Page 18 of Their Princess

“You’re safe!”

I scowled. As we navigated off the highway and into an industrial area, my mind reeled. Did Rafe just call metesoro? No. I must have been imagining it. There was no way my unclewould’ve called me darling. I’d never heard him use a pet name for anyone, and that one was a bit too intimate.

So why did it set my stomach aflutter?

When Sas and the others pulled up to a warehouse, I groaned. Of-fucking-course we were at a warehouse in a dingy neighborhood with a gate around the back, the motorcycles lined up before a steel door with a skull and wings painted on the window.

My father was one of the richest men in Vegas, and here I was, looking at something far below middle class. I never dreamed my inheritance would consist of a rundown motorcycle club in a sketchy part of LA.

“Grazie, Papà,” I whispered with an eye roll.

When my father had first mentioned the arranged marriage, my heart skipped with excitement. I’d imagined I would be kept in a high-rise condo with a full staff, a closet full of designer clothes, and all the comforts I’d grown up with. Reality had a sick sense of humor, because it appeared I would be huffing exhaust all day long instead.

Surely, this is just a stop on the way to a nice house somewhere.

“Welcome home, princess.” Sas slipped off his glasses and tucked them into a case mounted at the center of his handlebars.

“No such luck,” I grumbled.

“What’s that?” Sas whipped around and fixed a hard gaze on me.

“Nothing.” I slipped off the bike, managing to keep myself upright this time, and lifted my hand, holding back the sun.

The warehouse could be best described the Seattle version of 90s grunge. Graffiti covered the walls. It was... too artsy for a bunch of bikers, though some uptight art dealer would’ve thought it gorgeous. If the pieces were done on canvas, my mother would’ve paid a fortune for them and displayed them inour formal living room. She would’ve grown bored with them after a season, but at least the money would have gone to a good cause.

I frowned at the graffiti as Sas meandered over to my side. He towered over my small frame and blocked out the sun with his broad shoulders.

“Don’t like the art?” he asked.

Was he really trying to make small talk? “Not really my taste.”

“Why?”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, measuring how much he was fucking with me. Or had this long drive to LA given him time to think?

“You’re not gonna tell me?” he asked.

“Why do you want to know?” I spat.

He shrugged.

“It’s ugly,” I continued, pushing the words out even though I didn’t believe them. In truth, there was a depth to the flowers in the image that drew my eyes back to the wall every time I tried to look away. Sas was angry at me—had already mocked me—so the only thing my distaste for the paintings would do was make him hate me more.

As if I cared.

I couldn’t call off our marriage, but he could. Hell, he could marry me off to anyone here and it would still meet the terms of Papà’s deal. While I’d lived a rich life thus far, that was over with no skin off my father’s back.

“It’s not real art,” I ventured. “All this does is damage a building. Where is the feeling? The strokes? The scene? What is it trying to convey?” I channeled my art history teacher from the tenth grade, Mrs. Colton. She obsessed over the tiniest of details in the paintings she lectured about.

I stepped closer to the wall, waving my hand at the beautiful lines. “This is just some modern bullshit. I don’t know why anyone even put it up. It looks like a toddler did it.”

Sas stared at me for a long moment before he gritted out, “Graff did it.”

The tone made me think I’d struck a nerve, but grating on my fiancé’s patience actually gave me a sick, but quite deep, sense of satisfaction.

I knew the name of the third man who’d rode out from that body shop with us. I had admired his backside between Sas and Rafe. But right now, there was a herd of leather shoulders bouncing toward the door. I couldn’t pick him out in the sea of biker backs strolling inside the warehouse.

“Who?” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the gaggle.

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