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“Nothing.” Matt pushed her toward his mechanic. “Just go with Axe.”
She resisted. The old Grace flashed in her eyes.
Stubborn.
Willful.
Goddammit.
Axe looked at him doubtfully when she didn’t budge.
“I mean, we’re together,” Troy declared. “You’re my woman.”
“You can’t prove it, so stop fucking with her head,” Matt snarled, going toe-to-toe with the biker. “This conversation is over. Until Grace regains her memory or you confess your role in this mess, you do not contact her, and you never talk to her without me around. Do I make myself clear, deLamar?”
“And she has no say?” Troy quirked a brow at the woman in question.
Matt turned his glare on Grace. There was defiance in her eyes and yet a hint of uncertainty. He was working with the latter and refused to feel guilty about it. Not leaving with Axe when he told her to infuriated him and awakened his ruthless streak.
“Leave, Troy,” he faced the biker once more. “When you’re ready to talk and explain this whole damned mess, you know where to find us.” Matt clasped Grace’s bicep. “Come on, babe. Let’s get some food in you.”
Matt nodded meaningfully at Roger as he walked away with a now complacent Grace. His friend lifted his chin, acknowledging that he understood his role to keep the bikers out if they pushed the issue.
Tension crackled in the air.
“This is not over, Foster!” Troy called when he and Grace entered the garage. Despite his differences with the biker boss at the moment, they both recognized that now was not the time to cause more turmoil for Grace’s already troubled mind.
This was definitely far from over.
Matt was sure this was only the beginning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace
I followed Matt back to his loft, my mind trying to delve in its trenches for a man called Troy. Finding myself in a chair, I was momentarily distracted by the smell of fried cured pork. Maybe if I had some food in me I could think better. My insides were like a raw twisted knot, but I didn’t know if it was from hunger or anxiety.
Matt tore the paper bag in half to reveal its contents of stacked Styrofoam containers. He seemed to take great care in unpacking the food like it was some puzzle to solve.
“I know you’re mad at me,” I hedged as he handed me a container with a “#1” marked on top.
“You don’t like pancakes,” Matt muttered to the food, jaw tight. “I got you waffles.”
“Look, I’m sorry that—I don’t like pancakes?”
“You don’t like the texture in your mouth.”
Interesting.
I eyed his breakfast as he flipped the lid open. “I’m willing to give it a try again,” I said.
Matt’s brows shot up as he finally looked at me, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin. “What makes you think I’m willing to share?”
I pursed my lips. “Well, you’ve given up your bedroom for me, so I’m sure there’s a generous bone in your body.”
“Good point,” he chuckled. “But maybe I have an ulterior motive.”
That wasn’t funny even as a joke. My thoughts must have shown on my face.
