Peak #2
Now, his clubhouse had been attacked by private military contractors.
Someone was using the club’s docks to traffic women.
A man called Director was controlling an operation big enough to bury federal investigations.
There was probably a traitor inside the Grave Prowlers.
And Maeve Carter was asleep with her head resting against his chest.
Peak looked down at her. Her dark hair was spread across his shoulder and the pillow, tangled from the night before.
One hand rested over his heart as if she needed proof that he was still there.
The blanket had slipped low enough to reveal the pale skin of her shoulder, but he kept his eyes on her face.
She looked different in sleep—younger, softer even.
The sharp lines of worry had disappeared from around her mouth.
Her brow was smooth instead of creased with whatever calculation her mind was working through.
Since meeting her, he had watched her assess every room, every person, and every possible exit.
Even while eating dinner, she had sat where she could see the door.
Even while arguing with him, she had listened for vehicles outside.
Even while smiling, part of her had remained ready to run.
But not now. Now she was simply sleeping, trusting him enough to close her eyes.
That realization settled heavily in his chest.
Peak had spent most of his life avoiding responsibilities he hadn’t chosen.
He’d refused the government because he didn’t want someone else deciding how his skills should be used.
He’d refused Captain because he didn’t want the club pulling him into every dirty fight that came near Maryland.
He’d even refused his grandfather’s plans because the old man had tried to map out Peak’s entire life before he was old enough to know what he wanted.
Maeve was different. Nobody had ordered him to care about her.
Captain had told him to keep her alive, but that wasn’t why Peak had brought her to the motel.
It wasn’t why he’d sat beside her in the dark or listened while she talked about Wren.
It sure as hell wasn’t why he had touched her the way he had.
That had been his choice—every part of it.
And now, lying beside her in the weak gray light of morning, he realized the choice had changed something inside him.
He wasn’t sure when it happened. Maybe it had been the first time she held his gaze in that interrogation room and refused to be intimidated.
Maybe it was when she admitted she had deliberately allowed the club to capture her because it was the only way to make them listen.
Maybe it was watching her throw herself into danger for a sister she hadn’t seen in eighteen months.
Or maybe it had been something quieter—her laugh, her hand in his, or the way she looked at him when he told her Wren would never stop believing Maeve was coming.
Whatever it was, Peak had crossed a line.
Maeve wasn’t just a problem he intended to solve anymore.
She was his, and the thought hit him so hard that his entire body went still.
She wasn’t his in the way some men claimed women as property.
She was his to protect, his to stand beside, his to argue with when she tried to sacrifice herself for everyone else, his to find when she inevitably ran headfirst into danger, and his to bring home.
The possessiveness should have alarmed him, but it didn’t.
What alarmed him was how natural it felt.
Maeve shifted against him and released a small sigh.
Peak held his breath, worried he disturbed her.
Instead of waking, she moved closer, her knee sliding over his thigh as her fingers curled slightly against his chest. A smile tugged at his mouth.
The woman stole blankets, pillows, and apparently half the mattress, but he didn’t mind.
He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek, letting the back of his fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. Maeve’s eyelids fluttered, and Peak pulled his hand back. But it was too late; he had already woken her.
“You’re staring at me,” she mumbled. Her eyes remained closed.
Peak smiled. “You’re awake.”
“I wasn’t until someone started touching my face,” she grumbled.
“I was moving your hair out of your eyes,” he insisted.
“Without permission,” she said.
“You’re sleeping on my arm,” he said. “That’s different.”
“How is it different?” she asked.
“Because I’m not invading your space; you’re invading mine,” he said. She opened one eye and looked at him, and even half asleep, she managed to look suspicious.
Peak grinned. “Morning.”
Maeve groaned and closed her eyes again. “No.”
“No?”
“It can’t be morning yet,” she insisted.
“I hate to tell you this, but it is,” he said.
“I don’t accept that.”
“You planning to argue with the sun?”
“If necessary,” she mumbled.
“Ahh—there’s the difficult woman I found in the clubhouse.”
He laughed quietly, and Maeve opened both eyes. “You didn’t find me there. You dragged me into that clubhouse.”
“I personally didn’t drag you anywhere.”
“Your prospects did,” she said.
“Then your complaint should be directed to them,” he teased.
“I’ll file one later,” she grumbled.
“Captain has a suggestion box,” he offered.
Maeve giggled against his chest. “You’re lying,” she breathed.
“He absolutely does.” A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth, and Peak felt something tighten beneath his ribs.
He had seen Maeve smile before. Usually, it was sharp or defiant, a weapon she used when she wanted someone to underestimate how afraid or angry she was.
This smile wasn’t like that. This one belonged to him.
He knew it was a dangerous thought, but he let himself have it anyway.
Maeve seemed to realize how close they were, and the humor faded from her eyes as awareness moved between them.
Peak waited for her to pull away, but she didn’t.
Her gaze drifted over his face, lingering on his mouth before returning to his eyes.
He felt the weight of everything they had shared during the night—the vulnerability and hunger that he felt.
He remembered the way that she trusted him.
He didn’t regret any of it, but he was less certain about how Maeve felt.
“You okay?” he asked. Maeve’s expression changed slightly. The shift was so subtle another man might have missed it. Peak noticed everything about her.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“That’s a lie,” he said, calling her out.
“Yes, but it’s at least an answer,” she insisted.
“It’s a bad one.”
She looked down at where her hand still rested against his chest. “I don’t do things like this.”
“Wake up in motel rooms?” he asked.
“Let people get too close.” Peak remained quiet because she needed space to say whatever came next. He knew better than to rush her. Maeve traced one finger over the fabric covering his chest, seemingly unaware of the movement. “I haven’t been with anyone since Wren disappeared.”
Peak’s jaw tightened, not from jealousy but from the pain beneath the confession. “That’s a long time to be alone.”
“I didn’t notice the loneliness at first.” He didn’t believe that, and she must have seen it in his face. “Okay,” she amended. “I noticed. I just convinced myself it was better that way.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because people become leverage.” The answer came too easily.
He could tell that it was something she had repeated to herself many times.
“If I cared about someone, they could be used against me. If someone cared about me, they could get hurt.” Peak thought about the attack on the clubhouse and the prospects who were currently in the hospital because of it.
He thought about his shop being searched, and he understood why she believed it.
“That still true?” he asked.
Maeve lifted her gaze. “Yes.” He hadn’t expected honesty to hurt that much. She must have seen something cross his face because her hand tightened against his chest. “That’s what scares me,” she said.
Peak frowned. “What does?”
“You.” He didn’t speak. “You’re already involved,” she continued. “Your club is involved. People have been shot. Your clubhouse was nearly destroyed. And instead of keeping your distance, you brought me here.”
“Captain ordered me to bring you here.”
“You would have done it anyway.”
He couldn’t lie to her. “Yes.”
Maeve looked toward the covered window. “Last night made everything worse.”
Peak’s body went rigid. He tried to keep his voice even. “Do you regret it?”
She looked at him sharply. “No.” The answer came without hesitation, and some of the tension left his chest.
“Then how did it make things worse?” he asked.
“Because before last night, I could tell myself you were helping me because of the club,” she said.
“You knew better than that,” he said.
“I could still pretend.”
Peak reached for the hand resting against his chest and threaded his fingers through hers. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“That’s the problem,” she insisted.
“No, Maeve. That’s the point.” Her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite name—fear or hope. Hell, maybe both.
“You don’t know me,” she whispered.
“I know enough,” he said.
“You’ve known me for two days.”
“I know you walked into an outlaw motorcycle club alone because your sister needed you.” He lifted their joined hands slightly.
“I know you sold everything you owned and spent eighteen months chasing a trafficking network that governments couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop.
” Her gaze dropped. “I know you carry tools in your boots, lie about broken fuel pumps to test mechanics, and insult people when you’re uncomfortable. ”
“I don’t—”