Page 41 of Striker’s Rebel

“Because you need food, and I’ve had enough of the whole damn clubhouse watching you.”

My stomach flips.

“Watching me?”

His fingers tighten slightly against my hip.

“Yeah.”

“And this bothers you?”

His eyes hold mine.

“More than it should.”

That lands somewhere low and warm.

“Possessive.”

“Probably.”

He tips his head toward the door.

I hesitate just long enough to know I should make a better decision.

Then I go anyway.

It seems that I’m making excellent decisions today.

His cabin is quieter than the clubhouse, tucked far enough away to feel private. Inside, it’s clean without looking staged. Boots by the door. A jacket over the back of a chair. A couple of mugs beside the sink. The kind of place that belongs to someone instead of waiting for them.

Striker hangs his cut near the door, leaving him in jeans and a dark T-shirt.

The shirt is a problem.

I decide not to look long enough to make it mine.

He heads for the kitchen and starts pulling things from the fridge.

I lean against the counter. “You actually cook?”

His eyes flick to me. “That sounded insulting.”

“It was cautious.”

“I’ve kept myself alive this long.”

“That is still not the same thing.”

“Sit down, Rebel.”

I should probably object to the nickname again.

Instead, I sit.

Mostly because I want to see this.

A few minutes later, Striker is standing at the stove flipping burgers while fries cook beside him, and the whole thing feels strangely intimate.