She could be afraid of the club; be afraid of what siding with it meant to her father’s memory. She could dislike their code; she could wish things were different…so many things.
But she wasn’t afraid of Albie, personally. She never had been.
And which was scarier? Being with him? Or being without?
There wasn’t much of a decision to make when she looked at it like that.
“You didn’t kiss me,” she said.
“I didn’t what?”
“On our date,” she clarified. “It was our first date, and when you left, you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”
His eyes widened. “Oh.” He swallowed. “I’m a bit out of touch with all the – dating rules.” He said it like they were very official and scary.
“There aren’t rules.”
“Aren’t there?” His turn to be uncertain, she thought. Hesitant. Backpedaling.
“If you–”
He tugged on her wrist. Not with any force – it was a request. Come here.
She sank down so she sat beside him again, and when she was settled, his momentary worry had become determination.
“It wasn’t because I didn’t want to,” he said. He reached up, slow, like he was afraid he’d startle her – or maybe like she would bite him. There was a horse metaphor in there either way. He set the pad of his thumb lightly on the point of her chin. His eyes dilated; his breathing audible. “Okay?”
She couldn’t breathe, for her own part. “Okay.”
His hand moved to cup her jaw, thumb sweeping up over her cheek, the skin rough, the touch gentle.
She’d always thought – in those rare moments that she thought about it at all, maybe wondering what women wanted with them – that bikers must do more biting than kissing. If they kissed at all. She’d thought of pawing, of being put face-down in the pillow and told to take it.
But Albie did kiss her, and softly.
Everything stopped for a moment. Her racing thoughts, her racing pulse; all her doubt, and worry about whether this was right, her fears that she was hurtling toward something insubstantial and treacherous. His lips gentle against hers, she existed a moment in perfect suspension.
Awareness filtered back in waves: the heat of his hand against her face; the flicker of his lashes against her cheek; the brush of his nose alongside hers. It was so little contact, but it felt like so much, and heat roared to life inside her, sudden and unexpected. If just this had the power to stop time, what would a deeper kiss be like? His hands on her body? What would it feel like if she lied back and pulled him on top of her?
She didn’t find out, then. He pulled back, his hand on her face keeping her from chasing forward; her eyes opening slowly. Her head was spinning.
Come on! she wanted to say.
But she saw the soft look he was giving her, his gaze heavy-lidded with want, but his smile tender, and she thought, no, wait.
Because maybe good things didn’t have to happen all at once.
Twenty-One
Eden woke to the gentle murmur of morning in a clubhouse. The rattle and creak of pipes; shuffle of footfalls; muted hum of the kitchen firing up beneath Darla’s deft hands. Voices, faint, the idea of them without any distinct words. Dawn came pink and silver beyond the curtain.
Fox lay beside her, his face buried in the pillow, one arm flung casually over her stomach, but she knew he wasn’t asleep: his breathing was too controlled and quiet for that.
“Axelle’s room is next to ours,” she said by way of good morning.
His hum managed to sound both inquiring and bored. The ass.
“Axelle’s room is next to ours, and we didn’t hear anything last night.”
A beat passed. He lifted his head, face scrunched up and pillow creased, and cracked one blue eye. “Did you want to hear something?”
“No. But I expected to.”
He pushed up on both elbows, and blinked a moment, gaze clearing – sharpening. He was a good actor; she’d give him that. “Is that your thing, then? Listening to other people shag?”
She smacked his shoulder. Not gently.
His reaction was a grin. “I always knew there was a secret kinky side of you. It’s alright, love, you can let it out.”
“It’s not secret, and I do let it out, frequently,” she deadpanned. “I meant: your brother still hasn’t moved in on Axelle yet.”
“Ah. That.” He slipped back down, arms under the pillow, chin propped on it so he looked like a little kid, mussed hair and all. It was a cute picture, but she wasn’t going to tell him that and swell his head even further. “So you want my brother to shag your friend.”
“Stop trying to play psychiatrist on me and take this seriously for a moment, would you?”
“Why? What does it matter?”
“Well…” She hated when he had a point. Another thing she wasn’t going to tell him. “I’m worried about Axelle. I want her to be happy.”
He chuckled. “And you think my idiot brother is what will make her happy?”
“I think maybe you could be supportive of your brother – who’s a gentleman, and not an idiot – for once, and that you might actually give a damn about his happiness. Though that’s probably beyond you.”
His face smoothed to blankness, and he pushed up on his elbows again, no longer feigning that he’d just awakened. On guard, now. “I don’t need advice about my own family,” he said, perfectly calm, smooth as glass. But it was a tone that sent a shiver down her back. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He rolled over and sat up.
Eden stared at the ceiling a moment, feeling…not trapped. Not angry.
Restless.
~*~
Eden had met Michelle Calloway years before, when she and Charlie were…doing whatever it was they’d done while she was still with the government. Not dating; never call it that. It had been a chance encounter, her sitting at a café table in her favorite tucked-away shop, having a latte and a slice of sinful chocolate cake, using caffeine and sugar to soothe the internal shaking that had been haunting her for days about a particular case. The bell had jangled, and she’d glanced up, surprised to find Fox walking in, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair – hair she was already thinking about running her fingers through, glossy-thick and lovely. Caffeine and sugar were fine, but there was nothing better than sex to ease her heartache over the terrors of the world.
She’d started to speak, lift a hand and catch his attention, almost thinking he’d known this was her favorite spot, and that he’d come here hoping to find her. Then she’d realized he wasn’t alone.
Her first thought, when she saw the girl trailing in his wake, was guess I should have known. Was there a man alive who could resist a beautiful blonde ingenue with cold-nipped cheeks and cornflower eyes, half his age and dressed in a leather jacket so oversized it could only have been his? Her coffee had turned sour in her stomach, and she’d felt her mouth twist into an uncontrollable grimace. She’d wanted to leave. Slide her novel back into her bag, turn pointedly away from them, and just – flee. She wasn’t proud of it, but that was the case. She and Charlie hadn’t promised one another exclusivity, but here she was, stung and jealous.
She hadn’t left, though. Had watched them, though she shouldn’t have. And the agent in her had picked out the details, against her will.
The way they’d settled in on opposite sides of a table. The way they spoke to one another easily, too low to hear, without eye contact, the girl glancing over the menu board while Charlie observed the patrons with a trained eye; the way they swapped, then, the girl scanning while Charlie had a look at the offerings. There was affection on the girl’s face, but not adoration; no batting of lashes and biting of lips and angling herself to her best advantage.
They weren’t lovers, she’d thought with a start, a vivid impression. Then Charlie had spotted her.
“Eden?”
She’d known a moment’s panic, and hoped it didn’t show on her face. Then she’d stood and gone o
ver to their table, keenly aware of the girl’s eyes on her, a blue that managed to be both darker and lighter than she’d originally thought. Eyes that…were familiar, she realized. Charlie’s eyes – a version of them.
My niece, Michelle, he’d introduced.
A girl with a firm handshake, and a direct bearing, and a frank, un-shy scrutiny as she looked Eden up and down, cataloguing her, taking her measure.
Michelle was young, and decidedly not carrying a badge of any kind, but Eden had recognized the professional in her. This was someone who slunk through shadows, and pulled triggers, and made hard decisions, same as her.
She’d liked her on the spot.
Seeing her here, now, had been a shock – and not a pleasant one.
Eden knew she was pregnant, but she didn’t think the dark smudges beneath her eyes, and the drawn, careful wariness of her expression could all be chalked up to morning sickness and hormone fluctuations. Something was wrong – something, she’d be willing to bet, besides the murders currently rattling the club’s windows. This was personal.
Axelle set down a heaping plate and then settled in across from her. “Jesus, the amount of food they think I eat,” she muttered, staring down at the pile of sausage, hash, eggs, and what Eden had learned a few weeks ago were grits. “Darla fixed my plate for me,” she confided, shaking her head, “and I kept saying ‘that’s enough,’ and she just kept saying I was too skinny and piling it on.” She picked up her fork and nudged the tower of deep-fried potatoes. “Damn.”
When she lifted her head, and caught Eden’s gaze, her expression shifted. “What?”
“Just thinking.” Eden picked up her coffee and blew the steam off the top; the porcelain was nearly too hot to touch. “Sleep well?”
Axelle blushed and forked up a bite of eggs. Eden had never seen her like this. “Yeah. Bed’s not as shitty as I expected.”
Eden hid a smile in the rim of her mug. “Hm. Funny how that works out.”
Cheeks still bright pink, Axelle shot her a glare. “You don’t have to look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I told you so.”
“I never told you a thing,” she said, primly. “If I had, I probably would have advised against it. You’ve waltzed into your own romance all by yourself.”
Axelle grimaced and took a huge bite of hash.
Eden did her best not to laugh.
Footfalls scuffed over the hardwood, heralding Albie’s arrival before he joined them, sitting down next to Axelle. Eden didn’t miss the way Axelle swayed toward him, fractionally, as if drawn by a magnet; nor did she miss the way, head bent, Albie turned his gaze toward her, surreptitious, careful, perhaps nervous. They were still dancing around one another, but oh, there was tension there. Heat. A palpable frisson in the scant inches between them.
It eased some of Eden’s worries about Albie’s intentions.
“Hey,” Axelle said, looking at Albie’s plate: one slice of ham, and two eggs sunny-side up. “Why don’t you have a freaking ton of food?”
He shrugged as he unrolled his silverware. “I fixed my own plate.”
Axelle made a face, and glanced toward the kitchen. “You’re too skinny,” she mocked, in a good imitation of Darla’s Texas drawl. “My ass.”
“What about your ass?” Albie asked, turning to her, all innocence – save the faintest flicker of a smile teasing at one corner of his mouth. It was like Fox’s almost-smile, but softer, sweeter. Less calculated.
Axelle went crimson. She elbowed him, and lowered her face over her plate; Albie grinned.
They were a little bit adorable.
“What are you up to today, Albie?” Eden asked, because she could only take so much adorable at once.
His smile dimmed, and he tucked into his breakfast. “Heading out with Fox,” he said, when he’d swallowed a bite of ham. “He knows the terrain and I decidedly don’t. So I guess I’m backup.” He shrugged, and cut into the yolk with the edge of his fork.
Eden watched it run, yellow and viscous, out across the plate, pooling against the seared edge of the ham, and was glad she’d skipped breakfast.
She’d always worked best on an empty stomach.
Twenty-Two
“Are you taking Fox out to the crime scenes today?” Michelle asked as she tugged on her boots.
Candy stood at the door, halfway through pulling on his jacket. He stood with one arm in a sleeve, the other caught mid-slide, and turned to look at her, expression polite – but guarded. It was a perfectly fine expression, only it wasn’t the way he usually looked at her.
She wanted to be upset about that, but found she couldn’t be.
“Yeah,” he said, after a long moment, and shrugged his jacket into place. Checked the pockets; put a reassuring hand on the hilt of the gun at his waist. “Figure that’s the best place to start.”
His gaze came back, clamped-down, hard to read.
Not as hard to read as she knew her own to be. “Okay. Sounds good.”
He lingered. “Chelle…”
She lifted her brows.
After a moment, he twitched a fleeting smile and said, “Be careful today. Call you later.”
“You, too.”
He didn’t come kiss her. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
She stared at the door a moment, once he’d gone through it. Last night had been – chilly. Very civil, no arguments. But they’d slept back-to-back, without even accidentally touching, and he’d not kissed her since Fox arrived.
To be fair, she hadn’t kissed him, either.
She waited until she thought he must be gone, then went out into the main part of the clubhouse.
Jenny had gotten up before her, and, unasked, gotten TJ dressed. He was in his booster seat, now, eating eggs with his hands and making a mess. When Michelle headed that direction, Jenny waved her off.
“Go eat in peace. I already had my breakfast.”
Michelle sent her a silent thank you and went to collect a plate.
Darla heaped it full, though she wouldn’t be able to eat even half of it. The tea she craved, though, and held it carefully in one hand as she left the kitchen and surveyed the common room.
Eden and Axelle sat across from one another; Eden caught her eye, and then motioned her over.
Michelle headed that way with a stomach tight with apprehension.
“Good morning,” Eden greeted, all smooth politeness. It seemed sincere. That was the thing with Eden: she never betrayed the way she really felt about a person, save with Fox, and the way she usually felt about him seemed to be irritated.
“Good morning,” Michelle replied, and hoped she’d managed at least a fraction of her old composure; that she’d held on to at least some of who she’d been when she first met Eden, years ago. The competent, calculating, trusted weapon of her family’s own design.
The thought jolted her. Moved through her as a tiny inner earthquake. Her tectonic plates shifted, and she knew her eyes widened.
Eden lifted her brows, and traded a quick look with Axelle, who shrugged. “Candy came by and offered us some advice,” she said, turning back to Michelle. “Places he thought might be good starting points for an investigation. I wonder if those are the same places you would start.”
Michelle’s heart pounded. She clutched tight to her plate and mug to keep from dropping them. “He’s the native Texan,” she said, “he’d know better than me.”
Eden grinned, small and tight. “You’ve been here for a few years now. You mean to tell me you don’t know the city by now?”
Axelle pushed her plate away, folded her arms on the table, and looked at Michelle with frank, unselfconscious curiosity.
What was happening here? Why did she feel like she was being tested? Like she was being…
“Doing anything important today?” Eden asked.
…invited.
What was she doing today? Taking care of TJ. Probably more laundry. Making a dozen
phone calls to TLC and wishing she was there in person to keep an eye on things because she was neurotic as hell.
She took a breath. “I’m not doing anything.”
Eden’s grin widened. “Want to come with us?”
“God, yes.”
Twenty-Three
The bodies, and the tent, and the vans, and the little plastic photography markers were long gone; the stakes and rope carted away as evidence. In another day or so, the wind would blow and smooth what remained of the tire treads and boot print impressions pressed down into the sandy soil where the first bodies had been found. But there were still signs of what had happened here, if you knew what to look for.
Candy studied a divot left by one of the stakes, and wondered if the faint, rusty-brown stippling on the dirt was blood. Probably.
“He cut their throats on the spot,” Fox said, drawing his attention. The Englishman crouched a few feet away, pads of his fingers pressed lightly to the ground, while he frowned off into the middle distance, eyes narrowed against the glare of morning sunlight.
“Yeah.”
“The killing was important. Like I said before: a ritual.” He stood, and turned to face Candy. “They were drugged, then. Dosed up with something heavy because there’s no sign of struggle. At least not now?” He cocked a brow in question.
Candy shook his head. “Not when it was fresh, either. Boot prints, yeah, but nobody was tossing around.” He flapped his own arms in imitation of someone fighting restraints. “Not even drag marks. It was like they got dropped out of the sky.”
Fox nodded, and cast his gaze across the ground again. “Unconscious or paralyzed.”
Albie was pacing a slow circle around the area, hands in his back pockets, brow furrowed. “Drug them, drive them out here, place them, cut their throats.”
“They were interrupted,” an unfamiliar voice called, and Candy whipped around.
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