Big toe.
Weird? Completely. But that tiny, perfect beauty mark by his nail has me hooked. Most feet make my skin crawl, but his? Soft, pretty, and unfairly photogenic.
Honestly, he could cash in on those adorable toes. Just a few snapshots to the right crowd? Instant payday. OnlyFans, but make it feet.
I’d be his first subscriber.
Best money ever spent.
Sudden silence snaps me out of my spiraling daydreams.
I turn, smiling brightly at Tomcat, waving him off like this is normal, like my insides aren’t vibrating with urgency. He nods, the bike roaring to life, and then he’s gone, tearing out of the driveway without a backward glance.
My smile drops instantly. I glare at the empty space he leaves behind.
Seriously? He didn’t have to look so thrilled to leave.
I hate that more than I’ll admit.
Quickly, I move through my home, clearing rooms with practiced efficiency while tracking Tomcat’s location on my phone. Once every shadow is accounted for and nothing lurks where it shouldn’t, I change into myhuntinggear for the second time today. Because if Tomcat insists on behaving like a reckless idiot,someonehas to be the responsible one.
Hidden in my garage is the one secret I’ve kept from everyone.
A matte black Honda CBR1000RR-R Fireblade. The obedient assassin of sports bikes.
It fits me perfectly.
Registered under an alias two cities over, shielded by precautions I implemented long before Coral Cay. I ride it so rarely that no one could ever link it to me.
I don’t call it paranoia. I call it being prepared.
Tonight, speed matters, and this beauty is the only thing capable of getting me to Tomcat before he does something spectacularly stupid. My bike glides smoothly along the road, engine humming beneath me like a restrained predator as I track the tiny moving dot on my screen. Then he stops on the outskirts of the Coral Cay. There’s only one place out there he’d go. The biker bar previously known as The Broken Compass. Now known as The House of Saints.
Dramatic? Painfully. But no one asked for my opinion, so here we are.
I twist the throttle, and the Fireblade answers like the obedient assassin she is, the city blurring into streaks of light and motion as I race toward my man before he does something he regrets.
Okay. So he probably wouldn’t regret it. In fact, he’d probably enjoy it.
A lot.
But I aggressively shove that thought out of my brain because it makes something dark and stabby bloom inside my chest.
The parking lot is jammed full when I arrive. Bikes, cars, and scooters are scattered across the asphalt like restless metal beasts settling in for the night. I grip the handlebars as my pulse ticks faster, then cut the engine, swing my leg over the seat, and climb off.
Heat slams into me the moment I step inside The House of Saints, wrapping me in waves of noise, sweat, and whiskey-laced air. Music hammers from the speakers, bass crawling up through the floor and locking in with my racing pulse.
Leather. Smoke. Spilled beer. The sharp bite of liquor lingers, chased by something darker. That electric, buzzing energy you only find in rooms packed with bikers, bad choices, and dangerously beautiful men.
God, I love this place.
Mostly becausehe’sin it.
My gaze finds him instantly.
Tomcat leans against the bar like sin dressed itself in denim and a Saint’s Outlaws kutte. He’s relaxed, dangerous, and criminally beautiful. Low light glides over the ink winding up his arms, shadows sharpening the cut of his jaw. His hat sits low, brim tilted just enough to give him that lazy, lethal edge that did deeply irresponsible things to my internal organs.
Some men occupy space, but Tomcat claims it in a way that’s effortless.
