Chapter 3 - Emma
I let myself relax into Crow's arms again, grateful he was able to smooth over my awkward almost-confession. The warmth of his hand on my waist and the subtle scent of his cologne help calm my racing heart.
I can't believe I just told him about being a virgin - I've never admitted that to anyone except Jessica.
The way his eyes darkened when I said it, though... I'm still trying to decode that look.
"Well, if it isn't the beauty and the beast."
Mark's slurred voice cuts through my thoughts. He's back, even more drunk than before, and this time, he's brought five friends with him. My stomach clenches as they surround us on the dance floor.
"Mark," I warn, feeling Crow's muscles tense under my hands. "Don't."
"You know what I think?" Mark sways slightly. "I think you're just going through some bad boy phase. Trying to piss off daddy with his leather-wearing friend here."
Crow's jaw tightens, but he keeps dancing in slow circles and trying to maintain distance from the group. I can feel the barely contained power in his frame - like a predator deciding whether to strike.
"The lady asked you to leave," Crow's voice is deceptively calm, but I recognize the dangerous edge to it.
"The lady," Mark mocks, "needs to remember where she comes from. What would your parents say, Emma? Dating criminal trash?"
"That's enough!" I snap, but Mark reaches for my arm again.
This time, everything happens so fast I barely register the movement. One moment, we're dancing, and the next, Crow has released me and moved forward, grabbing Mark's wrist before it can touch me. In seconds, he has Mark's arm twisted behind his back, forcing him to his knees.
I've never seen Crow like this. There's something terrifyingly beautiful about the way he moves - precise, controlled, powerful. His face is calm, almost bored, as if subduing Mark requires no more effort than swatting a fly. Only his eyes betray the violence simmering beneath the surface.
"Told you that would be a mistake," Crow says quietly, the threat in his voice making me shiver.
Mark's friends step forward, but Crow just applies slightly more pressure, making Mark whimper pathetically.
"Stay back. Take him away from here before I decide he needs a more permanent reminder of his manners."
The way he says it - so matter-of-fact, so certain - makes it clear this isn't an empty threat. Mark's friends seem to realize this too, quickly moving to help their cursing friend to his feet and dragging him toward the other side of the ballroom.
The other dancers have created a wide circle around us, watching with a mixture of horror and fascination. I should probably be frightened by what I just witnessed, but instead I feel... safe. Protected.
Crow turns to me, his eyes still hard with contained violence. "You okay?"
I nod, unable to find my voice. He's never looked more dangerous than he does right now, in his perfectly tailored suit with deadly grace in every movement. And God help me, but I've never wanted him more.
"Listen," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I should probably go. Cops might get called, and with everything going on with the club..." He pauses, looking uncertain for the first time tonight. "I'm sorry about ruining your reunion. Do you want to stay? I can call you a cab, or-"
"No," I cut him off quickly. "The party's over for me. I'd... I'd like to leave with you. If that's okay?"
Something flashes in his eyes - satisfaction maybe, or relief. "More than okay, doll."
His hand finds its familiar place on my lower back as he guides me toward the exit. I can feel everyone's eyes on us as we leave, but Crow seems unbothered. He keeps me close, his body slightly angled to shield me from view.
Just before we reach the doors, I hear Jessica call out, "Call me tomorrow!"
Outside, the night air is cool against my heated skin. Crow's Harley sits alone in the parking lot, gleaming under the streetlights. As we walk toward it, I realize I'm about to get my first motorcycle ride - and in this dress, no less.
But before we reach the bike, I find myself asking, "How do you do it?"
Crow glances down at me, eyebrow raised. "Do what, doll?"
"Ignore all the looks, the comments. The way people judge you without knowing anything about you." I gesture vaguely back at the country club. "It would drive me crazy."
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "You get used to it. Besides, this?" He waves dismissively at the building. "This is nothing compared to what Wrath and I dealt with before Cedar Falls."
That catches my attention. In the years I've known them, neither brother has said much about their past.
"Wrath never talks about it," I admit. "Every time I ask, he just smiles and says some things are better left untouched."
Something dark passes across Crow's face, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "My little brother's right about that. The past is the past. We're both members of Iron & Blood now, and that's all that matters."
His tone makes it clear the subject is closed, but I can't help wondering what could have been so bad that neither of them will speak of it. Before I can dwell on it too long, Crow stops beside his Harley, changing the subject.
"Ever been on one of these before?"
I shake my head, running my fingers along the sleek chrome.
"I've asked Wrath to take me for a ride more than once, but he always says a bike isn't for a 'girl like me.'" I can't keep the annoyance from my voice. "Whatever that means."
"Wrath's always been overprotective of you. But he's wrong - some women were made for motorcycles."
The way he looks at me as he says it makes my cheeks flush. "You think I'm one of them?"
"Only one way to find out," he says, reaching for his helmet.
"Wait," I say, suddenly remembering my dress. "I'm not exactly dressed for this."
Crow's eyes travel down my body, lingering on where the navy silk falls just above my knees. The heat in his gaze makes my skin tingle. I've seen that look before - usually when he thinks I'm not watching - but never this openly, never this intense.
"We can make it work," he says, his voice rougher than before. "Hike the dress up a bit, sit sideways if you need to."
I try to ignore how my pulse quickens at his words and the image they create. "Won't that be dangerous?"
"Not with me," he promises, already grabbing his Iron & Blood leather jacket. With the movement, his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, and I glimpse his tattoos through the fabric. "Here."
He holds out the jacket, and I realize he means for me to wear it. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentlemanly that I find myself staring at him. This is the same man who just took down Mark without breaking a sweat, who carries a gun and rides with one of the most feared MCs in the state. Yet here he is, offering me his jacket like we're teenagers at a drive-in.
"Can't have you getting cold," he explains, helping me slip it on. The jacket is still warm from his body, and his scent surrounds me - leather, cologne, something musky and distinctly male that makes my head spin a little.
"Thank you," I murmur, rolling up the too-long sleeves. The fabric drowns me, but there's something oddly intimate about wearing his clothes.
He seems captivated by the sight, his eyes darker than I've ever seen them. The way he's looking at me - like he wants to devour me whole - makes heat pool low in my panties. After what feels like forever, he clears his throat and turns to the bike.
"Alright, lesson time," he says, all business now though his voice still holds that rough edge. "The first thing you need to know is that this isn't like riding in a car. You're exposed to everything - wind, rain, road debris. That's why you stay close to me."
I nod, trying to focus on his instructions rather than how good he looks in just that shirt or how much I want to trace the tattoos I can see peeking out at his collar.
"When we're moving, you stay as close as you can get," he continues. "Lean when I lean - the bike will tell you what to do, just follow my body. Keep your arms around my waist, tight but not death-grip tight. If you need me to stop for any reason, tap my right side twice. Questions?"
I nod, trying to focus on his instructions rather than the prospect of being pressed against him for the entire ride.
"Good." He easily swings his leg over the bike, then holds out his hand to me. "Your chariot awaits, doll."
Taking a deep breath, I gather my dress and take his hand. The silk rustles as I adjust it, trying to maintain some modesty while still being able to sit properly.
"If I fall off, Wrath will kill you."
His laugh rumbles through the night air. "Trust me, Emma. I won't let anything happen to you."
And despite everything - the club war, the violence I witnessed tonight, all the warnings about bikers I've heard my whole life - I do trust him. Completely. Maybe I always have.