Page 25 of The Vipers' Vow

She releases one of the handlebars to pat the leather seat behind her.

Fucking hell.

I’m going to be the passenger.

Saint snorts laughter then presses his lips together, and Vani raises her eyebrows expectantly.

I could refuse, but I’m not going to. This is Vani’s bike, and we’re going to Vani’s club. As much as I’m used to being the one in charge, right now it’s time to relinquish that control.

I climb on the back and wrap my arms around Vani’s waist. I sense Saint watching.

He smirks. “Looking good, Zane.”

Yeah, it’s kind of emasculating sitting on the back of the huge Harley with Vani in the driver’s seat, but then I realize how close I can get to her like this. My thighs are around her hips, and it puts me in the perfect position to jam my cock against her bountiful ass. I run my hands down her sides, tracing her curves, and then edge even closer.

Vani glances over her shoulder. “Down, boy.”

I smirk back at Saint, and my position dawns on him. His smirk turns into a scowl, and I flip him the bird. I shouldn’t be crowing at him, considering his brother is in the clutches of Jarl Olsen and we’re about to abandon him at the college, but I’m not that mature.

The huge bike roars to life, and she hands me one of the helmets that had been hanging from the handlebar. She wedges her own on over her dark curls.

I place my chin on Vani’s shoulder, inhaling her scent. She skillfully maneuvers the bike in a circle and out toward the college perimeter. The bike’s engine growls comfortingly beneath us.

I think I could get used to this.

We reach the security guards, and Vani slows the bike. “Just going for a ride,” she says.

“Be careful, miss.” It’s the same guard who was on when she came off her bike and got injured.

“I promise,” she replies.

Her wave at the guard is casual and friendly.

He gives her a small salute, and she guns the engine and turns smoothly out of the drive.

She takes it easy on the long, winding road, perhaps remembering her accident. I never asked her if she’d been scared riding since she wrecked. She doesn’t seem like it, but it wouldn’t be unusual for her to have some fear now. I realize there are so many things we haven’t talked about.

The whole thing between us four has been toxic and wild, and when we’re all together, Saint and Lex do all the talking. It’s harder for me because writing out messages takes a lot longer, and you lose the immediacy of a conversation.

It also makes me feel self-conscious—this fight to make myself understood. If I stay silent and make no effort with anyone, then I can’t be signaled out as being different. Sure, people will say I’m unfriendly and sullen, but I don’t give a fuck about that.

When I first lost my voice, I didn’t attempt to communicate with anyone, but it only made my depression worse. I became completely withdrawn. In the end, it was my family who forced me into therapy. They told me they’d completely cut me off if I didn’t go, which meant I’d also need to leave Verona Falls. Leave the Vipers. So, albeit reluctantly, I went to see a therapist who was part of the surgical team at the hospital. She said to reframe my silence as a good thing. To try to instead be grateful I wasn’t going to talk for talking’s sake. Or blurt out something stupid that I’d later regret. I consider every word I make.

Communicating is an effort for me. It takes time and thought, and she said to see that as my own unique power.

Maybe I ought to think about some things I can say to Vani. Some questions to ask her to try to get to know her better.

I’ve not really been one for relationships, but I guess I’m in one now. It might be toxic, but it’s definitely not casual. I’d kill anyone, other than Saint or Lex, who put their hands on her. Literally, not figuratively.

She turns onto the freeway and taps my hand twice. I realize she means to hold on, so I do, and, when she jerks the bike forward with a roar, I want to throw my head back and laugh.

This feels like freedom.

I would whoop out my joy if I could.

Instead of being all macho about being the passenger and not the rider, I do something I'm not very good at in general. I relinquish control and give trust to another person. She's an excellent rider, and I let one of my hands drift from her waist and onto her thigh, holding her tightly there around her lower hip, as I feel the muscles in the side of her leg flex with every micro adjustment she makes to this huge machine.

It's hot; there's no denying it.

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