Page 74 of Their Princess

Sas this.

Sas that.

What about what I wanted?

The arranged marriage was why I was in LA. On a motorcycle, no less. It was why I wore riding leathers and felt my lower lips buzzing in time to the rumble of the motorcycle beneath me. The sensation made me scared to get off the bike, not trusting the stability of my own legs.

After the fear of my first ride on the back of one of these beasts, this needy feeling in my lower belly had happened every time. I wondered if it would evernotbe the case.

Finally, the light turned green, and Graff took off. I grabbed him quickly, nearly falling back. He reached an arm around behind me, then drew my hand back to his chest on top of his cut. I clung to him, and finally, he relaxed. So did I when I knew he wouldn’t let me fall, unlike Sas. My future husband would’ve left me on the road and waited for a car to hit me. Maybe he would be satisfied when I had become roadkill.

Graff pulled into a parking spot and turned off the engine, but I didn’t move from the bike. First, because of my jelly-like legs. Second, I liked how we were connected.

“This is nice,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. Hoping maybe he wouldn’t hear.

He leaned the bike onto the kickstand and rested both his tattooed hands over mine. “It is.”

I missed being touched like this. I hadn’t connected with someone since my last boyfriend in college, and I liked the simplicity of this.

After my father told me I was marrying into the MC, all hope for somebody who might give me a sense of loving peace vanished. I pretended to be staring out at the park, but really, I was studying Graff’s silhouette, the same way I imagined him studying something before he drew.

Did he do the same thing with his tattoos?

“Adelina,” said Graff in a kind and patient tone.

I pushed off his motorcycle, asking, “What is this place?”

It certainly wasn’t the warehouse where they all lived in like a herd of uncivilized bachelors. Actually, when I thought about it, I didn’t know where the MC guys slept. All I knew was the room they’d locked me in, the common area, and the back yard patio. I couldn’t exactly call any of that uncivilized, because the modern industrial chic said there had to be some kind of designer involved.

I tried not to think about being stuck there for the rest of my life. Fortunately, there was plenty here to take my mind off that predicament. I faced a sprawling lawn scattered with people and... objects. I squinted to try to see clearer.

“It’s a sculpture garden,” said Graff, stepping off his bike. He shoved his hands into his pocket and looked at me a little sheepishly.

“I see that,” I said, though I didn’t. “But why are we here?”

“I like it here,” he said. “It’s... inspiring.”

Following his gaze, I caught sight of an abstract piece that resembled leaves blowing in a stiff breeze, but when the wind shifted, it looked like waves catching the sun.

I turned to him to ask about it, but he cut me off.

“Would you prefer to go back to the clubhouse?” His words sounded more uncertain than I had expected, as though he believed he made a mistake by bringing me here.

“No!” I thinned my lips, considering the shift in the mostly silent biker. “You seem shy all of a sudden.”

“Not shy.” He shrugged. “I just want you to like it here as much as I do.”

That brought a smile to my face. I should’ve wiped it off, but something about being here alone with him made it impossible to maintain my scowl.

I needed to play it cooler, though. My father taught me well enough that I couldn’t show emotion. No concern or weakness.And certainly not happiness if I hoped to make a mark on the world.

In the Mafia, I played the part—strong and stoic at my family’s side. Otherwise, they would have hooked their claws into me and dragged me into whatever mess they thought would hurt the most. It had to the same in the MC. Being tough was the only way they would survive in the criminal underworld.

Striding past him, I wobbled because my legs were buzzing. My leather stuck to my thighs, sweat caught underneath, and I wanted to peel the pants from my skin.

How did they stand wearing leather in the LA heat?

“Why are we here?” I asked, gesturing at the sculpture garden. I was safely on the sidewalk with enough distance between us that I could no longer smell his piney scent.

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