Chapter 2
two
. . .
Kiera
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. Never been looked at the way he looks at me—like I’m something to devour, something to keep.
And now I’m standing in the middle of a biker clubhouse with beer stains on the floor and men twice my size staring at me like I’m either a miracle or a mistake, and all I can think about is the way his voice dropped when he called me little dove.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The room smells like cigarettes and whiskey and men.
Lots of men. Leather and sweat and something darker underneath, something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Music thrums through the walls—something heavy with a bassline that vibrates in my chest. A pool table in the corner.
A bar along one wall, bottles gleaming under dim lights.
And everywhere, patches. Colors. Symbols I don’t understand but instinctively know mean danger.
One of the men—big, bald, arms covered in ink—nods at me.
Not unkind. Almost respectful. Another one studies me with narrowed eyes, calculating.
I shrink back against Arrow’s side without meaning to, and his arm tightens around my waist. Possessive.
Solid. Like an anchor in a storm I didn’t see coming.
The memory of the alley crashes back in waves.
Three drunks. Hands grabbing. The smell of cheap beer and bad intentions.
My back against the door, fumbling for keys I’d dropped, terror climbing my throat until I couldn’t breathe.
And then him. The rumble of the Harley cutting through the dark.
The way he stepped off that bike like something unhurried and deadly, and the crack of his fist connecting with that man’s jaw—I heard it.
I felt it in my teeth. One swing and the biggest one was on the ground, not moving.
I should be horrified. I am horrified. But there’s something else tangled up with the fear, something hot and confused and humming under my skin.
When he lifted me onto that bike, his hands spanning my waist like I weighed nothing, something in my belly tightened.
When he growled “hold on” and I wrapped my arms around him, pressed my chest to his broad back, felt the vibration of the engine between my thighs—I gasped. Not from fear.
From something I’ve never felt before.
Now we’re in his room. Private. Locked. The door clicked shut behind us and the sound was final, like a sentence being passed. He’s standing too close, his body radiating heat, and the words he whispered against my ear are still burning through me on repeat.
You’re safe now, little dove. But you’re also mine. Daddy’s gonna keep you close, fuck you raw every night, stuff that innocent belly full until you’re round with my kid and wearing my patch.
Daddy. The word should make me recoil. It doesn’t. It coils low in my stomach, warm and forbidden, and my thighs press together beneath my coffee-stained apron.
“Let me see.” His voice is gentler now, almost rough with the effort of softening it. Large hands come up, careful, and he pushes my hair back from my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, down to my jaw, tilting my chin. Examining me. “They hurt you?”
I shake my head. “You got there before they could.”
Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, dark and fierce.
“Good.” His hands move down, checking my arms, my shoulders, my ribs through the thin fabric of my uniform.
Each touch is clinical but tender, like he’s afraid I’ll bruise.
When his fingers brush the inside of my wrist, my pulse jumps against his skin and his eyes snap to mine.
He knows. He can feel it. The way my body responds to him—the flush creeping up my neck, the quickening of my breath, the ache between my legs that has no business being there when I’m standing in a stranger’s bedroom after nearly getting assaulted.
He steps back. Just one step, but it feels like miles. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and I can see the bulge in his jeans. Hard. Thick. The outline of him strains against the denim and my mouth goes dry.
“You take the bed,” he says. His voice is gravel. “I’ll take the floor.”
“What? No, I can’t?—”
“You can.” He cuts me off, not harsh but firm. “You’re shaking. You need to lie down.”
He’s right. My legs feel weak, my hands still trembling. But the thought of him on the hard floor while I’m in his bed makes something twist in my chest. “At least let me?—”
“Kiera.” He says my name for the first time, and the way it rolls off his tongue—low, rough, like he’s tasting it—sends a shiver down my spine. “Get in the bed. Now.”
I get in the bed.
The sheets smell like him. Leather and soap and something musky, masculine.
I curl onto my side, still in my uniform, apron strings digging into my back, and watch as he grabs a blanket from the dresser and spreads it on the floor beside the bed.
He doesn’t undress. Just kicks off his boots, stretches out on his back, one arm bent behind his head, and settles in like a man who’s slept on harder surfaces.
The room goes dark when he kills the lamp.
Just the faint glow from the barred window, casting long shadows across the floor.
I can hear his breathing—slow, measured, controlled.
I can smell him. And I can feel his eyes on me even in the dark, watching, vigilant, like a guard dog who’s finally found something worth protecting.
My heart won’t slow down. Every time I close my eyes, I see his fist connecting with that man’s jaw.
The crack. The way the body dropped. I should be terrified of him.
I am terrified of him. But the terror has edges that feel dangerously close to something else—something hungry, something that wants to press itself against all that hardness and see if it melts.
The filthy promises echo. Fuck you raw. Stuff that innocent belly full. Round with my kid.
I’ve never been with a man. Never even come close.
Boys at the coffee shop flirt, sure. They leave numbers on napkins.
They make jokes about taking me home. But none of them ever looked at me the way Arrow looks at me—like he already owns me, like the decision was made the moment he laid eyes on me in that alley.
And the worst part? The part that keeps me awake staring at the ceiling while he breathes steadily on the floor beside me?
I didn’t say no.
I didn’t run.
I got on his bike. I pressed myself against his back. I let him lock me in this room. And when he called me little dove in that rough, tender voice, something in me unfurled like a flower turning toward the sun—dangerous, desperate, irrevocable.
He shifts on the floor. The blanket rustles. I feel his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over me in the dark, and my body answers before my brain can catch up—nipples tightening, belly clenching, a pulse starting between my thighs that I have no idea how to handle.
“Go to sleep, little dove,” he murmurs, his voice so low I almost don’t catch it. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And somehow, against all reason, against every instinct for self-preservation I’ve ever had, those words are the thing that finally lets me close my eyes.
I fall asleep safer than I’ve ever been, with a monster watching over me from the floor.