3. Naomi
NAOMI
He’s actually in my apartment.
My brother’s prospect. The guy King sent to babysit me is standing in my kitchen, looking around like he’s not sure how he got here.
That makes two of us.
The apartment looks even shittier with someone else in it.
I’m suddenly aware of the water stain on the ceiling, the mismatched furniture I scavenged from thrift stores, the boxes I still haven’t completely unpacked because unpacking feels too much like admitting this is my life now.
He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t judge, at least not out loud.
Just stands there by the door, hands at his sides, waiting for me to tell him what to do next.
“Coffee?” I ask, because I have to say something, and it’s either that or acknowledge the massive mistake we’re both making right now.
“Sure.”
One word. That’s what I get. I invited him up here and he gives me sure.
I turn my back on him and busy myself with the coffee maker — scooping grounds, filling the reservoir, hitting the button that makes it wheeze to life. The machine is old and loud and takes forever, which is fine. Gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t something stupid.
Behind me, I can feel him. Not moving, barely breathing, just standing there like a soldier waiting for orders. I wonder if King taught him that, or if he came pre-installed with that much tension.
“You can sit down, you know.” I nod toward the small table by the window. Two chairs, neither of which is comfortable. “I’m not going to bite.”
He sits. Doesn’t relax, exactly, but at least he’s not looming anymore.
The coffee maker gurgles and spits. I pull two mugs from the cabinet — mismatched, chipped, the kind you get at thrift stores when you’re starting over with nothing — and set them on the counter.
“So,” I say, turning to face him. “How long were you planning to follow me around before I caught you?”
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—”
“Day one, Shadow. I spotted you day one. You’re not exactly subtle.”
“I was trying to be.”
“Well.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You failed. Spectacularly. I’ve seen you at the grocery store twice, at the coffee shop once, and parked outside my building so many times I’ve lost count. You’re either terrible at surveillance or you wanted me to notice.”
Something flickers in his expression. Embarrassment, maybe. Or frustration. Hard to tell with him — he keeps everything locked down tight.
“King asked me to keep an eye on you,” he says. “I was doing my job.”
“Your job.” I let the word hang there, sharp-edged. “Right. Because babysitting the President’s reckless little sister is definitely what you signed up for when you started prospecting.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me with those dark eyes, steady and unreadable.
The coffee maker beeps. I pour two cups, carry them to the table, and sit down across from him. He wraps his hands around the mug but doesn’t drink. Neither do I.
“How long have you been prospecting?”
“Two years.”
“That’s a long time.” Most guys either patch in or wash out within a year. Two years of prospect work is either impressive dedication or something else entirely. “King’s really making you earn it, huh?”
“Something like that.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s burned, bitter, exactly as bad as I expected. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“Not really.”
“Is that a prospect thing, or you thing?”
He almost smiles. Almost. It’s like he caught himself before he could slip. “Both, I guess.”
I’ve seen plenty of club guys. Grew up surrounded by them — the loud ones, the charming ones, the dangerous ones who smile too easy and lie even easier. I know the type. I know how they work, how they talk, how they look at women like we’re prizes to be won or problems to be managed.
Shadow doesn’t fit the mold.
He’s young — younger than most prospects I remember — but there’s nothing cocky about him.
No swagger, no false confidence, no attempt to fill the silence with bullshit just to hear himself talk.
He takes everything seriously in a way that’s almost painful to watch.
The coffee. The conversation. The way he’s holding himself, like one wrong move will bring the whole house down.
And the way he watches me. He thinks he’s being subtle about it, but I can feel his eyes tracking me whenever I move.
Not in a creepy way — not like the guys Tyler used to bring around, who looked at me like I was something to be passed around.
More like he can’t help himself. Like I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve, and he’s trying to figure out the answer.
“How’d you end up with the Sons?” I ask.
The question lands differently than the others. I watch something shift behind his eyes — walls going up, or maybe coming down. Hard to tell.
“I was hanging around the clubhouse before I started prospecting,” he says, looking at his hands. “Odd jobs. Washing bikes, running errands. I didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
“And King noticed you.”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I fucked up. Got into some trouble. King got me out of it. Gave me a shot at something better.”
It’s the most he’s said all night. And it’s the most real thing either of us has said since he walked through my door.
“So you owe him,” I say.
“Everything.” No hesitation. No qualification. Just that single word, heavy with meaning.
I should leave it there. Should let him have his walls and his loyalty and his uncomplicated devotion to my brother. But I’ve never been good at leaving things alone.
“Is that why you’re here? Because you owe him?”
His eyes came up to meet mine. “I’m here because you invited me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
We stare at each other across the table. The coffee sits between us, cooling, forgotten. Something in the air has shifted — charged in a way I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try.
“You know,” I say, leaning back in my chair, “most guys would be falling over themselves to make conversation. Trying to impress me. Telling me stories about how tough they are, how important they are to the club.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“No shit.” I take a sip of my terrible coffee just to have something to do. “So what’s the deal? You always this quiet around women, or am I special?”
His jaw tightens. Just a little, but I catch it. “I’m quiet around everyone.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with that steady, unreadable expression that makes me want to poke at him until something cracks.
“What would King say if he knew you were here?” I press. “Drinking coffee in his sister’s apartment. Alone. At night.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks again. “He wouldn’t like it.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” I set my mug down. “So why are you still here?”
Silence stretches between us. I can see him working through it. The question, the implications, all the ways this could go wrong. He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what’s happening here. The same thing I know.
I should stop this. I know I should. Whatever’s building between us is a disaster waiting to happen.
He’s my brother’s prospect. His entire future depends on King’s approval.
And I’m the fuckup who just crawled home from Vegas with nothing to show for two years except poor decisions and an empty bank account.
This is a terrible idea. I know that. Shadow has everything to lose — the patch, King’s trust, his entire future in the club. And what do I have to offer? A shitty apartment and a track record of picking men who don’t pick me back.
Tyler chose drugs. In the end, when it came down to it, he chose getting high over staying with me. Over building the life we’d talked about. Over everything he’d promised.
And Shadow — if it comes down to it, he’ll choose the patch. The club. My brother. Why wouldn’t he? That’s his whole life. That’s everything he’s worked for. I’m just the President’s sister who happened to catch his eye.
I’m not the kind of woman men choose. Not when it counts.
“You should probably go,” I hear myself say. “King’s expecting a report, right? You should tell him I’m fine. Settling in. Not getting into any trouble.”
I expect relief. I expect him to jump at the excuse, grab his jacket, and get the hell out of here before either of us does something we can’t take back.
Instead, something flickers across his face. Not relief — the opposite. Like I just said the wrong thing. Like he was about to make himself leave, and now, somehow, he can’t.
He doesn’t move.
“Shadow.”
“Yeah.”
“I said you should go.”
“I heard you.”
“And?”
He looks at me, and there’s nothing guarded about his expression anymore. Nothing careful or controlled. Just want raw and undisguised, and the kind of tension that tells me he’s fighting himself as hard as I am.
“I’m not ready to leave yet,” he says.
My heart is doing something stupid. Racing, pounding, whatever you want to call it — the kind of physical reaction I swore I wasn’t going to have over another man.
Especially not one of King’s guys. Especially not now, when I’m supposed to be getting my shit together and proving I can make it on my own.
“That’s a bad idea,” I say.
“I know.”
“King would kill you.”
“Probably.”
“I’m serious. If he found out you were here — sitting in my kitchen, drinking my coffee, looking at me like—” I stop myself. Like I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Like I don’t know exactly how he’s looking at me.
“Like what?” His voice is lower now. Rougher.
“Like you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”
“I’m always thinking about doing something stupid when it comes to you.” He says it quietly, like a confession he didn’t mean to make. “Since the parking lot. Since you threw that line at me and walked away without looking back. I haven’t been able to stop.”
I should tell him to leave. I should get up, open the door, and make him go before this gets any worse.
Instead, I stand and carry my mug to the sink.
It’s a stupid excuse to move. The coffee’s still half-full and I don’t actually want to wash the cup. But I need to do something, need to not be sitting across from him with that look on his face and nowhere to hide.
I pass behind his chair. Close. Closer than I need to.
“Shadow,” I say, and it comes out low. Almost a whisper.
He moves fast.
His hand catches my wrist before I can take another step. His grip is firm but not rough — a question, not a demand. I stop. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He stands. Turns me. And suddenly we’re face to face, inches apart, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The want fighting the should. The need fighting the consequences.
“Tell me to stop,” he says. His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes search my face, looking for permission or denial, I’m not sure which.
I could stop this. Right here, right now. I could tell him to leave, and he would. He’d walk out that door and we’d pretend this never happened. He’d go back to tailing me from a respectable distance, and I’d go back to pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me every time I leave my apartment.
I could be smart for once in my life.
I don’t.
He kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful. He kisses me like he’s been holding back for days and something in him just snapped. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. His other hand finds my hip, gripping hard, anchoring me against him.
I grab fistfuls of his shirt and hold on.
He tastes like bad coffee and bad decisions and everything I swore I wasn’t going to do.
His mouth is hot and demanding, and I’m kissing him back just as hard, giving as good as I get, because fuck it.
Fuck being careful. Fuck being smart. I’ve spent two years making the wrong choices, and I’m so tired of pretending I’m going to suddenly start making the right ones.
He backs me into the counter. The edge digs into my spine, and I don’t care. His body is solid against mine, all heat and lean muscle, and I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me.
“This is crazy,” I manage between kisses.
“I know.” He doesn’t stop. His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, the spot below my ear that makes my knees buckle.
“King will—”
“I don’t care.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, breathing hard, eyes dark. “I should. I know I should. But right now I don’t give a fuck about anything except you.”
He kisses me again. Deeper this time. Slower. Like now that he’s started, he wants to take his time. Like it’s all he’s been thinking about, and now that it’s happening, he doesn’t want to rush it.
My hands find their way under his shirt. Warm skin. Hard muscle. The ridge of a scar across his ribs that I want to ask about later, when my brain is working again. When I can form complete sentences and think about something other than the way his hands feel on my body.
Later. Everything else can wait until later.
Right now, there’s only this — his mouth, his hands, the way he’s pressing me into the counter like he can’t get close enough. The way I’m pulling him closer, matching his hunger with my own. The way neither of us is pretending anymore.
We both know exactly what comes next.
And neither of us is going to stop it. Not now.