Page 6 of Claimed By Lock

"Then he'll learn."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means if he comes near you again, he answers to me." Lock holds my gaze, certain, like he's stating a fact instead of making a threat. "You don't have to be alone in this."

The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere I've been protecting for three months, ever since I finally walked away from a man who made me feel like I was drowning in plain sight.

This stranger is offering me something I didn't ask for. Something I'm not sure I can accept. In my experience, things that feel too good always come with a price.

This stranger is offering me something I didn't ask for. Something I'm not sure I can accept. In my experience, things that feel too good always come with a price.

I should walk away. Right now, before this goes any further. This is exactly the kind of thing I swore I wouldn't do again — getting pulled in by a man in a leather cut who looks at me like I'm worth protecting. I know how that story ends. I lived it for a year with Colt.

But Lock isn't Colt. I can already tell, and I hate that I can tell, because it means I'm paying attention. Lock keeps space between us instead of crowding in. He asked what I needed instead of telling me what I should want. He's standing there patient instead of pushing.

Colt was all flash and pressure and demand. He wanted things from me before he even knew what they were, and he took them whether I offered or not.

Lock feels like the opposite. Still water instead of crashing waves.

That doesn't mean you can trust him.

No. It doesn't. I don't trust anyone anymore — least of all myself. I picked wrong once. Picked wrongbadly.How am I supposed to know the difference now?

"I should find Maria," I say, but I still don't move.

"Okay."

He doesn't move either.

The rally churns around us — music and laughter and the rumble of bikes — but none of it touches this space we've carved out. I'm hyperaware of him. The breadth of his shoulders under the leather. His hands hanging loose at his sides, relaxed but ready. The sharp line of his jaw, shadowed with stubble.

And the way my body keeps leaning toward him like he's gravity.

"Can I ask you something?" The words come out before I can stop them.

"Yeah."

"Why'd you step in? Really. Most guys would've walked past. None of their business."

He considers the question. Actually thinks about it instead of throwing out some bullshit designed to make me feel better or get into my pants.

"Because he had his hands on you," Lock says finally. "And you didn't want him to."

"That's it?"

"That's enough." He shrugs. "I don't like bullies."

Simple. Direct. No agenda underneath.

"I was with him for a year." I hear myself say the words and wonder what the hell I'm doing. I don't talk about Colt. Not to anyone except Maria, and even then only in fragments. But something about Lock — the way he's listening without pushing — makes me want to fill the silence. "We dated for about a year before I ended it. Three months ago."

"He didn't take it well." Not a question.

"That's an understatement." I laugh, short and bitter. "He still shows up places where he knows I'll be. Still calls me his girl like the breakup never happened. Like my words don't mean anything."

"Your words mean something."

"Not to him."