Page 50 of Priest

Evan wipes at his eyes, still grinning. “I cannot believe that I gave it my all and still lost the imaginary paternity trial.”

“You never stood a chance,” I tell him.

“Rude,” he says mildly. Then his expression shifts, softening, going a little dreamy in a way I recognize immediately. He clears his throat. “Okay. But seriously though.”

Uh oh.

He leans back into the couch, one arm draped dramatically along the cushions, gaze unfocused like he’s already building a fantasy. “Who,” he asks slowly, “is this Ink that I would apparently do a better job of impregnating?”

Lila blinks. “Who’s Ink?”

“I don’t know,” Evan says, eyes lighting up. “But the biker president seemed very confident about it.”

I groan. “Please don’t encourage this.”

“Oh, it’s too late,” Evan replies serenely. “Because now I’m picturing a man with tattoos, emotional damage, and a motorcycle who looks at me and says, You. You are the one.”

Lila snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m romantic,” Evan corrects. “And possibly destined for a gritty love story in leather.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, smiling sweetly, “deeply lovable.”

The laughter fades, settling into something quieter, easier. I’m just about to stand and grab water when the low rumble of a motorcycle cuts through the room, close enough to tighten the air.

Not passing.

Idling.

My heart stutters, and Evan frowns. “Do you hear that?”

I’m already moving.

We cross to the window together. The street below is dim under the glow of the streetlight, and there it is. A black bike. Familiar lines. Priest leaning against it like the night belongs to him, helmet hanging from the handlebar, arms crossed as he looks up at my building. At my window.

He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. He just sits there, watching.

Lila’s voice is quiet behind me. “Oh. He found you.”

Evan exhales slowly. “Wow,” he says. “That is… unsettlingly hot.”

I step back from the glass, pulse racing. “Yeah,” I mutter. “That tracks.”

Outside, the engine keeps running. He waits.

I rest a hand over my stomach and turn away. Whatever comes next will happen on my terms.

17

Priest

The clubhouse smells like oil, old wood, and something burned too long in the kitchen.

It’s familiar. Comforting. Tonight it feels wrong anyway.

Deacon should be here.