” the attorney said.
“The banks have agreed to maintain existing credit once the independent audit is completed, and the federal hold on the northern properties will be lifted next week. The south yard will remain closed until the weapons investigation concludes.”
One of the older directors shifted in his seat. Clayton had opposed every decision Eloise made since taking temporary control, although none of his objections had been strong enough to risk saying them outside the room.
“We should also discuss the damage to the Bradford name,” he said. “The company’s continued association with the Iron Flames creates uncertainty at a time when our lenders and clients require reassurance.”
Eloise did not look at me. She kept her attention on Clayton, allowing the silence to stretch until he began to regret filling it.
“The Iron Flames uncovered an illegal weapons operation that this board failed to identify,” she said.
“They provided the evidence that stopped a fraudulent transfer of company property, rescued our former chief executive, and cooperated fully with the task force. No member of the Iron Flames has been charged in connection with the south yard.”
“I am referring to appearances.”
“So am I. Bradford Holdings spent years protecting its appearance while corruption spread beneath it. I will not repeat that mistake by treating the men who exposed the truth as though they are more embarrassing than the people who caused it.”
Clayton glanced toward me. “Your personal feelings may be influencing your judgment.”
Every muscle in my body tightened, but Eloise remained calm.
“My personal life is not subject to board approval, and my decisions regarding this company are supported by the evidence in front of you. If you believe otherwise, you are free to request a vote of no confidence.”
Nobody spoke.
Eloise closed the folder before her. “Then we will proceed.”
The board approved the restructuring, appointed an independent compliance officer, and confirmed Eloise as interim chief executive while the family trust remained under review. Most importantly to her, the plan protected the jobs she had once believed she needed to marry Preston to save.
She had done it without him.
She had done it without her father.
I watched her sign the final resolution with a steady hand and understood that I had never seen anything as powerful as Eloise deciding the shape of her own life.
Reporters waited outside the building. Eloise had expected them, but I had planned to use a side exit until I saw the way the cameras crowded around her and heard Preston’s name being thrown at her from every direction.
She could handle them. I knew that.
I stepped beside her anyway.
Her fingers found mine, and the tension in her shoulders eased.
“Ms. Bradford,” one reporter called, “is the Iron Flames MC still providing protection while Rafe Maddox remains at large?”
“The company is cooperating with law enforcement, and appropriate security remains in place.”
Another voice cut through the questions. “What is your relationship with Damian Jenkins? Sources described his claim on you as an arrangement intended to deter the Black Thorns.”
Eloise looked at me.
Six weeks earlier, I would have made a joke, given the cameras something filthy enough to print, and pretended none of it mattered. That was how Diesel survived rooms where Damian never felt good enough to stand.
Eloise had never asked me to become polished or respectable for her world. She had only asked me not to decide, out of fear, that I could not belong in it.
I moved closer and settled my hand against the back of her neck.
“The claim began as protection,” she told the reporter, “but my relationship with Damian is real. He is here because I asked him to stand beside me, not because I need him to stand in front of me.”
The cameras turned toward us.
For once, I didn’t hide behind a grin.
“There ain’t nothing fake about us,” I said.
I kissed her temple, ignoring the questions that followed, and walked with her to the waiting car without releasing her hand. It was not a performance for Preston or a warning meant for Rafe. It was simply the truth, spoken where neither of us could take it back.
By the time we returned to the compound, the boardroom confidence had softened out of her.
Eloise kicked off her heels at the bottom of the stairs and carried them up to the apartment, muttering about men who believed a woman’s intelligence was measured by how much discomfort she could endure without limping.
I followed her inside. “Could’ve worn boots.”
“With my suit?”
“Works for me.”
“Your formal wardrobe consists of one shirt.”
“Two. Reaper gave the other one back.”
She smiled as she set her bag on the kitchen table, where company files had been competing with motorcycle parts and takeout containers since she moved in. “I need to work for an hour before dinner.”
“No, you don’t.”
I took her hand and led her toward the narrow storage room beside the bedroom. The door had remained closed all week because I told her the pipes needed fixing, which was a better explanation than admitting I had spent every evening building something I was terrified she might not want.
When I opened it, Eloise stopped.
The shelves of spare engine parts were gone.
In their place stood a wide oak desk beneath the window, two bookcases fixed against the wall, and enough storage for the paperwork that had taken over the rest of the apartment.
I had refinished the floor, painted the walls, and moved the old leather chair from the clubhouse into the corner.
Her laptop waited on the desk beside a new brass nameplate.
ELOISE brADFORD.
“What did you do?” she asked quietly.
“Got tired of finding financial reports under my carburetors.”
She walked into the room and ran her fingertips across the desk. “You built this?”
“Most of it. Reaper helped with the shelves after I threatened Axel with a hammer.”
“Why?”
The answer lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, close to the scar Preston had given me.
“Because you said you wanted to come home with me, and I realized I was expecting your whole life to fit around mine. You shouldn’t have to run a company from my kitchen table or keep half your things at a house you don’t want to live in.
” I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly more exposed than I had felt with a gun pointed at me.
“I ain’t asking you to make yourself smaller so you fit here, princess. I’m trying to make room.”
For several seconds, Eloise said nothing. Then she crossed the room, framed my face between her hands, and kissed me with enough force to push me back against the wall.
The kiss carried everything she had held beneath her boardroom composure: relief, hunger, and the fierce certainty that still astonished me whenever she turned it toward us. I gripped her waist and pulled her close, careful of my side until she felt the hesitation and drew back.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not enough to stop.”
“That was not my question.”
“It pulls sometimes, but the doctor cleared me this morning.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Wanted to see what you’d do without advance warning.”
A slow smile curved her mouth. “Lock the door.”
I did.
When I turned back, Eloise had removed her jacket.
She laid it carefully across the new chair, then opened her blouse one button at a time while holding my gaze.
The lace beneath it was black, delicate, and completely at odds with the woman who had dismantled a criminal agreement before breakfast and taken control of a boardroom before lunch.
My cock hardened behind my jeans.
“You wear that to every meeting?”
“Only the important ones.”
“Could’ve led with that. Would’ve listened better.”
“You listened very well.”
She reached me, slid both hands beneath my shirt, and traced the healing skin around my scar. Her touch remained careful, but there was no pity in it. She had never looked at the wound as though it made me weaker. To her, it was simply another piece of the truth we shared.