Page 44 of The Bonds We Break
“Two in the afternoon.”
“I need to shower.”
I grin. “Go. Upstairs to the right. When you’re done, be a good girl and put these on.”
She glances at the bag in my hand.
“Don’t ask questions.” I smooth a palm down the side of her face. “I got some shit to do, but I’ll be ready in an hour. Is that long enough?”
“If that’s all I have, I’ll be ready.”
“You ready, duchess?” I ask sixty-three minutes later when I emerge from the garage.
Rae is sitting in the chair by the window, her nose in a book. When she looks up at me, there’s a gentleness to her eyes, but I’ve got to ignore it. Just like I’ve got to ignore how her baby-pink soft knit top swoops to a low V between the tits I know bruise easily when I suck on them. Just like I’ve got to ignore the way she looks at me like she trusts me.
Trust I’m building.
Trust I know I’m about to destroy when I tell Saint how I’ve used Rae.
I need to focus on Saint’s face when I see him.
But for today, I can focus on Rae. I can lean in to the one thing I can’t have forever. The fleeting feeling of holding on to something good for me. She’s wearing the clothes I picked up for her. The mix of the black leather bike pants and fluffy top makes her look like what she is: grit and glitter.
After yanking my thick leather jacket off the hook, I throw it on over my hoodie and cut.
“Just one minute, I need to finish this chapter.”
I roll my eyes. Chick has never wavered, never shown an ounce of real fear. If I ever had any intention of taking a queen one day, I’d hope she shares those characteristics with Rae.
“We don’t have time for you to finish your chapter.” I march over and yank the book out of her hand without even glancing at the cover. I toss it on the sofa, where it bounces twice.
A soft smile hits the corners of her lips and eyes. “You asked if I was ready. I said no. Why did you ask me instead of just telling me what you needed?”
I roll my eyes again. I’m gonna spin my fucking eyeballs out of orbit with this one. But I realize Clutch and Halo have both said something similar to me recently. I’m not communicating what I want and expect clearly. Maybe it’s years of Dad laying down the orders I had to follow. Maybe I don’t want the club to feel like I’m imposing my will as the new big guy. “Stop trying to tie me in knots, and just get your shit together. I’m taking you for a ride.”
“I figured.” She stands and walks by me, but her fingers brush mine as she goes by. I want to brush it off as a habitual gesture, but I know it wasn’t. She senses my mood as if she is my own personal barometer. I want to pretend the gesture doesn’t ... ease me.
I’m going to miss her.
The thought is so fleeting, buried so quickly with dismissal, that I don’t have time to properly process it.
She grabs the leather jacket lined with shearling I bought for her. It feels so personal to see her slip her arms into it. For a moment I imagine aProperty of Kingpatch on her back. Her hair is braided. Two braids that run from the top of her head into plaits skimming her breasts. It’s annoyingly cute.
“Here,” I say, placing the bike helmet on her head. It’s a metallic purple. I bought her this too. It was on sale. The fact she told me purple is her favorite color earlier has nothing to do with it.
“If you kill me, I’ll kill you,” she says. The warmth of a smile touches her eyes.
“If I were going to kill you, it wouldn’t be on my bike.”
“Reassuring.”
I shrug. “To wreck my bike hard enough to kill you would probably kill me too, and I’ve got shit I want to do before I go, duchess.”
“Tell me three things.”
“Grow the club to be the biggest club in North America, collect and refurbish vintage motorcycles, and ride through every state.” I don’t know why I tell her. I don’t even know if those three things would be the top three. But I have a sinking feeling I answer just because I’m stalling.
“So, bikes, bikes, and more bikes.”
