Page 28 of Contracted to the Bikers

“A while. It was a long time ago, I’m not that person anymore.”

She leans back slightly, studying me now. “You don’t move like someone who retired.”

“The training and years of combat aren’t easy to forget, but I try not to use them.” I meet her eyes. “Unless I have to.”

Silence again as she processes this new version of me. I expect her to ask me how many people I’ve killed. That’s what most people do when they find out. To my surprise, she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “Why did you leave?”

“They gave me a Silver Star.” Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up in surprised confusion, wondering how being awarded such an honor would make me quit. I answer her unasked question, my voice quiet and mournful, thinking of those I lost. “My men all died, my friends, and they gave me a fucking medal. I couldn’t do it anymore, I was done with fighting, with losing people.”

Sloane nods, but doesn’t ask any more questions, which I’m grateful for. She silently reaches out and takes my hand in hers, the gesture saying more than words ever could. The feeling of her small, soft hand in mine unlocks something in me. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if they’d hurt you,” I say before I can stop myself. The words feel heavier than anything else I’ve confessed tonight.

Something in her expression shifts, softens, and then she leans forward and kisses me. It’s not rushed or sharp like everything else in this place, but gentle and soft.

Real.

My hand comes up instinctively, settling at her waist, holding her there for a second longer than I probably should. I want more. God, I want more. But we can’t, not like this. It takes every ounce of my control to pull back. I rest my forehead briefly against hers.

“I want you,” I say quietly, the confession making it real.

Her breath catches. “I want you too.” The words nearly unravel me.

“But we can’t do this, not like this.”

Her brows draw together slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means we talk to Rook and Cruz.”

Her expression shifts at his name. Things have gotten complicated, more complicated than they should have if we’d all been upfront and honest about our feelings in the first place, if Cruz had shown a bit more self-control. I can’t make the same mistake, even if it pains me. I step back fully, even though it takes more effort than it should.

“Nothing can happen without all of us knowing where we stand. If we go any further, it will only make things more complicated.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. She understands, but there’s something else there, too—something I can’t quite name.

I sit back, pain settling into a steady burn under the bandage.

She stays close, almost closer than I can bear. For the first time since she walked into this place, I’m not sure I can keep my distance. If we can’t find a way for us all to have her, Sloane Mercer just might tear us apart.

Chapter 12

Sloane

My hands are still shaking when I close my bedroom door, not from fear, though I was scared, but from everything else, from the adrenaline that hasn’t burned out yet. The memory of Boone’s blood on my fingers. The feel of his mouth on mine, steady, warm, grounding in a way I didn’t expect.

I lean back against the door and close my eyes. Boone is right, this situation is unsustainable. The secrets. The tension. The way the three of them orbit me, separate gravitational pulls that refuse to align. Rook is intense, controlled, and consuming, leaving me no room to breathe. Cruz is impossible to ignore even when he’s actively avoiding me. Without his comic relief, the clubhouse has been tense and morose. Boone is quiet, steady, reliable; he’s the one I didn’t see coming until he was already under my skin.

I exhale slowly. I can’t let this situation spiral any further, not when my daughter is sleeping down the hall. Not when men are trying to kill me. Not when I just proved, again, that I’m capable of making very bad decisions when I don’t communicate.

If this is going to work—any of it—we have to be clear and honest about everything, even the messy parts. Part of me is tempted to go wake the guys up, to have this conversation now and get it out of the way, but I know it’s probably better to leave it until the morning. I glance at my bed, but I know I won’t sleep, not now. I slip out of the room and into Jessy’s, watching her sleep, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her breath. I lie down on the twin bed beside her and watch her. No matter what, she is my priority. I will do anything to keep her safe.

***

I can’t believe I forgot that Jessy’s going back to school today. I’d thought long and hard about it before making the decision. While everyone has been helping, my little girl really needs the stability of school and to mix with her friends. The school has good security, and she’ll have an Iron Vale escort there and back—in addition to having a prospect keep an eye on the school while she’s in class. The school will no doubt disapprove of the bikers stationing themselves around the premises, but since they’re not on their property, there won’t be a lot they can do about it, at least that’s what Rook’s assured me. I feel nervous about letting her go, especially after what happened last night, but Jessy is so excited to see her friends again, and I want my daughter to have some routine back in her life.

I watch as she walks away, backpack dwarfing her small frame, her ponytail bobbing as she skips toward the car. I wanted to go to the school with her, but Rook overruled it, saying it would put her in more danger if I was present. The club members guarding her have promised me regular updates, and the school also knows not to let Jessy out of their sight, or to let her leave with anyone other than the new, fully vetted guardians on their list. Rook, Boone, and Cruz are listed, as is Gravel and his old lady, Beth. They have a son enrolled at Jessy’s school, a couple of years above her, and gladly volunteered to do joint school runs.

As I watch the car drive away, Jessy’s small hand waving at the window, a prospect approaches me, stammering that Rook wants to see me in his office. Boone must have told them what happened last night. I’m not ready, but I nod anyway, and, with one last longing glance at the car as it rounds a bend, I go back inside, knowing that this next conversation will determine whether or not we have a future here.

The office door is closed when I approach it. The guys don’t want an audience any more than I do. I don’t want this spilling into the club where it becomes something bigger, messier, harder to contain. I push the door open without knocking. All three of them are already inside, waiting in silence, the tension palpable.