Page 6 of Claimed By River

I don’t see River again for the rest of the day, and part of me is relieved while another part can’t stop replaying the look on his face after I fled. By the time I lock up the front desk and head back to my apartment, the embarrassment has settled into a dull ache beneath my ribs.

River Raniere is many things: gruff, stubborn, infuriating, and entirely too convinced he’s always right. Cruel isn’t one of them. He’s never once given me a reason to believe he’d intentionally hurt me. The problem isn’t River. It never was. I hate that he saw me like that.

I hate even more that he now knows there’s something broken beneath the carefully constructed version of myself I present to everyone at 4R Ink. For almost a year, I’ve managed to keep my secrets buried beneath efficient work and privacy. One stupid panic attack threatens to undo it all.

By morning, I’ve convinced myself that the best thing I can do is pretend nothing happened. That resolution lasts exactly long enough for me to stop at the grocery store on my way to work. The city is only beginning to wake when I unlock the front door to the shop.

The familiar scent of disinfectant, coffee, and tattoo ink greets me instantly, settling something inside me. This place has become my home in every way that matters. Raiden and Elodie live upstairs, but Raiden had a late appointment the night before, so I doubt either of them will be awake yet.

Roman never arrives early unless he’s trying to beat everyone else to the gym, and Royal rarely appears before he’s had enough coffee to qualify as medically concerning. River is the unpredictable one. Some mornings, he beats me here. Most, he doesn’t.

And there are the other mornings—the ones where I come in to find all four guys already downstairs, the basement door shut, coffee cups in the sink that were used hours ago. Where Roman has a split knuckle he doesn’t explain, and nobody asks. Where Raiden’s late appointment ran until three in the morning, and there’s no ink on the towels. I have spent my whole life around men with rooms I wasn’t allowed into. I know exactly what it looks like when a door is closed on purpose.

I’ve never asked. That’s the arrangement, even if none of us has ever said it out loud. They don’t ask me where I came from. I don’t ask them what happens down those stairs. It’s the first time in my life a secret has felt like a fair trade instead of a debt.

I switch on the lights, disable the alarm, and start a fresh pot of coffee. I carry the box of protein bars toward the hallway leading to the artists’ private rooms. Unlike most tattoo shops with open stations, each artist at 4R Ink has their own room, giving clients privacy during longer sessions.

I stop midway. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, feeling nervous.

My stomach won’t sit still. It’s a box of protein bars. I’ve handed this man a hundred appointment slips without my hands doing anything.

I blow out a breath, wondering if I should just put the box of protein bars in its spot in the breakroom. He is a thirty-five-year-old man, covered in tattoos, and built like he could bench-press a pickup truck. He can certainly survive one week without them.

Still, I feel bad about the way I acted, and it’s only right for me to get these for him. I make my feet move. River’s room sits at the very end of the hall, exactly as organized as the man himself. Every bottle, machine, and sketchbook sits in its place.

I smile despite myself. For someone who claims not to care about appearances, River is annoyingly meticulous. I set the box in the middle of his desk.

“There,” I whisper. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”

I turn, then freeze.

River fills the doorway with his broad shoulders, one hand resting against the frame as morning sunlight spills in behind him. His beard is still slightly damp, as though he rushed through shaving around it before leaving home.

He’s wearing faded jeans with a plain black T-shirt that makes him look even larger than usual. His eyes drift from me to the box on his desk. Then back again.

His dark hazel eyes, full of remorse, hold mine. “I didn’t mean to scare you yesterday. I’m sorry.” The sincerity in his voice catches me completely off guard.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “You don’t have to apologize. I should…”

“I do.” He takes a slow step into the room before stopping several feet away, giving me plenty of space. “I shouldn’t have cornered you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He shakes his head. “I put that look on your face. That’s mine to own.”

I stare at him, speechless. River and I always argue. I’ve never seen this side of him—this quiet, this deliberate—and something in me tilts sideways because of it. Powerful men don’t admit they’re wrong. They certainly don’t care if they’ve frightened someone weaker than themselves. I should know—I lived it every day growing up.

River does. The realization leaves me strangely unsteady. He takes another careful step closer, moving slowly enough that I can back away if I want to. I don’t. I simply hold still. My pulse begins climbing for an entirely different reason.

River raises one hand with deliberate slowness, giving me every opportunity to stop him. His fingertips brush a loose strand of dark hair away from my face before tucking it gently behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek on the way down. A current of heat dances over my skin, and my chest hums at the tenderness of such a simple gesture.

“There you are,” he murmurs, low and dark enough that I feel it in my spine.

“What?” I swallow.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

My heart stumbles.