Page 29 of Burning Ember

“Woman, don’t start. I just fuckin’ stuck up for your ass.”

Lily rolls her eyes and leans against the wall. “Pumpkin, I’ll wait here.”

“C’mon.” Rigor’s fingers cinch around my arm again.

I’m tempted to pull from his grip. His hand on my arm grates on my nerves because it represents a lack of freedom and that he thinks he needs to lead me like I’m some sort of captive.

I didn’t run from one jailer just to find another.

Rigor tugs me down the hallway. A mix of fear and anxiety races through my veins as we approach Mav’s door.

I glance up at Rigor. “Are you coming in with me?”

He shakes his head.

Fabulous.I get to face Mav, the ticking time bomb, alone. I get the feeling he’s got a short fuse; and though Dozer thinks it’s about time it was lit, I’d rather not be the catalyst to set him off.

No, thank you.

Before Rigor can knock, Mav shouts through the closed door, “Send her in.” His rough baritone sends chills over my skin. I rub my arms to get rid of the goosebumps.

Rigor shoves me into the room and shuts the door behind me.

I quickly survey the office. Mav is standing behind his chair with his back slightly to me looking out a small, opened window. From here, I have a great view of his profile, and the patches on the back of his vest, or cut, as Lily referred to it. His arms are crossed over his chest, his feet spread apart. He stands about six feet tall, his lean, muscular body emanating sex and power.

Perfect.The second the word leaves my brain, I want to smack myself.

Falling for a guy like him is a highway to hell no woman who values her life should take. That’s what the jacket, patches, and knife hanging from his belt tell me.

I decide to call him Luce, for short—in my head, where it’s safe to do so—as a reminder, so I don’t forget who this man is and what he’s capable of. The nickname is also a reminder that he has a venom-like tongue too, and that he’d rather see me in Hell instead of taking up residence here. Plus, if I to have a silly nickname, then he can too.

I can already tell he’s going to be a huge obstacle blocking my path in my quest for my secret garden. It’s simple math. Angry + biker + Em = more trouble than my already complicated life can handle. Nevertheless, here I am.

He turns and our eyes meet. His face is stoic, an emotionless mask. However, the turmoil in his eyes speaks volumes. Without his cold stare chilling me to the bone, a simmering warmth cascades over my body, rushes to my extremities and between my thighs.

He’s a dream to look at when he’s quiet and contemplative like this. I almost wish for a second I had a camera so I could capture his image to look back on when I’m long gone from this place.

I wonder what he thinks of me now. I took extra care with my hair and make-up.Dolledup you could say.

I don’t know why I let his words sting so deeply when he means nothing to me. Just like I’m nothing to him. And after so many years, you’d think I’d be used to people belittling me.

Sticks and stones . . . and all that.

His words are weapons and they cut, but only if I believe them.

Minutes tick by.

He stares at me.

I stare right back at him.

The air between us charges, thickens.

We’re getting nowhere. I’m not stupid enough to think I can win this game. After all, he’s holding all the cards. It’s his clubhouse. His home. His office. He’s used to being cold. The only thing I have up my sleeve is a will to survive and the ability to bluff.

So I bluff.

Trying to portray a confidence I don’t feel, I shrug coolly and look around the room.