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She continued typing on her phone. Saint’s hand closed over hers, pushing it down. “I know you want an explanation.”

She jerked her chin up. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not—” Saint rubbed a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock again. “Look, we’ll talk about this when I get back.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Will you stay here while I’m gone? I’ll leave you a key and the door codes.”

Her eyebrows raised as her chest twisted. She wanted to stay here. She felt safe here. The loft was a fortress compared to her apartment. The “yes” was on her tongue, and she clamped her teeth down before it slipped out.

Saint didn’t ask again, but his eyes bored into hers. Riley clenched her fist, nails digging into her palm.

She needed to think.

“When are you going to be back?” she asked. He reached towards her and then dropped his hand onto the counter next to her.

“I don’t know,” he rasped. “Probably tonight. Late.”

He glanced again at the clock and turned the burner off. The urgency was only evident in the flick of his eyes as they moved around the kitchen.

“I have to think about it, but I’ll put the food away before I decide,” she said.

Saint leaned down to kiss her and then thought better of it. His lips touched her forehead, and his hands pulsed on her shoulders before he let go.

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

He took the stairs two at a time and was gone moments later, gravel spinning under tires.

She looked at Cookie where he stood in the middle of the living room. He let out a little whine.

“Right there with you, puppy,” she muttered and put the food away in the fridge.

Chapter 20

Saint

The kid at Saint’s feet had duct tape over his mouth and his hands zip-tied behind his back. Dark hair stuck out from under his hoodie and didn’t quite obscure the rage in his eyes.

Jackson, one of Wheeler’s security guys, leaned against the wall with a gauze pad pressed to his lip and a blackening eye.

It had taken Saint an hour to drive out to the empty warehouse on the city outskirts, and Wheeler could’ve sent a photo. The bikers were old-school, and most members were lifers. This kid could be part of one of the streetgangs that were affiliated, but he wasn’t showing colours.

Wrong place, wrong time.

“He’s about fifteen years too young to be one of them.” Unless Cooper was really getting serious about his membership drive. The kid barely looked legal.

The protest was garbled behind the duct tape. Jackson rolled his eyes and winced when the movement tugged on the damaged skin. “Sure packs a punch though.”

Wheeler had his thumbs hitched in his vest, the lion emblem on the front obscured by his binoculars hanging around his neck. He assessed the kid for a moment before he jerked his chin at Saint and walked away.

Unintelligible yelling came from behind the duct tape, and they left the kid in the middle of the warehouse under Jackson’s watchful—if swollen—eye. The space stank like mould and dust and was only lit by the highbeams on Wheeler’s truck in the open door. The rest of Lionhead Security stood at doors and larger windows, eyes open, casting shadows as they shifted on their feet.

The kid watched them all from his knees.

“He got the jump on Jackson?” Saint asked, voice low. Scuffs in the dust showed where a table and chairs had been set up, now folded and leaning against the wall.

“Nah, it was after he was down. Jackson started asking what he was doing, and he exploded. The kid fights like a street dog.”