Page 34 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I hate how defensive I suddenly feel. Not because Ethan deserves my support, he doesn’t, but because hearing Kane talk about my marriage like that feels invasive somehow. Like he’s ripping open things I’ve spent years trying to smooth over, minimize, and make sound normal. “He wouldn’t threaten me,” I say stubbornly.

Kane holds the note up slightly. “Then who the fuck did this?”

I don’t have an answer. The silence stretches too long.

Upstairs, Owen yells, “I found it!”

The normality of Owen chattering away, oblivious, makes this feel even more surreal somehow. Kane looks toward the staircase instinctively before lowering his voice again. “Has he ever hit you?”

The question slams into me so hard I actually recoil slightly. “What? No!”

“Grabbed you?”

“No.”

“Threatened you?”

“No,” I stress the word as much as I can. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation right now.

Kane watches my face carefully. Too carefully. It feels like he’s measuring every hesitation, every breath. Kane pays attention in this intense, overwhelming way that makes me feel exposed; he sees more than I want him to.

“He’s an asshole sometimes,” I admit quietly. “But Ethan isn’t violent.” I struggle to find the words. “He’s not that kind of guy,” I offer weakly. It feels insufficient somehow, especially given the violence of his anger last night. I know Kane is probably thinking that just because he hasn’t physically hurt me, it doesn’t mean he isn’t violent.

Kane says nothing for a second. “Men don’t usually start with violence.”

The calm certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten. I hate that part of me that immediately thinks, ‘How would you know?’ Like somehow, the tattoos, the motorcycle, and the cut make him more dangerous than Ethan in a button-down shirt, which isn’t fair.

Judging by Kane’s expression, he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His eyes narrow slightly. “You think because I ride a bike and your ex wears a fucking Rolex, I’m automatically the bad guy?”

Heat floods my face. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I open my mouth again, frustrated because the worst part is—he’s right. Ethan spent years making comments about the nearby biker club. He called them criminals, trash,

violent drunks. Standing here now, I realize some part of me absorbed it. That realization makes guilt twist uncomfortably in my chest. Even though I slept with Kane, even though he’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman, some part of me wonders if he could be behind the note. Some cruel, ignorant part of me thinks that there’s no way Ethan could be to blame instead, despite all of the evidence to suggest otherwise. It’s easier to paint Kane as the dangerous one.

Kane laughs once softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Jesus Christ.”

“I don’t think you’re bad,” I say quickly.

“No?” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “Because you’re looking at me like I’m one step from burglarizing your house.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he agrees flatly. “It isn’t.”

Silence settles heavily between us. The kitchen suddenly feels much smaller, more tense, claustrophobic, too intimate.

He carefully folds the note once, jaw still tight. “You shouldn’t stay here alone. The Wild Riders can offer our protection, keep an eye on you until we figure out who’s behind this and what they want.” It’s clear from his tone that he’s already confident he knows exactly who’s behind it.

I respond before even hearing him out. “No.”

His eyes flash. “Sadie—”

“I’m not getting involved in…” I gesture vaguely. “Club stuff.”

“Club stuff?”