Page 35 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

“You know what I mean.”

His expression hardens further. “Actually, no. Explain it to me.”

I cross my arms defensively. “People talk.”

“People always talk.”

I hesitate. Because honestly? I don’t even know specifically what I mean. My mind is full of the rumors I’ve heard about the Wild Riders, stories, and the kind of vague warnings women get told growing up. Don’t get mixed up with bikers. Don’t owe men like that favors. Don’t trust motorcycle clubs. “I need to think about Owen, what’s best for him. I’m not sure that getting involved with the Wild Riders would be a good idea. Motorcycle clubs aren’t exactly child-friendly places.”

Kane stares at me for a long second before shaking his head slightly. “That’s your ex talking.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.” The certainty in his voice irritates me.

“You don’t know Ethan,” I stubbornly insist.

“And you don’t know us.” The words land harder than I expect. Kane steps closer slowly. Not threatening, but intense. “Chief owns three businesses and donates a portion of all his profits to a dog sanctuary,” he says calmly. “Dash volunteers at youth boxing programs. Shadow spends half his time fixing old veterans’ bikes for free, and once a week he reads to the people at the local hospice.”

I blink. None of that matches the image in my head.

Kane notices. “Exactly.”

My face heats slightly. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious what you assumed. The same bullshit everyone assumes without actually bothering to do even the smallest amount of research.”

The bluntness stings because, again, he’s right.

He exhales hard, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before speaking more quietly. “Look, sweetheart. You don’t gotta trust me right now. Fine.” His eyes flick toward the note in his hand. “But somebody put this under your fucking door, and it sure as shit wasn’t me. For one, I’ve been with you the whole time, so there’s no way I could have done this. Maybe this is just meant to scare you, some petty revenge from your ex, but until proven otherwise, we have to assume that whoever left this means you harm.”

Fear twists sharply through me again. Hearing it said out loud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

Kane’s expression softens slightly when he sees my face. Not much, but enough. “You and Owen shouldn’t be here alone until we figure out who did it.”

We. The word settles strangely in my chest, as if somewhere in Kane’s mind, he’s already decided he’s responsible for us now, which is insane. Completely insane. And yet part of me feels safer standing here with him than I did with Ethan in the last year of my marriage. That realization unsettles me.

“I don’t want to owe anybody anything,” I admit quietly.

Kane’s expression shifts. Hurt. Offended. It flashes across his face so quickly I almost miss it. “You think helping you means we’re trying to collect something? To trap you into owing us?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he says sharply. “You did.”

Guilt crawls up my throat immediately. I hear how ugly it sounds once he says it out loud.

Kane steps back slightly, jaw tight. “Jesus Christ, Sadie. You slept with me last night, and you still think I’m sitting here trying to manipulate you into some debt?”

Heat floods my face. “No—”

“You’re listening to bullshit people say instead of actually looking at us.”

The words hit home. He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.

Kane runs a frustrated hand through his hair before speaking again. “Come to the clubhouse.”

I blink. “What?”