Page 20 of Contracted to the Bikers

He doesn’t answer, staying perfectly still, watching me like a cat with a mouse. His gray eyes are flat, controlled, which is way worse somehow than if he were yelling that I’m a prick.

I take a few more steps forward, slow, measured. “Something you want to talk about, boss?”

We both know he heard. Fuck, everyone in this room heard. That’s probably not helped my case. I’ve embarrassed him and made him look weak in front of his men. A stunt like this could get me kicked out. I wouldn’t have thought anything was possible to break mine and Rook’s bond, but suddenly, the notion that he might send me packing doesn’t seem too absurd.

Rook closes the distance in three strides and punches me square in the face. The punch is clean, without hesitation or warning. My head snaps to the side with the impact, the crack of it loud in the quiet room. Across the room, a chair squeaks, and I vaguely notice that Boone is moving closer, ready to step in if needed. He’s always been the level-headed one, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to break up a fist fight between me and Rook.

I taste blood immediately, copper sharp on my tongue, but I don’t swing back, don’t even raise my hands. I deserved that, so I let it land. I let the silence stretch after, waiting for more blows that don’t come.

I straighten slowly, rolling my jaw once to settle it back into place, wiping the blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “Okay,” I say calmly. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way.”

The second punch catches me off guard, making me stumble into a chair, which noisily clatters to the floor as I try to right myself with it. I don’t go down, but it was close. I find my footing and jump up, fists raised, my old fighting instincts taking over. Boone steps in between us. He doesn’t say a word, but his hulking presence lets us know that’s enough for now. I take a few deep breaths, waiting for my anger to subside before lowering my fists and nodding at Boone. He studies me for a moment and then nods once before stepping to the side.

Rook’s chest rises once, controlled breath, but I can see it now, underneath all that discipline, he’s furious. Not the kind of angry he is when it comes to club business, territory, money, or war. No, this kind of fury is personal.

“You crossed a line,” he says, his voice is low and even, but there’s steel under it.

Yeah. I did. I lean back against the table, casual, like my mouth isn’t bleeding or my ears aren’t ringing. “Yeah,” I say. “I figured that might be your opening line.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s my old lady.”

It pisses me off a little that he doesn’t even use her name, and the snarky reply comes out before I can soften it. Not that I would. “And you haven’t touched her.”

Rook takes a step forward, fists clenched. I don’t move, you don’t show fear to an apex predator. “You think that matters?” he asks.

“I think it matters to you,” I say. “Clearly.”

His fist clenches again, his chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath, his glare doesn’t leave mine, but I know he’s aware of the whole club watching us. He needs to do this here, for them to see, but that also means I won’t get off lightly. For a second, I think he might swing again. Part of me almost hopes he does. It would make this cleaner. Easier to just fight it out and leave it at that.

Instead, he stops himself with his usual superhuman control. Rook is always in control. “You don’t get to decide that,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “Sloane does.”

I see it, the flicker of pain and frustration that Sloane hasn’t chosen him even though he wants her. He doesn’t like to hear it because it’s true. Rook doesn’t like things he can’t control. Apart from Sloane, apparently.

I push off the table, standing straight now, and look him in the eye. “I know I crossed a line,” I say, quieter now. “I’m not arguing that.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?” he snaps.

I know he doesn’t necessarily mean right now; he wants to know why I did it, but we both know why. “I’m being honest.” Both in this conversation and in my pursuit of Sloane. Honest with her, and with myself about my feelings.

He laughs once, the short, sharp sound almost like a bark. “That’s what you call it?”

“That’s exactly what I call it.”

Silence stretches between us again, heavy. Someone clears their throat, and every eye darts accusingly toward them lest it spoil the show.

I can still feel the ghost of Sloane’s skin under my hands, still taste her on my tongue. I wonder if Rook can smell her on me, if it’s making things worse. I should feel guilty, but I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me, not guarded, not fighting, just open. God.

I drag a breath through my lungs, slow. I can’t think about Sloane right now, not if I want to remain a member of Iron Vale MC and keep all my limbs attached. I feel as if I’m walking a tightrope over a cliff. Still, I won’t lie to my brother. Rook is one of my oldest, closest friends. He deserves honesty.

“Look,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck. “You want me to say I regret it? I don’t,” I admit, because it’s the truth. How could I?

My lack of regret lands harder than the punch. His eyes narrow, waiting for an apology that I cannot give. Though perhaps, if I said it was just a casual fuck that meant nothing to me, that would be worse.

I should regret it,” I add, holding my hands up and taking a step back, fearing he’s about to pounce. “I know I should.”

“You’re damn right you should,” he growls, his president’s voice now, not the Rook I grew up with.