Page 93 of Boulder's Weight

The question catches me off guard.

Do I trust them?

A couple of weeks ago, the answer would have been a resounding no.

But now...

"I trustyou," I admit, the words feeling significant as they leave my lips. "And by extension, the club."

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of his lips.

Without warning, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.

Unlike our previous kisses—desperate, frantic things born of fear or lust—this is different.

Slower, deeper, with an intentionality that makes my knees weak.

His thumbs stroke my cheekbones as his lips move against mine, not demanding but asking something I'm not sure I understand.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing harder.

He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed.

"What was that for?" I whisper.

"Because I fuckin’ wanted to," he says simply. "Because you're the most infuriating, brave, stubborn woman I've ever met."

I laugh softly. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It is." His eyes open, meeting mine. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

"The feeling's mutual," I assure him.

His hands slide from my face, down my arms, to grip my waist. "We're not using you as bait. Not now, not ever. We'll find another way."

I want to argue, to remind him that it's not his decision to make, that it's my life, my brothers, my risk to take.

But the intensity in his eyes stops me.

This isn't just about protection or possession.

It's something more, something I'm not ready to name.

"Okay," I say instead, a temporary agreement. "For now."

He studies me, clearly not fooled by my easy agreement, but lets it slide. "I need to go over a few things with some of the other prospects. We're doubling patrols around the compound with all the shit that’s been going on."

I nod, stepping back to create some space between us. "Go. Do what you need to do."

He hesitates, then kisses my forehead—a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache—before moving toward the door. "Stay inside the compound today. Please."

It's the 'please' that gets me. Not an order, but a request. "I will."

Once he's gone, I sink onto the edge of the bed, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his kiss.

What is happening between us?

It was supposed to be simple—temporary protection, a charade for both our benefits.

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