Chapter 3
The bell above the door chimed its final note of the day as the last customer stepped out into the cool evening air. I walked over, flipped the sign from Open to Closed, and pulled the heavy deadbolt home with a sharp, solid click.
The second that lock fell shut, a heavy, thick silence settled over the shop.
Usually, the end of shift was my favourite part.
The quiet meant safety. It meant I could finally drop the polite customer-service mask, stop glancing over my shoulder every few minutes, and just breathe without wondering if my father’s men had finally tracked me down to this sleepy little town.
But tonight, leaning my forehead against the cold glass of the door, that quiet felt different. Heavy. Empty.
My gaze drifted across the dim room, drawn automatically to the small wooden table in the far corner.
He’d been gone hours ago, yet it felt like his shadow still lingered there, pressing against the back of the chair.
I walked over slowly, the soft squeak of my trainers on the lino the only sound in the place.
He’d left nothing behind – just a few stray crumbs, and that tiny porcelain espresso cup that I had cleaned hours ago.
Yet it felt like his shadow was still sitting right there, watching me.
Heat rushed up my neck and flooded my cheeks all at once.
I quickly pressed my palms over my face, letting out a shaky, breathless sort of laugh.
Get a grip, Danika Sterling. You’re the girl who climbed out a second-storey window, bought a one-way ticket to the end of the line, and walked away from a marriage to a drunk playboy who would’ve treated me like nothing more than jewellery on his arm.
I’d always been stubborn. Cynical. Spent my whole life learning men only ever looked at me as an asset, a pretty face to be bought and paid for. I’d built walls out of concrete and razor wire, swore no one would ever get close enough to see the scared, runaway girl hiding underneath.
And then a patched biker, covered in grease and skulls, had walked in and knocked every single brick loose with barely more than a handful of rough words.
I dragged my hands away from my face and went behind the counter, picking up the little cup he’d drunk from.
I ran my thumb gently along the rim, right where his scarred thumb had rested.
It felt ridiculous – he looked like he could snap a grown man in two like a twig, yet he’d held this fragile thing like it was made of glass. Just like he’d looked at me…
My stomach gave a strange little twist, a flutter of something soft and shy that made me squeeze my eyes shut.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t get flustered. I didn’t blush.
I’d never in my life been seen the way he saw me.
But when Rage leaned over that table, all that leather and heat wrapping around me, and told me he saw me…
it unravelled something deep inside I’d kept locked tight for years.
For the first time, I felt like a woman.
Not a possession. Not a prize. Just… me.
He’d seen the fire. He hadn’t made cheap comments.
Hadn’t tried to soften me down. He’d looked right past the mask, straight to my anger, my coldness, the sharp tongue my family had always screamed at me to hide – said those were the exact things that made me, me.
Said he didn’t want the fire put out. Said he liked the part everyone else tried to erase.
A soft smile tugged at my lips as I turned the hot water tap on to wash my hands.
My mind drifted straight to that “little bird” he’d mentioned.
A sister? Girlfriend? The locals said the old ladies ran the Iron Angels from the sidelines?
A sharp, stupid pang of jealousy pricked at my chest before I could stop it.
I shook my head hard, scrubbing my hands under the water until my skin stung.
Snap out of it. He’s a patched biker. You’re a runaway. You don’t get to have crushes.
But the truth was… for the first time since I ran, I didn’t feel like I was running anymore. When those suited jerks mocked me, I’d reached for anger to defend myself. But standing with Rage, I felt protected. Cherished. Like I didn’t have to carry the whole world on my shoulders all on my own.
He’d said I wasn’t afraid of an Iron Angel.
That I’d survived worse monsters than him.
He had no idea how right he was. My world was full of monsters that wore expensive suits, drank champagne, and used contracts instead of fists.
They were the ones who wanted to break me.
Rage might be dangerous, might be an outlaw… but at least his brutality was honest.
I dried my hands carefully and hung the towel back on its hook, my fingers lingering the same way they’d lingered over his words.
Tomorrow was Wednesday. He wouldn’t be back until Thursday, dead on twelve o’clock.
A tiny, foolish part of me – the girl I thought died years ago that believed in fairy tales – wished the clock would just speed up.
Wished the sun would set and rise again fast, just so I could see him fill that doorway, hear that rough rumble roll right through my chest, and find out what else he had to say to me.
I killed the lights, grabbed my jacket from the hook by the back door, and stepped out into the cool night.
Glanced up at the dark sky, then down the long, empty main road.
For weeks, this road had only ever looked like an escape route.
Tonight. It looked like the path that had led me straight to him.
I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, tucking my chin down deep.
Five whole hours had passed since Rage sat in that corner, yet my skin still hummed like he was right there beside me.
Usually, the walk home was the only time my head felt clear. Tonight. My thoughts were a total mess, every memory of him fighting to be first in line.
Every time I close my eyes, I still hear his voice: “You’ve got a storm inside you.
A real, wicked fire.” That same hot, shy rush washes over me all over again.
Back in London, men looked at me like I was something shiny to show off at galas.
They wanted me quiet. Polished. Perfect.
Rage was the first man ever to look at my sharp edges and tell me not to file them down.
I let out a shaky little breath, a soft smile playing on my lips as I stepped out along the empty lane. It was crazy how much space this biker was already taking up in my head.