Amour Reyes stands with him.
She is smaller in person than she looked on Alpha’s screen, or maybe the club makes everybody look breakable if they are not wearing leather. Cream blouse. Dark hair loose tonight instead of pinned. No flashy jewelry. No smile. Her hands are wrapped around a plastic cup she ain’t drinking from.
She looks too clean for Vice Ink.
Too quiet.
Too timid for a room where Magic is currently arm-wrestling a prospect while two women chant his name and Disco yells obscenities like a tiny drunk uncle.
But then one of the club girls bumps into her, spilling beer near her shoes, and Amour doesn’t flinch.
She looks down at the mess.
Then at the girl.
The girl apologizes without being asked.
Interesting.
Alpha stands beside Amour like he is trying not to stand in front of her. Failing. His whole body angles toward her, protective and fascinated. Poor bastard looks like he found a bomb shaped like a woman and decided to study the fuse with his mouth.
I drift over because I’m drunk and nosy.
“Reyes,” I say.
Amour’s eyes flick to me.
Not timid.
Nope.
Those eyes are dark and tired and full of locked doors.
“Is this the road captain everyone’s gossiping about?” she asks.
“Thought women like you stayed away from bikers,” I slur back.
“I thought bikers stayed away from women like me.”
Alpha gives me a look. “You need something?”
“From you? Never.”
“Then leave.”
I grin at Amour. “He always this charming?”
“No,” she says. “Never.”
Alpha’s jaw ticks.
Oh, he is gone.
Beautiful.
I lean closer to him. “Careful, brother. Your face is doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
