Chapter 3
FLEUR
Iwake up disoriented.
Strange ceiling. Strange bed. Strange clothes that are too big and soft from washing and somehow make me feel safer than my own skin.
Then I remember.
The wedding. The phone call. Dominic's voice, cold and unfamiliar, talking about me like I was property. The desert. The ruined dress. The single headlight appearing out of the dusk like salvation.
Him.
I sit up slowly, taking in the room in daylight. It's sparse—just a bed, a dresser, a door that locks from the inside. My wedding dress is crumpled in the corner where I left it last night, ivory silk streaked with dirt and ruin. I can't look at it without my stomach turning.
The clothes he gave me are too big. The t-shirt hangs past my knees. The sweatpants are cinched as tight as they'll go and still sliding down my hips. I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.
I also feel safer than I have in weeks.
That's the part I can't make sense of. I'm in a building full of men in leather cuts, men with hard faces and harder eyes, men who looked at me last night like I was either a threat or a joke.
I should be terrified. I should be plotting my escape, figuring out how to get to a phone, calling someone—anyone—who can help me.
Instead, I slept better than I have in months.
I find him in the hallway.
He's leaning against the wall like he's been waiting, arms crossed over his chest, that permanent scowl carved into his features.
In the light filtering through a window at the end of the hall, I can see him properly for the first time.
The tattoos that snake up his neck, disappearing into his collar.
The sheer size of him—he makes the hallway feel narrow, makes everything around him look smaller by comparison.
He looks like he hasn't slept at all.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning." His voice is rough. Like gravel. Like he doesn't use it much.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Some."
A lie. I'm starting to realize he's not big on words—or truth, when it comes to himself.
But he cleaned and bandaged my feet last night with hands that should have been too rough for that kind of work, and he gave me his hoodie when I was shivering, and he brought me here instead of leaving me on the side of the road.
I'm learning to read between the lines.
The clubhouse is different in daylight.
Last night it felt like a fortress—all shadows and silence and the weight of eyes tracking my every move.
Now I can hear voices from the main room, someone's laugh, the clink of coffee mugs.
Normal sounds. Almost domestic, if you ignore the leather and the ink and the general air of dangerous men live here.
The kitchen is small. Cramped, really—a galley space off the main room with a coffee maker that's seen better decades and a fridge humming ominously in the corner.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place I am.
A florist from the suburbs in borrowed clothes, standing in a biker clubhouse like I have any right to be here.
Grim moves past me without a word. Starts making coffee with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before.
I watch him.
I can't help it. He's too big for this space. His hands, wrapped around the coffee pot, look capable of terrible things. But he moves carefully. Precisely. Like he's always aware of exactly how much damage he could do and is actively choosing not to.
He pours two cups without asking if I want one. Slides one across the counter toward me.
"Thank you," I say softly, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
He nods. Takes a sip of his own coffee. Watches me over the rim with those grey eyes that see too much.
"The fiancé." No preamble. No easing into it. Just the question, direct and blunt. "What do you actually know about him?"
I hesitate.
It's embarrassing, how little I know. How blind I was.
Eight months of dinners and flowers and whispered promises, and I never once thought to ask the questions that mattered.
Never pushed when he was vague about work.
Never wondered why I'd never seen his office, never met his colleagues, never been introduced to anyone from his life before me.
"He said he was in business. Investments, consulting." I look down at my hands, wrapped around the mug. "He was always vague about it. I didn't push." A pause. "I should have pushed."
"What did you hear? Before you ran."
I tell him.
The cold voice. The way Dominic talked about me like property—she'll learn her place, easy to manage, too trusting for her own good.
The references to my flower shop being useful.
Good cover. Cash transactions. The sense that the man on that phone call was someone I'd never met before, someone who'd been wearing a mask for eight months and had finally let it slip.
"I don't know what he actually is," I admit. "I just know it scared me enough to run."
Grim is quiet for a moment. Processing. His expression gives away nothing—that same hard, flat look he's worn since he pulled up on the road last night. But something in the quality of his silence feels different. Heavier.
"You did the right thing."
Four words. That's all. But the way he says them—certain, absolute, like there's no room for doubt—loosens something in my chest that's been tight for hours. Days. Maybe longer.
"Thank you," I say again. It feels inadequate. Everything I say to him feels inadequate.
He just nods. Takes another sip of his coffee.
I'm hyperaware of him. The space he takes up.
The rumble of his voice, low enough to vibrate in my chest. The way my skin prickles when he shifts his weight, moves even slightly closer.
The kitchen is small enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, can smell that smoke-and-leather scent that's already starting to feel familiar.
It's ridiculous. I just ran from one man.
I shouldn't be noticing another. Shouldn't be cataloging the way his shirt stretches across his back when he turns to set down his mug.
Shouldn't be wondering how far down those tattoos go, what they'd feel like under my fingers, what his skin would taste like if I—
I look away. Take a sip of coffee. Try to get my head on straight.
I notice anyway.
Later, I'm in the main room.
Grim disappeared after our conversation in the kitchen—said something about making calls, checking on things.
I've been sitting on one of the worn leather couches, trying to look like I belong here, failing miserably.
The other men in the room have been giving me a wide berth.
Curious glances, but no one approaches. No one talks to me.
Until Vice drops onto the couch across from me.
I recognize him from last night—he was the one on the couch, beer in hand, eyebrows climbing when Grim walked me through.
He's got an easy smile and a relaxed slouch that makes him seem more approachable than the others.
Though I'm starting to learn that none of these men are quite what they seem on the surface.
"So," he says, settling in like we're old friends. "You're the stray Grim dragged in."
"That's me."
"Gotta say, I've known him fifteen years." Vice leans back, studying me with obvious curiosity. "Never seen him sit with anyone this long. Never seen him make coffee for anyone who wasn't bleeding out on the floor." His smile widens. "What's your secret?"
Before I can answer, Grim appears in the doorway.
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at Vice. That's all—one look, flat and cold, carrying the weight of fifteen years of violence and the promise of more.
Vice holds up his hands. "Leaving. I'm leaving."
He does.
Grim's gaze shifts to me. Checking on me. Making sure I'm okay. His eyes hold mine for a moment longer than necessary, and my stomach flips. Dominic never made my stomach flip. Eight months, and not once did a look from him make me feel like this.
"I'm fine," I say softly.
He nods once. Disappears back down the hall.
I watch him go. The broad shoulders. The way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like contained violence given human form. Every step purposeful. Every movement precise.
Something tightens low in my belly.
I'm in trouble. Real trouble. And not the kind I ran from.
Night falls slowly.
I spend the day in a strange limbo—not quite a guest, not quite a prisoner, just here.
Grim checks on me periodically, but he doesn't hover.
Doesn't crowd. Just appears in doorways, makes sure I have what I need, disappears again.
The other men keep their distance. I read a battered paperback I found on a shelf.
Eat a sandwich Grim brings me without being asked.
Try not to think about Dominic, about what happens next, about the fact that I have no phone, no money, no plan.
Try not to think about grey eyes and rough hands and the way my heart races every time he walks into a room.
By the time darkness presses against the windows, I can't sit still anymore.
I find the back steps through a door off the kitchen. Step outside into the cool night air, expecting to be alone.
He's already there.
Grim sits on the concrete steps, staring out at the desert like he's waiting for something. Or remembering something. In the dark, he's all shadows and edges, his profile sharp against the faint glow from the city in the distance.
I should go back inside. Give him his space. But something pulls me forward—something I don't have a name for, something that feels like gravity.
I sit down next to him without asking permission.
Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
He tenses. Every muscle going tight, like he's about to stand up and walk away. Then, slowly, he settles. Accepts my presence. Doesn't tell me to leave.
For a while, neither of us talks. The desert stretches out beyond the lot, dark and endless, the same desert I ran through yesterday in a ruined wedding dress and designer heels. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like five minutes.
I'm aware of every inch of space between us. Every breath he takes. The way his hands rest on his knees, scarred and tattooed and so close I could reach out and touch them.
"You're not what everyone thinks," I finally say.
He turns his head slightly. Listening. Not looking at me, but listening.
"They all look at you like you're something to be scared of. But you're not scary." I pause, gathering courage. "You're gentle. I've seen it."
Something shifts in his expression. A crack in the armor. So small I might have imagined it, but I don't think I did.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know you stopped for me when you didn't have to. I know you've barely left my side since." I hold his gaze when he finally turns to look at me. "I know you're not the monster you want people to think you are."
Silence stretches between us. The air feels charged, electric, heavy with something I can't name. I can see his jaw tighten. Can see the war happening behind his eyes—the same war I've been fighting all day, the one between what's smart and what I want.
"You're too trusting," he says roughly. "It's going to get you hurt."
"Maybe." I don't look away. "But I'd rather trust too much than not enough."
I don't know which one of us moves first.
Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it's just gravity, finally winning.
But suddenly his hand is cupping my jaw, rough palm against my cheek, and my fingers are fisting in his shirt, and his mouth is on mine.
He kisses like he does everything else—intense, focused, all-consuming. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just heat and want and the taste of coffee and something darker underneath, something that makes me gasp against his lips.
I pull him closer. Want more. Need more. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid pound of his heart. His other hand finds my hip, pulling me closer, and I go willingly.
Then he breaks away.
Pulls back. Puts distance between us. His breathing ragged, his eyes dark, his expression shuttering closed like a door slamming shut.
"This can't happen."
"Why not?" My voice comes out breathless. My whole body is humming, aching, desperate for him to close the distance again.
"Because you're under my protection." His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched at his sides. "I don't take advantage of that."
"What if I want this?" I stand, closing the distance he put between us. "What if I've been wanting this since you pulled over on that road?"
Something raw flickers in his eyes. Want. Need. The same desperate hunger I feel burning through my own veins.
Then it's gone.
"Get some sleep, Fleur."
He walks inside without looking back.
I stay on the steps for a long time after. Heart pounding. Lips tingling. Aching in places I shouldn't be aching for a man I just met.
The desert stretches out ahead of me, dark and endless. Somewhere out there is the life I ran from. The man I almost married. The woman I used to be—naive, trusting, too grateful for attention to ask the questions that mattered.
I'm not that woman anymore.
And tomorrow, I'm going to make him understand that this isn't about protection. This isn't about gratitude or fear or having nowhere else to go.
This is about him.
About us.
About what I felt the moment his mouth touched mine—something that has nothing to do with running away, and everything to do with running toward.
I just have to convince him to let me.