Page 4 of Desert Loyalties

SKYE

My legs are killing me.

They’re giving me the dead-weights-attached-to-my-hips pain that makes me question every life choice that’s ever led me to standing behind this bar, wearing sticky shorts and a tank top that now smells like the unholy trinity of booze, cheap cologne, and fryer oil.

I smell like a gas station bathroom on a Saturday night and I swear if someone doesn’t feed me soon, I might actually die.

Goddammit, I want fries.

I wipe my forehead on the back of my arm and turn around, ready to serve another cocktail to whichever brother has managed to holler the loudest—

And bam , there he is.

Mandrake.

Filling up the whole damn space. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. Just bellows across the room in that deep, no-bullshit voice that makes every guy shut the hell up.

“Bar’s closed. Bears are in the fridge. Anybody break anything, they own it.”

The whole room grumbles but nobody argues. Nobody dares argue. Because when Mandrake talks, you listen . And when he storms toward the bar, looking like he’s on a mission from Satan himself, you move .

I don’t even get to ask what the hell is happening before he reaches me, grabbing me like I weigh nothing and suddenly I’m over his damn shoulder.

“MANDRAKE! What the actual fuck —put me down!”

“Not happening,” he growls, his voice low and smug. And then he swats my ass.

Excuse me?!

I’m dangling over him like a sack of potatoes while he hauls me through the clubhouse like I’m some prize he just won at a carnival, and all I can think about besides murder, is that the man hasn’t even kissed me, but apparently thinks it’s okay to start throwing spankings into the mix.

We pass by snickering brothers, and I swear I’m going to die of humiliation. Or homicide. Possibly both.

After what feels like a century and two staircases, he finally lowers me back to the ground. Gently, but still like I’m breakable. I’ve already got my mouth open, fully loaded with some grade-A profanity, when—

He holds up a bag.

A greasy, hot, brown paper bag.

And I smell it.

Fries. And burgers. Real ones. Not clubhouse slop or microwave sadness.

The profanity dies on my tongue like it never existed. I look at the bag. I look at him. Back at the bag.

“Food,” he says, smug as hell.

I cross my arms. Narrow my eyes.

“You carried me up here like I was a prop in a caveman fantasy.”

“I did.”

“You spanked me.”

“I did,” he says again, this time with a smirk that should be illegal.

I glare.

He holds the bag closer. The scent of salty, hot, golden fries punches me in the gut and I swear my stomach whimpers .

I glance toward the door weighing my options, then back at him before snatching the bag from his hand. “Only reason you’re not bleeding right now is because of these fries.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, that damn satisfied smirk still on his lips. “I’ll take it.”

I sit on the couch, practically inhaling the fries. They’re hot. Crispy. Perfect. The burger is even better. My brain short-circuits from the salt, the meat, the melted cheese. I don’t even care that I’m stuffing my face in front of Mandrake.

He watches me in silence for a minute. Not talking. Just... watching. Like he’s memorizing how I look with my cheeks full and my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead.

“Why’d you do all this?” I mumble through a bite.

His voice drops low. Serious. “Because you needed someone to.”

I look at him and he’s not smiling now. Not smirking. Just watching me with those sharp eyes and that steady presence that’s always felt too big for any room.

“You think nobody sees you,” he says quietly. “But I do.”

And that? That hits harder than anything else tonight.

I take another fry just to keep my hands busy. But my heart’s racing now, and it’s got nothing to do with the salt or the grease.

“Eat,” he says again, softer now. “Then we’ll talk.”

I chew slowly, watching him as he flops down beside me like we do this every night. In true dude fashion, he inhales his burger in two massive bites, then immediately starts eyeing my fries. I slap his hand away with a glare.

He just smirks. Doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry. But I glance at the fries, realizing there’s enough to feed three people, and sigh. Grudgingly, I nudge the bag toward him. “Fine. But touch my burger and I’ll bite your hand off.”

“That’s fair,” he says with a straight face, but he’s already digging in, and for a second, it almost feels normal. Almost. Until it doesn’t.

“Why’d you bring me up here?” I ask, wiping my fingers on a napkin.

He leans back, ankles crossed, like he’s settling in for a long night. “Figured we could use the privacy.”

I blink.

“The fuck?” I ask, not bothering to hide my tone.

“So, you ignore me for a year , scare off every man who even breathes near me, and now what? You think feeding me a burger and fries gives you the right to haul me up to, wherever this is, lock the damn door, and act like you’ve earned the right to. .. to do private things with me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“This is my room,” he says calmly. “In the officers’ quarters.”

I freeze, the weight of that hitting all at once. My fingers still on the napkin. My breath stuck somewhere in my chest.

“No, it’s not,” I say, voice dropping. “You only bring... you only bring family up here. Or...”

I trail off.

His expression softens just enough to ruin me.

“Yeah,” he says. “Figured it’s about time I feed my old lady and ask her what’s bothering her.”

My brain short-circuits.

I’m your old lady now?

He nods like I said the words out loud, which; hell, maybe I did. I can’t even tell at this point.

“I think you and I both knew this was real,” he says quietly. “I just finally found the balls to say it out loud.”

I can’t breathe.

Not because I’m panicking. Not because I’m angry. But because some part of me has wanted to hear that for so long, I forgot what it would feel like. Like hope. Like safety. Like someone finally choosing me, not out of convenience, not out of pity but because they see me. All of me.

And maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s reckless.

But it’s real.

He shifts a little closer, slow and careful. Not trying to overwhelm, just... being there.

My brain finally catches up to what he said before. About talking.

So I say, “If you had to find your balls, maybe I should test drive before I buy the car.”

That gets a snort out of him. “It’s a goddamn hog, and you’re trying to distract me.”

I lean in, slow, deliberate, my tank top dipping just enough for the girls to show.

“Is it working?” I ask, sweet and sharp.

His eyes drop, just like I knew they would. He swallows so hard I can hear it. “Nope.”

“You sure?” I tilt my head, grin playing on my lips.

Then he finally looks up. Right into my eyes. His voice drops, low and rough like gravel and promises. “The first time we’re together, it ain’t gonna be for distraction.”

It steals the breath from my chest. And then, of course, he ruins it by pushing.

“Now tell me what’s wrong.”

I stiffen. My instinctual armour snaps into place like it never left.

“Why should I?” I fire back. “You realize I don’t know anything about you outside of this club, right?

I don’t even know your real name. And you want me to just hand over my deepest, darkest secrets like we’re. .. what? Soulmates?”

It’s quiet for a beat. I think I’ve crossed the line. Think he’s going to shove off the sofa and tell me to get the hell out.

But instead, he says, calm and steady, “Drake Llloyd. I’m thirty-one. That’s my name.”

I blink. The air in the room shifts.

“When I was prospecting, every time I brought the brothers beer, they’d say, ‘You’re the man, Drake.’ Eventually it stuck, Mandrake.”

I watch him, waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. Just silence and the quiet weight of honesty.

“I was born into a loving home,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Two parents. A grandma who used to sneak me candy even when my mom said no.”

I’m frozen, holding my breath.

“Then one night, when I was seven, there was a fire. Or that’s what they said.

One second, I’m in bed, next I wake up in the hospital covered in gauze.

They found me outside, on the lawn, thought that my father woke up to the smoke and got us out, but lost consciousness when he went back in for the others. ”

I suck in a breath, hands clenched in my lap.

“We didn’t have family. No one close. So, I got dumped into the system. Foster homes, group homes. Got real good at being angry. Real good at not giving a fuck. Aged out at eighteen and was this close to either jail or a grave.”

He looks at me then, and for once there’s no fire, no smirk, just... truth.

“The club saved my life. Took a lost, pissed-off kid and gave him something worth protecting. And now I’m sitting here trying not to fuck this up with the only woman who ever made me feel like I might be more than just the scars I carry.”

I can’t speak. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. He lost his family in a fire, a fuckin’ fire. We were doomed before we even started.

I know pain. I know what it feels like to be burned by life, left alone in a world where no one gives a fuck whether you live or die. I also know what it’s like to lash out, to get angry.

Neither of us speaks for a while. Not until I break the silence and tell him something I’ve only ever told one person before.

Ben stood by me; she didn’t look at me different but she understood. Why I was so guarded, why I was spiralling.

I hope Drake can handle my truth.