Chapter Four
By the time Ivy pulled into the gravel lot outside the Devil’s Crown clubhouse, her nerves had upgraded from a low hum to a full body buzz.
The building squatted at the edge of the compound like it had grown there rather than been built.
It was made of dark wood, had reinforced doors and windows that looked more like they were designed to keep things out than let light in.
Bikes were parked in loose rows, chrome catching the afternoon sun, engines ticking softly as they cooled. She cut the engine and sat there for a second longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel.
This was not a gallery meeting. She smoothed her palms down her thighs, left faint chalk smears on her jeans, and snorted under her breath. Of course she’d worn paint clothes. It was more out of habit than anything else.
Besides, if this went sideways, at least she wouldn’t be worrying about ruining anything nice. Ivy grabbed her sketch portfolio and stepped out of the car.
The air felt heavier here. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but watchful.
It felt like the kind of place that noticed who came and went and remembered it.
There were only a handful of bikers around at this hour—a couple leaning against the building smoking, another wiping down a bike with slow, methodical movements.
None of them stared outright, but she felt their awareness brush against her skin like static.
She kept walking, although she thought to herself that it wasn’t too late to back off.
Return to her car and tell Roach she changed her mind.
Fear warred with curiosity, but curiosity won in the end. Ivy kept walking.
The door to the clubhouse opened before she reached it, and Roach stepped out.
“Hey,” he said, wearing an easy smile. Ivy wondered why he was called Roach when he was easy on the eyes and down to earth. Unlike Havoc. “You made it.”
“Barely talked myself into it,” she admitted, then winced. “Sorry. That probably wasn’t the best opening line.”
Roach chuckled. “Fair. You nervous?”
“Is it that obvious?” Ivy asked.
“Little bit,” he said, but there was no judgment in it. “Come on. King’s expecting you.”
After taking a deep breath, she followed him inside.
The clubhouse smelled like oil, old wood, and something fried lingering from earlier.
It was dimmer than she expected, sunlight filtering through dusty windows and catching on scuffed floors and heavy tables scarred with history.
The walls were crowded with framed photos, patches, and memorabilia, each one whispering stories she didn’t know yet.
She felt small here. Not weak, but new. An anomaly. Roach kept an easy pace beside her, not rushing or crowding her. He seemed to respect distance, and Ivy appreciated that more than she’d expected.
“So,” she said, mostly to fill the quiet, “thanks for mentioning my work.”
He shrugged. “King saw the mural. Liked it. He asked who did it and it seemed worth passing along.”
Her chest warmed at that. “That’s good to hear.” At least she thought so.
As they walked deeper into the clubhouse, Ivy’s gaze kept drifting.
Not to the bikers or to the décor, although she bet not very many people got to see what the inside of an MC clubhouse looked like.
She secretly searched the empty spaces. Places where she half expected to see Havoc leaning against a wall or stalking out of a doorway, scowl already locked in place.
Three days. It had only been three days since he’d nearly run her over, since his eyes had pinned her in place and lit something dangerous and electric in her chest. She’d told herself it was adrenaline. A fluke or perhaps a moment. Her thoughts hadn’t listened.
“You know Havoc?” she asked suddenly and immediately regretted asking it. Too late for that now, Ivy thought.
Roach shot her a sideways look, and lifted one eyebrow. “Do you?” Roach asked. He sounded curious.
Heat crept up her neck and she wished she didn’t blush so easily.
“Not really. Just bumped into him the other day,” she admitted.
Roach made a thoughtful sound. “That so?”
“That’s all,” she added quickly. “He almost flattened me with his bike. Hard to forget.”
A corner of Roach’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Before she could press further, they stopped outside a solid door that she presumed led to King’s office. Roach knocked once and opened it without waiting.
“King,” he said. “Ivy’s here.”
The office was bigger than she expected, but sparse. A heavy desk dominated the space. There were maps on the walls, a couple of chairs that looked like they’d seen better days. King sat behind the desk, broad shouldered and imposing, his presence filling the room even while seated.
He looked frightening at first glance. King had cold eyes, was made of hard lines. He seemed to Ivy like a man who’d seen things and survived them. However, when King smiled, it was measured, professional even.
“Ivy,” he said, standing and extending a hand. “Glad you could make it.”
She shook it, his grip firm but not crushing. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Have a seat,” King instructed.
As they talked, something inside her slowly unclenched.
King didn’t waste time with posturing. He talked walls, placement, themes and longevity.
He asked about her process, about weatherproofing, about timelines.
He talked money without dancing around it.
When he named a figure, Ivy had to consciously keep her jaw from dropping.
“You’d be painting several areas,” he said. “Perimeter walls. Training buildings. Maybe the clubhouse exterior if this goes well.”
“That’s a lot of surface,” she said.
“We’ve got a lot of history,” King replied evenly. “I’d like it reflected.”
“I can do that,” she said, and realized she meant it.
She was just starting to relax when the door opened behind her. Boots crossed the threshold and her spine went stiff.
Havoc filled the doorway like trouble given shape. He wore a faded leather cut and dark jeans that hugged his powerful thighs. That same restless energy she sensed the other day clung to him like smoke. He turned his gaze to her and frowned.
He didn’t look that happy to see her. His expression was all hard lines and narrowed eyes, like her presence was an inconvenience he hadn’t planned for. There was irritation there and maybe even suspicion.
Well. She felt the same, didn’t she? Except that would be a lie.
The truth sat heavier in her chest than she liked to admit. For the past three nights, Havoc had crept into her thoughts without invitation. The heat of his stare and the tension in his shoulders.
The way sorrow clung to him like tar, thick and stubborn, impossible to scrub away. She’d seen it in the set of his mouth, in the way his eyes carried too much weight for a man still standing.
It wasn’t just walls that fascinated her. Ivy was also drawn to people, to the stories written into their posture and their scars, the quiet truths they carried whether they meant to or not. Havoc was a story etched deep, all rough edges and buried ache.
Something in her wanted to trace it, understand it, maybe even translate it into color and shape. If she was being honest, painfully honest, she couldn’t deny the pull of him either. The dangerous magnetism of a man who looked like he might break you and himself in the same breath.
The kind of attraction that had nothing to do with sense and everything to do with instinct. That realization unsettled her more than his glare ever could.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded, eyes never leaving her.
King’s gaze sharpened, flicking between them. “You know each other?”
Ivy lifted her chin before Havoc could speak. “I’m here for a job.”
Havoc’s eyes narrowed. “What job?” Havoc demanded.
He finally looked at King. Ivy took the opportunity to breathe.
“King hired me,” she said evenly. “To paint murals around the compound.”
She met Havoc’s stare again and tried her best to ignore his glare. “Is that a problem?”
For a long moment, he just looked at her. Something unreadable flickered across his face. Then his mouth tilted slightly.
“No problem,” he said.
“Good,” King said, leaning back in his chair. “Then you won’t mind keeping an eye on her while she’s working.”
Ivy frowned. “Why?”
King didn’t soften. “Because we always have enemies sniffing around, and because anyone new deserves protection.”
Havoc’s gaze burned into her. “I’ll handle it,” Havoc said.
The meeting wrapped up quickly after that.
King slid paperwork across the desk, terms were laid out in blunt, no-nonsense language.
A contract was drawn up, start dates discussed, expectations made clear on both sides.
Ivy signed her name with steady hands, even as her pulse thudded too loudly in her ears.
When she stood, her legs felt oddly unsteady, like the floor had shifted beneath her without warning.
Havoc rose at the same time and gestured toward the door.
“Come on,” Havoc told her.
He escorted her out without touching her, but his presence crowded her anyway. The walk back through the clubhouse felt different with him beside her, charged in a way that had nothing to do with the low hum of voices or the clink of bottles from the bar.
He didn’t speak or rush her. He simply matched her pace, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, solid and unavoidable.
Every step sharpened her awareness of him. The weight of his gaze. The quiet authority in the way people subtly shifted aside as he passed. She’d been around intimidating men before. None of them had gotten under her skin like this.
Outside, the sun hit her full in the face, too bright after the dim interior. She blinked, dragging in a breath that tasted like dust and gasoline.
“I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew,” she said, the words escaping before she could stop them.
Havoc glanced at her sharply. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”
The phrase landed harder than it should have. Pretty. Heat flared low in her belly before she could squash it. So he found her attractive. The realization twisted through her nerves, unsettling and heady all at once.
She hesitated, then shrugged, forcing a casualness she didn’t quite feel.
“I didn’t really think about the danger part,” Ivy admitted.
“You still got time to back out,” he said, tone matter of fact. “I can talk to King.”
The offer scraped something raw. She didn’t like the way it sounded, like he already expected her to run.
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “No,” she told him firmly.
One dark brow lifted, slow and questioning.
“I can do the job,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I won’t run just because it’s risky.”
For a split second, something heated flashed in his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or something darker and far less polite. It made her breath hitch.
“Your call,” he said finally. “But you stick close to me.”
Her pulse skipped, tripping over itself.
“That a promise or a warning?” she asked before she could talk herself out of it.
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous, like he was savoring the moment.
“Depends how you behave,” Havoc answered.
The tension between them snapped tight, electric and undeniable, humming in the air like a live wire. Ivy cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how close they were, how easily she could reach out and touch him.
Instead, she turned and walked back to her car, every step measured. She could feel his gaze on her back, heavy and unyielding, all the way until she reached the driver’s door. She didn’t look back, because Ivy knew he was still watching.