Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
VIOLET
The hot water cascades down my back, washing away the lingering scent of motorcycle exhaust and leather from my ride with Cruel. I close my eyes, letting the steam envelop me as I replay the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday, I was in an apartment I shared with a man who cheated on me, then hit me. Today, I'm in a motorcycle club's shower, wearing Santiago's—Whip's—t-shirt, with the ghost of his touches still tingling on my skin.
Life comes at you fast, I guess.
I gently prod at my cheek, wincing at the tenderness.
The bruise is an ugly purple-yellow now, but the swelling has gone down thanks to the ice and painkillers.
Part of me is embarrassed that Santiago had to see me like this—that everyone at the club had to see me like this.
Another part knows it's what brought us together after years of silent wanting each other.
I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in one of the surprisingly soft towels hanging on the rack. Santiago's bathroom is cleaner than I expected, stocked with decent shampoo and body wash. No fruity scents or fancy brands, just basic men's products that smell like him.
After drying off, I realize I don't have any clean clothes. I've been wearing the same jeans since the day before yesterday, and while Santiago's t-shirt is comfortable, I can't exactly walk around in just that.
A knock on the bathroom door startles me.
"Vi?" It's Santiago's voice, low and warm. "You decent?"
"Just wrapped in a towel," I call back, clutching the fabric tighter against my chest.
There's a pause, and I can almost feel him considering that image through the door.
"I brought you some clothes," he says finally. "Cruel had one of the club girls drop some stuff off for you. Can I come in?"
"Sure."
The door opens slowly, and Santiago steps in, a small duffel bag in hand. His eyes darken as they take in the sight of me, hair dripping, skin flushed from the hot water, clutching the towel around me.
"You look good in my bathroom," he says, voice husky.
Heat that has nothing to do with the shower rushes through me. "I'd probably look good in all your rooms."
A slow smile spreads across his face. "We'll have to test that theory."
He sets the bag on the counter and steps closer, one hand coming up to gently touch my bruised cheek. "How's it feeling?"
"Better," I say honestly. "The pain's almost gone."
"Good." His thumb traces my bottom lip, sending a shiver down my spine. "Because when I kiss you, I don't want you thinking about anything but me."
And then his mouth is on mine, gentle at first, mindful of my injury, but quickly growing hungrier. I melt into him, my free hand clutching his shirt as his tongue slides against mine. His hands move to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Get dressed," he murmurs, eyes dark with promise. "I want to take you out."
"Out?" I blink, surprised. "Like, on a date?"
He chuckles. "Yeah, Vi. Like a date. Dinner, maybe a movie. Normal shit."
"Didn't realize 'normal shit' was on the menu with you."
His expression turns serious. "There's a lot you don't know about me yet. But I want you to." He steps back, gesturing to the bag. "Get dressed. I'll wait for you downstairs."
After he leaves, I open the bag to find a selection of women's clothing—jeans, t-shirts, underwear, even a simple black dress. All in my size. I choose the jeans and a soft green blouse, then dig out the matching underwear. Everything fits perfectly.
I dry my hair as best I can with the towel, then use Santiago's comb to detangle it. Looking in the mirror, I assess the damage—the bruise is obvious, but not as bad as it could be. I rummage through the bag again and find a small makeup kit with concealer that's miraculously close to my skin tone.
Whoever this club girl is, she's thorough, I'll give her that.
By the time I make my way downstairs, I feel almost human again. Santiago is at the bar with Cruel, both nursing beers and talking in low voices. They stop when they see me, and Santiago's eyes light up in a way that makes my heart stutter.
"Look at you," he says appreciatively, taking in my appearance. "Feel better?"
"Much. Thank whoever got these clothes for me. They're perfect."
"That would be Savannah," Cruel says with a crooked smile. "She's good at that shit."
"She's Ripper's old lady," Santiago explains. "Runs the club's legit businesses. I'll introduce you next time she's around."
"Where are you two headed?" Cruel asks, though from his smirk, I get the feeling Santiago's already told him.
"Dinner," Santiago says, standing and offering me his hand. "Get her out of this testosterone factory for a while."
I take his hand, enjoying the way his fingers lace through mine. "I don't mind the testosterone factory," I say with a smile. "Everyone's been very welcoming."
"Yeah, well, just wait until Friday when the party starts." Cruel chuckles. "Different kind of welcoming then."
Santiago gives him a warning look. "We're not discussing that right now."
Cruel holds up his hands in mock surrender. "My bad."
"Party?" I ask as Santiago leads me toward the door.
"Club thing. We can talk about it later." He grabs his leather jacket from a hook by the door and helps me into it before I can protest. "It's chilly out, and I have a feeling you're gonna end up getting cold."
The jacket swallows me, but it smells like him—leather and sandalwood and something uniquely him—so I don't mind.
"We taking your bike?" I ask, remembering my earlier ride with Cruel. Even though I was initially nervous, I loved the freedom of it, the wind in my hair, the power of the machine beneath me.
"Nah, taking the car tonight." Santiago pulls keys from his pocket, leading me to a sleek black BMW in the parking lot. "Harder to run from trouble on a bike."
The casual way he mentions potential danger sends a chill through me. "You expecting trouble?"
"Always." He opens the passenger door for me. "But especially when I've got something worth protecting."
The possessive tone in his voice should bother me. After Derek, after all the controlling assholes I've dated, I should be running screaming in the other direction from a man who so casually claims me as his.
Instead, I find myself sliding into the leather seat, a warmness already pulling between my legs.
He gets in on the driver's side, starting the engine with a low purr. "You like Italian?"
"I love Italian."
"Good." He pulls out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other finding mine again. "I know a place."
The restaurant is small and intimate, tucked away in a side street downtown. The ma?tre d' greets Santiago by name, leading us to a corner booth with a good view of the entrance. I notice Santiago taking in the room as we're seated, noting exits, scanning faces.
"Come here often?" I ask once we're settled.
"Often enough they know how I like my steak." He smiles, but his eyes continue their subtle surveillance. "It's quiet, food's good, and they don't ask questions."
"About?"
His gaze returns to me. "About why I'm always armed, or why I insist on sitting where I can see the door."
I process what he's telling me. "Are you armed right now?"
Instead of answering, he reaches for the wine list. "What do you want tonight? Red or white?"
"White." I decide not to push. "And you didn't answer my question."
He sets down the list, leaning forward slightly. "Yes, I'm armed. I'm always armed when I leave the clubhouse or my apartment. It's part of who I am, part of the life. The only place I can't be armed is the courthouse. If that's a problem for you, I need to know now."
His directness catches me off guard, but I appreciate it. "It's not a problem. I just... I'm trying to understand your world."
"My world is complicated," he says after a moment. "The club, the law practice—they don't always mesh well. But they're both part of me."
"Which came first?" I ask, genuinely curious. "The club or law school?"
"The club," he answers immediately. "My dad was a member, back in the day. Died when I was fifteen. The brothers looked out for me, for Ash, for our mom. Put me through college when she couldn't afford it."
This is news to me. I've known Ashley for years, but she rarely talked about her father or her family's financial struggles.
"I didn't know that," I admit.
"Not many do. Ash doesn't like to talk about it.
She was too young when he died to really remember him.
" Santiago flags down a waiter and orders a bottle of white without consulting the list. Once the waiter leaves, he continues, "I went to law school to help the club.
Turns out I was good at it, built a name for myself.
Now I take other cases, too, but the brothers always come first."
"That's... admirable," I say, and I mean it. His loyalty, his sense of family—it's appealing in a way I didn't expect.
"It's just life." He shrugs, but I can tell my approval means something to him. "Now tell me about this fashion magazine job of yours. Ash mentioned you're doing well there."
I'm surprised he's heard about my job. "I am. I manage all the social media content for Season magazine. It's a lot of work, but I love it."
"Season, huh? That's Victorio Ramirez's, isn't it?"
The mention of Victorio's name makes my throat tighten. "Yeah. He's... he's the CEO."
Santiago must notice my reaction because his eyes narrow. "There something I should know about your boss, Vi?"
For a moment, I consider telling him everything—about my mother's affair, about my suspicions, about my plans to confront Victorio on my birthday. But the waiter returns with our wine, and the moment passes.
"No," I say once we're alone again. "Just workplace stress. You know how it is."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. "You need to go back to work soon?"