Page 14 of Hellfire's Mercy

"With what?" He turns slightly, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity in his eyes.

"I wanted this," I admit, gesturing vaguely. "The big story, the scoop that would make my career. But now..." I wrap his jacket tighter around myself. "Now I can't help but be scared."

He swings off the bike, turning to face me fully. Despite the fear I just confessed to, I feel safer with him looming over me than I have all day.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says, his voice firm. "You're under my protection, remember?"

"Would you..." I hesitate, gathering my courage. "Would you mind staying a little longer? I could make us some tea?"

"Tea? You think bikers drink tea, sweetheart?"

"I don't know what bikers drink," I say, lifting my chin. "But I know what helps me calm down after an overwhelming day. And today has definitely been overwhelming."

He studies me momentarily, and I try not to fidget under his gaze. I'm not sure what possessed me to invite him up. Well, that's not entirely true – I know exactly why I want him to stay, but I'm not ready to admit that to myself yet.

"Tea," he repeats, shaking his head but looking amused. "Your neighbors might talk, seeing the president of the Iron & Blood MC at your door this late."

"Let them," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "They already think I'm crazy for being a journalist in a town this small. Might as well give them something real to gossip about."

His eyes darken at that, and for a moment, I think he might refuse. Then he reaches out, tucking a strand of wind-blown hair behind my ear.

"Lead the way, sweetheart. Let's see if you can convert a biker to tea."

I fumble with my keys, suddenly very aware of the state of my apartment.

"I should warn you, it's a bit..."

"Messy?" he finishes as I push the door open, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.

The living room is exactly as I left it this morning – newspapers everywhere, notebooks open on every surface, my laptop surrounded by coffee mugs. Most embarrassingly, there are several articles about motorcycle clubs pinned to a corkboard.

"Research," I mutter, hastily gathering papers. "I was trying to understand..."

"Us?" He picks up one of my notebooks, and I resist the urge to snatch it away. "Well, well. 'MC hierarchy and structure.' 'Common illegal activities.' 'Territory disputes.’” He looks up at me with a smirk. "Thorough, aren't you?"

"I'm a journalist. It's my job to be thorough." I grab the notebook from him, adding it to my pile. "Make yourself comfortable while I put these away and start the tea."

"Don't," he says, catching my wrist. "Leave them. I want to see how that brain of yours works."

I swallow hard, very aware of his touch. "Most of it it’s probably wrong anyway."

He settles onto my couch, looking impossibly large and dangerous in my small, cluttered living space.

"Then tell me what theories you had about us before tonight."

"While I make tea," I bargain, needing a moment to compose myself.

He nods, and I escape to my tiny kitchen, hands shaking slightly as I fill the kettle.

"I have chamomile, earl grey, or green tea," I call out.

"Surprise me," he answers, and I hear papers rustling. "Hey, sweetheart? This note here about presidents having multiple old ladies – that's not accurate."

I nearly drop the mugs. "I was just writing down what I read online!"

His laugh carries into the kitchen. "The internet isn't exactly a reliable source for MC culture."

"Then enlighten me," I say, returning with two steaming mugs.

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