Page 12 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

But it's not the ink that makes my chest tighten. It's the tension coiled in every line of his body. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his head hangs forward like he's carrying something too heavy to lift.

"Ryder?" His name comes out rough with sleep.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, like my voice is a blade across already-raw skin. When he turns, the devastation on his face steals my breath.

"Pope, what⁠—"

"I shouldn't have." His voice is wrecked. "Last night. I shouldn't have let that happen."

The words hit like a slap. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest, suddenly feeling more exposed than I did when he was inside me.

"Let it happen?" I repeat. "I seem to remember being a pretty willing participant."

"That's not—" He drags a hand over his face, exhaling hard. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

He doesn't answer. Just sits there, staring at the floor like it holds some secret I'm not allowed to know. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and something cold starts creeping into the space where warmth should be.

"I'm going to make coffee," I say finally. "And then you're going to tell me what the hell is going on."

His kitchen is as sparse as his bedroom—clean lines, bare counters, nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here. I find the coffee by trial and error, filling the machine with mechanical precision while my mind races.

Last night was... everything. Terrifying and perfect and completely overwhelming. For the first time in two years, I felt alive. For the first time since Marco died, I wasn't drowning in grief and guilt and loneliness. I was present. I was wanted. I was seen.

And now Pope's sitting across from me at his kitchen table, a mug of untouched coffee growing cold between his hands, and he can't even look me in the eye.

"Talk to me." I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is hammering. "Don't shut me out. Not now. Not after⁠—"

"It was a mistake."

"Don't."

"Mara—"

"Don't you dare." The anger surprises me, surging up from somewhere deep and hot. "Don't you dare sit there and tell me that what happened last night was a mistake. I won't let you do that."

He finally looks at me, and the anguish in his eyes almost makes me regret the sharpness in my voice. Almost.

"You don't know⁠—"

"Then tell me." I reach across the table, closing my fingers around his wrist. His pulse jumps under my touch. "Whatever it is, whatever you're carrying, just tell me. I'm not going anywhere."

The laugh that escapes him is bitter, broken. "That's exactly the problem."

"What does that mean?"

Silence. Long enough that I think he's not going to answer. Then:

"The night Marco died." His voice drops, rough and low like the words are being dragged out of him. "I was leading that run. The route we took—I made that call. I'm the one who decided to take the back roads because I thought they'd be safer."

My stomach drops.

"The ambush..." I start.

"Was my fault." He pulls his wrist from my grip, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug like he needs something to hold onto. "I led us right into it. Made the wrong call, and Marco—" His voice cracks. "Marco paid the price. He died because of a decision I made."