Chapter 4
GRIM
I've been avoiding the main room all morning. Avoiding her.
After last night—after I kissed her like a man possessed and then walked away like a coward—I don't trust myself to be in the same room. Don't trust myself not to finish what I started.
I can still taste her. Still feel the softness of her mouth, the way she gasped against my lips, the heat of her body pressed against mine. I've been replaying it on a loop for hours. Torturing myself with it.
I didn't sleep at all. Just stared at the ceiling and thought about what would have happened if I hadn't pulled away.
My phone buzzes just after noon. Fix's name on the screen. I asked him yesterday to dig into Fleur's fiancé—find out who Dominic really is.
"Yeah."
"Got something on your guy." Fix's voice is flat. All business. "Dominic Valente. He's connected, Grim. Seriously connected."
"How connected?"
"Throws the Marchetti name around." A pause. "Connected enough that we can't just make him disappear without asking questions first."
I close my eyes. Think about Fleur in her ruined wedding dress, running through the desert in heels that shredded her feet. Think about what she overheard. She'll learn her place. Easy to manage.
"What else?"
"He's got a reputation. Likes control. Likes ownership." Fix's voice hardens. "The women he's been with before—none of them ended well. One disappeared. Two others won't talk about him at all. Whatever she heard, whatever made her run? She was right to run."
"Thanks, Fix."
"Grim." He stops me before I can hang up. "This is above our pay grade. You want to move on this guy, you need permission. Saint needs to know."
"I'll handle it."
I hang up. Stare at the wall. Think about Dominic Valente and what I want to do to him.
Think about what he'll do to her if he gets her back.
The threat comes two hours later.
Knox finds me in the hallway, his face set in that blank expression he wears when something's wrong.
"Message just came through. Dominic's people." He hands me his phone. "They know she's here."
I read it. Short. Direct. We know where she is. Send her back.
"What do you want to do?" Knox asks.
"What do you think?"
Knox studies me for a moment. Whatever he sees in my face makes him nod.
"Saint know about this?"
"He will."
Knox leaves. I stand in the hallway, phone in hand, feeling something dark and cold settle into my bones.
The smart thing would be to hand her back. Protect the club. Protect my brothers. Not risk everything for a woman I've known less than two days.
I'm not going to do that.
I knew it the moment I pulled over on that road. Knew it when she looked at me like I might be safe. Knew it when she called me gentle and something cracked open in my chest that I thought I'd sealed shut years ago.
She's mine now. I don't know when that happened. I don't know how. But she is.
And nobody takes what's mine.
She finds me an hour later.
I'm in my room, trying to figure out next steps, when the door opens. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and she looks so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest hurt.
She takes one look at my face and stops.
"What's wrong?"
I should lie. Should protect her from this. But I'm tired of lying. Tired of walls.
"Your fiancé. Dominic." I watch her face as I say it. "He's connected. Works with dangerous people."
She wraps her arms around herself. "I knew something was wrong. I just didn't know—"
"Yeah."
She sinks onto the edge of my bed like her legs won't hold her. I watch her process it—the fear, the understanding, the weight of what she stumbled into.
"His people know you're here," I continue. "They sent a message. They want you back."
"Oh God." Her voice is barely a whisper. "What happens now?"
"I figure out how to handle it. You stay here."
"And if you can't handle it?"
I cross to her. Crouch down in front of where she's sitting, so our eyes are level. "I'll handle it."
"People could get hurt because of me. Your brothers—"
"Are my concern. Not yours."
"Maybe I should just go back." The words come out in a rush. "Turn myself in. End this before anyone—"
"No."
The word comes out harder than I mean it to. She flinches. I force myself to breathe.
"You're not going anywhere near him." I hold her gaze, make sure she hears me. "I don't care who he's connected to. I don't care what it costs. You're not going back."
"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Why do you even care? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. Why would you risk—"
"Because you're mine."
The words hang between us. Raw. True. I didn't mean to say them. Didn't mean to admit what I've been fighting since the moment I saw her.
But there it is.
Her eyes are wide. Dark. Fixed on my face like she's seeing me for the first time.
"I'm yours," she repeats softly.
"Yeah." My voice is rough. "You are."
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, electric—the same way it felt last night on the steps, right before I kissed her. Right before I pulled away.
I'm not pulling away this time.
That night, I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I hear the knock.
Soft. Hesitant. I know who it is before I open the door.
She's standing in the hallway, wearing my t-shirt to sleep in, her hair mussed from the pillow.
Her feet are bare. Her legs are bare too—miles of soft skin disappearing under the hem of my shirt, making me wonder what else she isn't wearing underneath.
She looks nervous and determined and so fucking beautiful I forget how to breathe.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she says.
"Fleur—"
"I know what I want." She steps closer. Into my space. Close enough that I can smell her, feel the heat coming off her skin. "I want you."
Something snaps.
All the control I've been holding onto. All the reasons I've been telling myself this is a bad idea. All the walls I've spent fifteen years building.
Gone.
I pull her inside. Kick the door shut behind her. Pin her against it with my body, and then my mouth is on hers, and I stop thinking entirely.
She makes a sound against my lips—surprised, wanting—and her hands fist in my chest, then slide up, palms flat against my skin. She's exploring me—tracing the ridges of muscle, the lines of ink, learning me by touch. Every place her fingers land feels like fire.
I reach for the hem of her shirt—my shirt—and pull it over her head.
Christ.
She's not wearing anything underneath. Nothing at all. Just soft skin and curves that make my mouth water. Full breasts, nipples already tight, a waist I could span with my hands. She's all softness where I'm hard edges, all warmth where I'm cold.
And she's been sleeping like this. In my shirt. In my clubhouse. The thought nearly undoes me.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"Yeah." I can't stop. Can't look away. "I am."
I reach for her. Cup one breast in my palm, feel the weight of it, run my thumb over her nipple. She gasps, arches into my touch, her head falling back against the door. The sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
"Grim—"
"I've been thinking about this." I lower my head, drag my mouth down her throat. "Since I found you on that road. Thinking about what you'd taste like." I close my lips around her nipple, suck gently, and she cries out. "What sounds you'd make."
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Please—"
"Please what?"
"More. I need more."
I give her more.
I drop to my knees in front of her. She's leaning against my door while I kneel at her feet like she's something to be worshipped.
She is.
I press a kiss to her hip. Her stomach. The soft skin of her inner thigh.
She's trembling, her hands braced against the door, her breath coming in short gasps.
I can smell her arousal—warm, sweet, intoxicating—and it takes every ounce of control I have not to bury my face between her legs immediately.
Instead, I take my time. Kiss my way up one thigh, then the other. Let my breath ghost over where she wants me most, watch her hips jerk in response. She's making these desperate little sounds, whimpers and moans that are doing things to me I can't describe.
"Grim." My name comes out broken. "Please. I can't—"
I spread her with my thumbs and lick into her.
She screams.
Her taste floods my mouth—sweet and sharp and perfect—and I groan against her, the vibration making her cry out again. I eat her like I'm starving, because I am. Fifteen years since I let anyone this close. Fifteen years of walls and distance and convincing myself I didn't need this.
I needed this. I needed her.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit, and she shatters.
Just like that. Her whole body convulsing, her hands fisting in my hair, my name torn from her throat like a prayer.
I don't stop. Keep licking, keep stroking, drawing out her pleasure until she's shaking, until she's begging me to stop, until her legs are so weak I have to hold her up.
Then I stand. Lift her into my arms. Carry her to my bed.
She lands on the mattress and immediately reaches for me, pulling me down on top of her. I go willingly. Feel her legs wrap around my waist, her hips rolling up against mine, seeking friction.
"Inside me." Her voice is wrecked. "I need you inside me."
I shed my boxers. Free my cock, already aching, already leaking at the tip. Position myself at her entrance. Stop.
"Look at me."
Her eyes flutter open. Dark and glazed with pleasure, fixed on my face.
"You're mine," I say. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
I push into her.
We both stop breathing.
She's tight. So tight I have to hold still, jaw clenched, every muscle locked down. She's hot and wet and gripping me so perfectly I could die right here and be happy about it.
Then I start to move.
I start slow—long, deep strokes that make her gasp every time I bottom out. But slow isn't what either of us needs. Not tonight. Not with everything that's happened, everything that's coming.
I need to claim her. And she needs to be claimed.
I pick up the pace. Drive into her harder, faster, until the headboard is hitting the wall and she's moaning with every thrust. Her nails rake down my back, hard enough to draw blood. Good. I want her marks on me. Want to carry proof of this tomorrow.
I watch her body move beneath me. The way her breasts bounce with every thrust. The way her back arches off the mattress, pushing herself closer to me. The soft curve of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the way her thighs grip my waist like she never wants to let go.
"So good," I growl against her throat. "You feel so fucking good."
"Yes—" She's barely coherent now. "Yes, yes, yes—"
I feel her tightening around me. Feel the orgasm building in her again. I slide my hand between us, find her clit, rub in tight circles.
"Come for me," I say. "I want to feel it."
She does. Screams my name, clenches around me so hard I see stars. And I follow her over, burying myself deep, spilling into her with a groan that feels like it's torn from somewhere primal.
After, we lie tangled together in my sheets.
Her head on my chest. My arm around her shoulders. Both of us breathing hard, coming down from something that felt more like a collision than sex.
Her fingers trace the tattoos on my chest. Slow. Curious. Following the lines of ink like she's trying to read them.
"Stay," I say. The word comes out before I can stop it.
She lifts her head. Looks at me.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says softly.
She lays her head back down on my chest. Right over my heart. And I hold her in the darkness, feeling something I haven't felt in years.
Hope.
I don't sleep. But for the first time in a long time, the darkness doesn't feel so heavy.