Chapter 4 — Anna
His taste is still in my mouth.
I've brushed my teeth twice, had coffee, eaten breakfast I didn't want, and I can still taste him.
I can still feel his hands in my hair, on my breast, gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks I checked for this morning and was disappointed not to find.
I wanted him to leave marks.
That's the realization sitting in my kitchen at seven in the morning making me furious at myself.
The case file on my laptop has been open for thirty minutes. Contract dispute, needs precedent review, straightforward work I could do in my sleep. I've read the same paragraph six times and couldn't repeat a single word from it.
My body still feels charged. Restless. Every shift in the chair reminds me of how he pressed against me, how hard he was, how much he wanted me and how much I wanted him back.
This is absurd.
I'm twenty-seven years old, not some teenager who can't function after being kissed.
Except it wasn't just a kiss. It was a claiming, deliberate and demanding, and I responded like I'd been waiting for it.
Maybe I had been.
That thought makes me close the laptop and stand up.
I need to move, do something productive, stop replaying those five minutes against that tree like they matter more than they do.
Shower. Work. Normal day. Pretend last night didn't happen.
The shower doesn't help. Makes it worse, actually, because I'm alone and naked and my body is still humming with want I can't seem to shut off.
By the time I get out I'm so frustrated I could break something.
I get dressed with focus. Jeans, t-shirt, bra because last night taught me that lesson clearly enough. Pull my hair back tight.
Professional. Put together. Completely unconvincing but it's what I've got.
I sit down at my laptop and pull up the case file I'm supposed to be reviewing. Contract dispute. Precedent analysis. Work I could normally do in my sleep.
I read the first paragraph three times without retaining a single word.
My mind keeps drifting to how Cain's hands felt in my hair, how his mouth tasted, the specific sound he made when I bit his lip.
I close the laptop hard enough the sound echoes through my kitchen.
By ten o'clock I've tried working four separate times and accomplished exactly nothing except confirming that Cain has thoroughly destroyed my ability to focus on anything besides him. I'm furious about it.
Fine.
I need groceries anyway. I'll go into town, do normal errands like a normal person who isn't obsessing over a dangerous man who kisses like he's staking territorial claims.
The drive takes twelve minutes.
Bloomfield is small, familiar after eighteen months here. Safe.
I park at the grocery store, grab a cart, go through the motions. Bread, eggs, vegetables I probably won't eat, coffee because I'm burning through it lately.
Margaret waves from across the street where she's opening the library. I wave back. See? Normal. This is my life.
Paralegal, property owner, person who does grocery shopping on Thursday mornings.
Not someone who lets MC enforcers kiss her.
I load the bags into my trunk, close it, and turn around to return the cart. Two men are walking toward me across the parking lot.
Every instinct I learned back home fires at once. The way they move, coming straight at me, their attention, I know what they are before they're close enough to speak.
One has a scar cutting across his throat, thick and raised. The other is younger, mid-twenties maybe, shoulders squared like he's trying to project threat.
Both move like men who've done violence and expect to do more.
Scar-throat stops six feet away. Close enough to intimidate without being obvious about it. The younger one positions himself between me and my driver's side door.
My heart kicks hard but I keep my face neutral. Learned that early. Never show fear.
"Anna Reeves," Scar-throat says. Not a question.
"Can I help you?"
"We've seen you around town. Talking to Vigil. Asking questions. Getting involved in things that don't concern you." His voice is conversational, almost pleasant. Worse than if he'd been aggressive. "Bloomfield's a small town. Easy to find people. Easy to reach them when necessary."
The younger one smiles. It's all performance, nothing genuine behind it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say. My voice comes out steady, thank God.
"Sure you don't." He glances at my car, at the groceries visible through the rear window, back to my face. "Just friendly advice. Be careful who you let on your property, who you do business with. Things can get unfortunate otherwise."
The word unfortunate lands like a threat.
My skin goes cold but I don't let it show. "I appreciate your concern but I don't need advice about my property."
"Everyone needs advice sometimes." He takes a step closer. I can smell cigarettes and something metallic underneath. "Especially when they're new to an area and don't understand how things work."
The younger one shifts his weight. Not overtly threatening but ready to be if needed.
"I understand fine," I say. Keep my voice level even though my pulse is hammering. "Now if you'll excuse me."
I move toward my door. The younger one doesn't shift. I'm boxed between him and my trunk, and both of them know it.
Scar-throat watches me for another three seconds, then nods once. "Think about what we said."
He turns and walks away. The younger one holds position for another beat, staring at me, then follows.
I watch them climb into a dark blue truck two rows over.
They don't leave. Just sit there. Watching.
My hands shake when I unlock my door. I get in fast, lock it immediately, start the engine. Force myself to back out slowly, controlled, refusing to look rattled even though my heart is trying to punch through my ribs.
They don't follow but I check my mirrors constantly anyway.
By the time I reach my driveway the shaking has stopped but my pulse is still racing. I sit in my car with the engine running, trying to think past the adrenaline.
They knew my name. Knew about my property. Knew I've been in contact with Vigil.
This wasn't random intimidation, Marrow targeted me specifically because of the access road, because of Cain, because I'm involved whether I chose to be or not.
The danger just became real. Followed me to a public parking lot in daylight and made threats vague enough to deny but specific enough to mean something.
I could call the sheriff. File a report. Get it on record.
Then what? They take a statement, maybe increase patrols for a week, and I'm officially the woman with MC problems.
Makes me a bigger target, not a smaller one…
Or I could call Cain.
Calling him means admitting I need help from his world. Means accepting that I'm already part of this whether I wanted to be. Means choosing him over legitimate authorities.
I sit there arguing with myself for five full minutes.
Then I pull out my phone and dial before I can reconsider.
He answers on the first ring. "Anna?"
Just my name but there's focus in it, immediate attention.
"Something happened." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Two men approached me in town. They knew my name, knew about the property, told me to be careful who I do business with. One had a scar across his throat."
Three seconds of silence. Then: "Are you hurt?"
"No. I'm home."
"Lock the doors, I'm coming."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, astounded because that shouldn't be as comforting as it is.
I get out, grab my groceries, go inside. Lock the door behind me, deadbolt and chain. Put the groceries away because my hands need tasks. Check the windows, check the back door, stand in my kitchen trying to regulate my breathing.
Twenty-eight minutes after I called, his bike pulls up.
I open the door before he knocks. He's already scanning, checking the road, the property line, the tree line, back to me. Looking for threats.
"Inside," he says.
I step back. He enters, closes the door, locks it himself. Turns to face me and the cold precision in his eyes makes something in my chest tighten.
"Tell me exactly what happened."
I walk him through it. The two men, their positioning, what they said word for word, how they blocked my car. He listens without interrupting but I can see something happening behind his eyes, calculations being made.
"Scar across the throat is Sully," he says when I finish. "Marrow enforcer. Experienced. The younger one was probably a prospect." He pauses. "They know about you, about the property, about me."
"We're negotiating an easement. That's all."
His eyes lock on mine. "You kissed me back. That's not just an easement negotiation."
Heat flashes through me, anger and want tangled together. "That was a mistake."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"Get out."
"No." He doesn't move. "You called me. Not the sheriff. Me. You know I'll handle this and you know how I'll handle it."
I hate that he's right. "What are you going to do?"
"Make sure they don't come near you again."
"How?"
"You don't need those details."
"That's not acceptable. If you're going to act on my behalf, I need to know what you're planning."
"Why? So you can measure it against what the Devils would've done and decide if I'm the same?"
The accusation stings because there's truth in it. "Don't weaponize what I told you. I shared that so you'd understand where I'm coming from, not so you could throw it back at me."
"You shared it so I'd know I'm being compared to men who had no code. Who destroyed your neighborhood. Who got kids killed over territory." He moves closer, voice dropping. "We're not them. I'm not them."
"Then prove it, tell me what you're going to do about Sully."
"I'm going to make sure he understands you're under Vigil protection. That touching you means answering to me personally. That's all you need to know."
"That's not enough."
"It's what you're getting."
We're close now, less than three feet separating us. The anger between us has heat underneath it, the same charge from last night building again.
"I can't trust someone who hides things," I say. "The Devils operated in shadows. Nobody's word meant anything. If you're different, show me."
His jaw tightens. "You're mine to protect now. That's not negotiable."
"Yours to protect?" My voice rises. "I didn't agree to be anyone's anything."
"You called me. That was agreement."
He's right and it's infuriating. I made a choice when I dialed his number instead of 911.
A choice that means something I'm not ready to fully examine.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
"Now I make sure they understand the situation." He takes another step closer. We're two feet apart. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the muscle working in his jaw. "They won't touch you. I give you my word on that."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
The absolute certainty in his voice does something to me. Makes me want to believe him, want to trust that his protection is real and permanent. Want to let someone else carry this fear for once.
Also makes me want to close the last two feet between us and see if he tastes the same as he did last night.
Both wants are dangerous.
His phone rings. He pulls it out, checks the screen, answers. "Clint."
I watch his entire body language shift as he listens. Everything goes harder, colder, more focused.
"When?" Pause. Listening. "I'm on my way."
He hangs up, looks at me. "Marrow took Walt from The Anchor parking lot twenty minutes ago. I have to go."
Walt. I remember the name from my research. Runs the bar, connected to Vigil somehow.
"Go," I say.
He hesitates, studies my face like he's calculating something. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for anyone but me. I'll come back."
"You don't have to—"
"I'll come back." He's already moving toward the door. Opens it, stops, turns back. "You're safe. That's not a question."
Then he's gone, engine roaring to life, gravel spraying as he accelerates out.
I close the door, engage both locks, stand in my kitchen listening to the sound fade.
Marrow threatened me this morning. Now they've taken someone Vigil cares about. This is escalating faster than I anticipated, getting more dangerous, pulling me deeper.
I called Cain. Not the sheriff. Him.
That choice means I've already picked a side whether I'm ready to admit it or not.
My hands are steady now. My pulse has slowed.
I walk to my office, open my laptop, pull up everything I can find about Marrow MC operations, Victor Crane, known associates.
If I'm in this, I'm going to be useful.
That's how I handle fear. Information, preparation, control over what I can control.
And waiting to see if Cain keeps his promise about coming back.