Page 3

He springs to his feet with fluid grace, his massive frame shifting as he rumbles, “Mornin’, Raindrop.”

A small, genuine smile curls up one side of my lips. I kind of love it. I never imagined having a pet name, let alone hearing one rumbled out by a towering, tattooed biker.

“Eden,” I murmur softly.

He furrows his dark brow, tilting his head. “I’m Eden. But I like Raindrop.”

He gives me a crooked, slightly rusty smile that makes his hard edges soften, rendering him ten times more charming. “Eden,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

I tilt my head to the side, genuinely not sure if he’s making fun of me. His steady gaze is filled with genuine wonder as he explains.

“It means a place of beauty and peace.” His dark eyes linger on mine, that awe-struck smile still playing on his lips. Beauty and peace? Me?

Without another word, Onyx leads me out to a spacious, clean kitchen area, firing up a stove and cooking an enormous breakfast of eggs, bacon, and fluffy pancakes while pouring two hot mugs of coffee. As he stands with his back to me, flipping a strip of bacon, I catch sight of the bold logo embroidered across the back of his heavy leather cut. My breath catches. It’s the Rebel Kings MC—the very motorcycle club my father and his shady associates always whispered about with a mix of hatred and fear.

If this club runs in the exact same underworld circles as my father's syndicate, I might have just jumped straight out of the frying pan and into an even hotter fire.

Onyx somehow senses the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere. He pauses, turning his head to peer back at me over his broad shoulder. “The club?” he asks, catching my stare and absently tugging on the lapel of his cut. “We aren’t bad people.”

A strange, sudden spike of sassiness flares in my chest, maybe because, despite all the logical red flags, he’s made me feel safer than I have in years. “That’s an interesting introduction,” I tease, offering a small, cautious smile.

Onyx’s dark eyes flare with sudden amusement, a deep, rumbling sound vibrating in his chest that makes my spine tingle and my stomach flutter.

He plates the food and sits across from me, piling our plates high. As we eat, he explains how the MC operates.

“We don’t run drugs, guns, or…” he pauses, his eyes flitting to mine before focusing on his food. “Or women.” My cheeks heat, knowing that my brand was for that exact purpose. “In fact, we spend a lot of time running our clean business, King’s Logistics, as well as organizing charity rides throughout the year.”

My eyebrows lift in surprise, not expecting this group of supposedly dangerous bikers to give back to the community in such a way.

“The only people who need to fear us are thieves, traitors, and low-lives who hurt those who can’t defend themselves.” His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare as he stabs a piece of bacon with his fork.

I dip my head down, wondering if Onyx and his club will turn against me if they find out my father works for the enemy. Does that make me a traitor? Will he hand me over for leverage?

Shoving those thoughts down, I finish cleaning my plate and immediately jump up to clear the table, desperate to prove my worth and not be a burden. He catches my wrist gently, suggesting we wash them together.

“So, where are you from?” he asks as he hands me a clean dish to dry.

I take a second too long to reply, which Onyx definitely catches. “Not far,” I finally say.

“Mmhm,” he murmurs to himself as if keeping a list of my suspicious answers. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” I don’t hesitate this time, showing him I’m totally made of secrets. “And you?”

He pauses scrubbing the plate in his hand and slowly turns to me, his eyes narrowing while his lip pulls into a playful grin. I haven’t seen this look on him before, but I definitely want to see it over and over.

“I’m forty,” he replies. “Is that too old?”

“Not with medical advances these days,” I tease. “The average life expectancy is in the mid-seventies.”

A deep, heavy laugh builds from within his chest, the warm sound wrapping around me and making my stomach flip as I smirk up at the big, bad biker.

“I love seeing this side of you, Raindrop. Thank you for trusting me.”

I break eye contact, my face no doubt beet red as I intently focus on drying every last drop of water from the coffee mug in my hand.

We finish drying the dishes a few minutes later, and I start putting them away. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I slide a stack of ceramic plates back onto the high shelf.

Mistake.