Page 14 of Broken Pact

Even outside, the air feels electric. There’s a palpable anticipation buzzing through everyone. Laughter and snippets of excited conversation mixed in with the distant hum of highway traffic.

A cluster of men in leather vests stroll across the paved lot, and my body tenses before I can stop it. It’s a reflex now, and not because of my dislike of a specific vest-wearing, motorcycle-riding man. But because my cousin was nearly killed by a different motorcycle club last year—one that took issue with the Rosewood Reapers walking the straight and narrow. Her men worked it out and she’s fine, thank god. If she wasn’t, I was going to have to learn how to take someone out and make it look like an accident. I still feel confident that I could do it. I’ve binge-watched enough true crime to know the basics.

Maybe it’s those kinds of dangerous thoughts that fuel me to openly watch the men as they head toward the entrance. I don’t know what I’m expecting really—it’s not like I’m the one married to the Reapers’ president.

But I definitely wasn’t expecting a coordinated movement worthy of a boy band. The two guys in the front step to either side, revealing one of the guys behind him.

And now my shoulders tense and my brows hit my hairline for an entirely different reason. Because staring at me with the same salacious grin that I remember all too well is my ex-boyfriend. Grant Lawson was one in a string of too-many mistakes I made when it comes to my love life.

He takes one look at me and murmurs something to his little friends, jerking his chin in that annoyingly male way. He never peels his gaze from mine, his grin only widening as he strolls toward me like I’ve been waiting for him.

His gaze feels intense, like a too-hot flame that refuses to die out, no matter how many times I smother it.

I let my face fall into something neutral. Well, as neutral as I can get when I think about what an idiot I was for ever dating him.

I lean forward and squint, reading the little logo on the side of the kutte. Westhaven Hunters. It looks bright, shiny almost. Definitely new. “So you’re a Hunter now? That’s new.”

Grant shoves his hands in his front pockets, pride making his eyes glassy and flushing his cheeks. “Heard you like that sort of thing.”

I don’t feel like getting into it without at least one person to back me up, but I’ll never roll over for anyone, especially not the likes of some MC-wannabe. I cross my arms over my chest, resisting the urge to fold them over my tits when his gaze lingers on the neckline of my tank top. “If you joined the Hunters to impress me, you’re seriously misguided. We’re over, Grant.”

He arches a brow, his chestnut-colored hair falling over his forehead in a way I once found charming. “Impress you? Nah, no one impresses the untouchable Coraline Carter. Oh, but wait.” He leans toward me with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “You’re not that untouchable are you, hm? I remember exactly how many times you begged for my touch.”

I rear back, my eyes narrowed on his smug grin. “You mean when I was telling you to remove yourself from my property or I was going to be forced to take matters into my own hands—with knives? That time?” I roll my eyes and scoff. “Back off, Grant.”

His grin melts into a scowl and he leans back, rocking on his heels. “Or what? You’re not in Rosewood anymore, babe.”

“Cora, you okay?” Adelaide calls out from across the parking lot.

Saved by the goddamn bell. And not me—him. Because it sure as hell felt like Grant was threatening me a second ago. And for as much as I talk a big game, I’ve never had to physically defend myself before. I sure as hell didn’t want to start in the middle of a lot at Grand Avenue for everyone to witness.

I push off the wall and slide around my ex, waving at the golden girls. Before I get two steps, a hand wraps around my bicep. My head whips to the side, not at all surprised to find Grant’s face inches from mine. He always was a handsy asshole.

“This isn’t over,” he seethes quietly.

“We’ve been over. Move on.” I peel his fingers off of my arm without a word. I don’t feel like dealing with his childish half-threats. But I’m not foolish enough to know he let me. The man is nearly twice my size, and has never shied away from using that size to his advantage.

Adelaide, Blanche, and Sophie stop in front of me with concern etched across their faces.

“You good?” Sophie asks, her eyes flicking over my head, presumably to where he’s still standing. I bet he’s wearing his favorite smug scowl too.

“I am now.” I wave one hand in the air casually and slide the other one into the crook of Sophie’s elbow.

“What was that all about?” Sophie asks as we jog up the small stone staircase. “Isn’t that your ex? I thought he wasn’t into concerts . . . or music in general.” Her nose wrinkles as she mumbles the last part like she can’t quite understand the concept.

To be honest, neither can I.

“And is he wearing a leather vest?” Adelaide asks from behind me.

“Addy, you know it’s called a kutte,” Blanche says with an exasperated sigh. “You’re just trying to rile Cora up into seeing those Reapers of hers play with some kittens again.”

“Oh I definitely am, and before you ask, no, I’m not sorry about it. Have you seen those men?”

“For the love of god, talk some sense into me the next time I try to bring a guy like him around,” I droll to Sophie, laying the self-derision on thick.

Sophie chuckles. “That’s a promise I will gladly make.”

A slender arm wraps around my shoulder the same time Adelaide’s face smushes in the space between Sophie and I. “Are we talking about how Cora’s douche of an ex-fuck buddy was trying to crawl back into her tight-as-hell pants tonight?”

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