Page 91 of Snared Rider

I need to speak to him, not only to smooth things over, but also to ensure he’ll keep quiet, that he won’t spill my secret to Dad, to the other brothers. We dodged a bullet with Wade. I don’t think he heard anything, but he’s also a loose cannon.

What if Wade reports the fight to Derek?

If Logan is asked outright he’ll admit what happened; Logan is many things but he’s not a liar, and I realise how that sounds, given we snuck around behind everyone’s backs for months, but no one ever asked us if we were together.

If Derek gets involved…

He won’t allow something like this to fester between the two brothers—not for long. A divided brotherhood is no brotherhood at all. And the Club has to be rock-solid.

For all Dean’s ranting, he was right about one thing: if Logan planned to keep me around for more than just a quick shag why hadn’t he put his property patch on me? We planned to go public the night of my twentieth birthday but that didn’t happen.

Maybe he never intended to make our relationship public and my constant asking drove him to end us. Maybe he told no one because he never intended for our relationship to be more than a pitstop before something better came along.

That thought cuts me more than I care to admit. I shouldn’t care. That chapter of my life is done, closed. I wasn’t lying to Logan when I said I’d moved on; I have. Completely.

And yet I can’t deny the pain working through my chest at the thought he never wanted me because deep down I’ve never stopped wanting Logan. I hate myself for feeling anything for him, for wanting him, but I do. I hate myself for that because what self-respecting woman wants a man who treated her like she’s disposable?

I need to get out of Kingsley. I need to get back to my life in London and away from Logan Harlow. I need to get away from crazy men with guns and angry best friends and former lovers.

I need to leave.

I need to once again run because dealing with this shit is too hard.

But there’s also a maniac running around with a gun.

This puts a dampener on my plan to flee because as much as I want to leave I also want to live.

Sure, I can get a taxi to the station and jump on the first train out of hell, but what if Dean is right and Wilson is watching? All I’m doing is taking the problem back to London with me and there is absolutely no way Alistair can handle Wilson. At least the Club can protect me.

Since leaving is not an option (not a sensible one at any rate) and I want to live to see my thirty-first birthday, I decide my best plan is to do nothing and hope this situation just blows over.

I’m hopeful of this plan for about five seconds. Then, I realise it will never blow over because neither man will back down. What is more likely is they will pound each other’s faces in again and the whole sordid, sorry mess will come out. Publicly.

This means I need to find Dean and silence him. By whatever means.

Because of this whole Wilson debacle, he is also on lockdown, so he must be in the building somewhere. And since the clubhouse does not have infinite space I’m sure I can find him. I’m too old for a game of hide and seek, but I push to my feet anyway.

I wince and I have to steady myself on the arm of the sofa. I should have stayed home. I should never have left London. This is a clear sign that the universe was against me coming here, and I should have listened. Instead, I got into a massive fight with Alistair, nearly became roadkill and got elbowed in the jaw. And I’m sure worse is to come if Dean or Wade spill the beans about me and Logan doing the dirty ten years ago.

I’m not sure I can deal with more.

I try not to worry about what might happen and focus on implementing preventive measures.

The building is still eerily quiet as I move through it, checking rooms as I go. I expect to find Dean in the bar, a bottle of whiskey in front of him, but the lights are off and the room is shrouded in shadows. He’s also not in the kitchen, dining room or the other recreation spaces. My excellent powers of deduction lead me to believe he’s probably in his room.

By the time I reach the back stairs my ribs are on fire and my hand is numb from holding the ice pack. Getting up the one flight of stairs takes me an embarrassingly long time and I’m panting by the time I reach the top. I don’t let this detract from my mission though. I need to speak to Dean and I need to sort this mess out.

Upstairs at the clubhouse looks like a corridor in any budget hotel chain. There are several doors off the main walkway, each numbered, and the corridor spans to the left and right where there are more rooms out of sight. If memory serves there are sixteen suites up here. Dean usually stays in room twelve, so I hobble that way and pause before I knock. I have no clue what I will say, all I know is I have to try.

So, I rap my knuckles on the door with more confidence than I feel and I wait. When nothing happens, I listen. I don’t hear movement inside the room, so I knock again, this time louder.

Still nothing.

“Dean? Are you in there?”

It’s then I hear rustling from behind the door. Nervous energy races through me as I wait for him to open it. Is he going to lose his shit again? I’m not sure my head, which is now pounding, can cope with more yelling.

The key turns in the lock and the door is suddenly tugged open, revealing an irritated Dean.

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