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I smoothed the blanket over the narrow bed, tugging each corner tight enough to bounce a quarter off the surface. Old habits die hard. Seven days at King's Tavern, and I still made my bed like the foster mom who'd slap my hands raw if she found a single wrinkle.

Diesel watched me from his spot on the floor, head cocked to one side, his ear perked up in that funny way that made him look perpetually curious. His ribs no longer showed through his coat. The regular meals had filled him out, and the deep cut on his paw had finally healed.

"What do you think, boy? Getting comfortable?" I whispered.

His tail thumped against the wooden floor. At least one of us wasn't overthinking this arrangement.

My meager belongings sat nearly arranged on the dresser top: hairbrush, the single tube of mascara I'd managed to grab, my mother's silver locket – the only thing I had of hers. A short stack of books that Duke had insisted I borrow waited on the nightstand. Books with dog-eared pages and cracked spines – history mostly, with a few dog-eared paperback thrillers mixed in. I hadn't read for pleasure in years. Jesse had called it a waste of time.

I moved to the small window and pushed aside the faded curtain. The morning light spilled over the back lot of King's Tavern, illuminating a neat row of motorcycles – gleaming chrome and black leather seats. A week ago, that sight would have sent me spiraling into panic, sent me grabbing for my keys and Diesel's leash, ready to bolt. Now, I recognized Duke's bike on the end – bigger than the others, with subtle silver detailing on the tank. I knew which one was Thor's by the Norse hammer painted on the side, and Tyson's sleek, meticulously maintained machine next to it.

I still flinched when engines roared to life in the lot below. Still tensed when the bar filled with men in leather cuts bearing the Heavy Kings insignia. But the panic attacks had subsided. The constant churning in my stomach had settled to an occasional flip when unfamiliar faces appeared.

Diesel padded over and pressed his warm body against my leg. I scratched behind his ears, feeling the soft fur between my fingers.

"We're okay," I told him, though I wasn't entirely convinced myself.

The past week had fallen into a pattern. I'd wake early, before most of the club was stirring. Duke would knock softly around seven, checking in with a quiet, "Morning, Little One," – a nickname that both embarrassed and thrilled me. We'd have coffee downstairs in the empty bar, sometimes joined by Tyson or the older member they called Wiz.

During the day, I helped clean the bar when business was slow. I wiped tables, organized stock, and took inventory – small ways to repay their generosity. Duke insisted it wasn't necessary, but idle hands brought back bad memories. Work kept the darkness at bay.

Duke had got into the habit of taking Diesel out for a walk or two each day. He didn’t insist that I didn’t leave the bar—he kept stressing that I wasn’t a prisoner—but I knew that it was the best for me, for the time being.

In the evenings, when the tavern filled with club members and locals, I'd retreat upstairs with a plate of whatever the cook had made – hearty, simple food that was the best I'd eaten in months.

At night, I'd read by the dim light of the bedside lamp until exhaustion overcame the fear that kept me alert. Each day was remarkably similar to the last – a welcome predictability after months of chaos.

I made the bed and arranged the pillows just so, then smoothed a wrinkle from the blanket. Control the small things when the big picture terrifies you. Another foster home lesson.

The floor creaked in the hallway—heavy, measured steps that I'd come to recognize. My heart kicked against my ribs. Duke. I touched my hair, wishing I'd brushed it before he arrived, then immediately felt foolish for caring.

The footsteps paused outside my door, followed by a soft knock. I counted to three before answering, unwilling to seem too eager.

"Come in," I called, my voice steadier than I felt.

Duke filled the doorframe, six-foot-four of solid muscle and quiet authority. His dark hair was damp from a shower, and he'd trimmed his beard since yesterday. The Heavy Kings president patch stood out starkly against his leather cut.

"Morning," he said, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Sleep okay?"

I nodded, suddenly aware of how thin my t-shirt was, how my hair probably looked like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

"Diesel woke me once. Otherwise, fine."

His blue eyes studied me, seeing more than I wanted him to. Duke Carson had a way of looking at you that stripped away bullshit, peeled back layers until you felt exposed.

"You're settling in alright?" It wasn't really a question, more an invitation to speak if I needed to.

"Yes. Thank you."

A slight nod was his only acknowledgment. Duke wasn't one for flowery gratitude.

"Coffee's ready downstairs when you are. Cook's doing pancakes." His gaze lingered for a moment before he turned to go. "Take your time."

I watched him walk away, my eyes tracking the broad expanse of his shoulders, the confident stride that spoke of a man comfortable in his power. My lips tingled with the memory of five nights ago. We'd stood close–too close–his breath warm on my cheek, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face.

For one breathless moment, I'd been certain he would kiss me. His eyes had dropped to my mouth, his body had shifted forward almost imperceptibly. I'd found myself leaning in, drawn by some magnetic pull I couldn't resist.

Then he'd stepped back, his expression shuttering closed.

We hadn’t spoken about it, of course. Duke didn’t really strike me as one for that kind of talk.

Part of me – the sensible part that remembered Jesse's cruelty, the beatings, the control—whispered that getting involved with another biker was asking for trouble. Duke might seem different, but I'd thought Jesse was charming once too.

But another part—the part that noticed how Duke always asked before touching me, how he'd given me space while still making me feel protected, how he'd knelt to gain Diesel's trust that first day instead of demanding it—that part wanted to discover if his lips were as soft as they looked, if those strong hands could be gentle.

Plus . . . he knew I was a Little. And he hadn’t run a mile. Hadn’t teased me. It made my heart pound.

I touched my fingertips to my mouth, remembering the almost-kiss, the heat in his eyes before he'd pulled away. Duke had drawn a line that night, respecting boundaries I hadn't even articulated. The gesture meant more than any romantic advance could have.

I turned from the window and gave the room one last survey. My sanctuary, temporary though it might be. I grabbed my brush and ran it through my hair, then changed into a clean t-shirt.

"Come on, Diesel. Breakfast."

As I stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind me, I realized something that both thrilled and terrified me: for the first time since I was a child, I wasn't planning my escape route. I wasn't counting the hours until I needed to move on. I was setting down roots, however tentative.

***

Late that night though, in bed, I did feel like I needed to escape.

In my nightmare, I was back in the apartment in Coldwater, the one Jesse had kept me in for those hellish final months. The walls seemed to pulse inward, and no matter how I twisted the doorknob, I couldn't escape. Jesse's voice echoed from every corner, his cruel laugh bouncing off the walls. "You thought you could hide from me? From us?"

The dream shifted, and suddenly Venom stood there too, his cold gray eyes boring into me. Unlike Jesse's wild rage, Venom's anger was calculated, precise – all the more terrifying for its control.

"You heard things you shouldn't have," Venom had said, his voice silky with menace. "We can't have loose ends, can we?"

Jesse grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. "Time to fix this problem, brother."

Their faces blurred together, Jesse becoming Venom and back again, a nightmarish blend that made my stomach heave. In the distance, I heard Diesel howling, desperate and afraid. I couldn't reach him. Couldn't save him.

Then Jesse's hand closed around my throat, cutting off my air. His face loomed close, his breath hot against my cheek. "Did you really think you could hide?"

The scream that woke me had been building for days, locked in my chest since I'd fled Coldwater with nothing but Diesel, my car, and the clothes on my back.

Now, in the sudden chaos of my waking terror, Diesel leaped onto the bed, pressing his warm body against mine, whining and licking at my face. But before I could catch my breath, before reality could fully separate from nightmare, the door to my room exploded inward.

The sound was deafening—wood splintering, hinges giving way as the door frame cracked. Fragments of wood scattered across the floor. Light from the hallway spilled in, silhouetting the massive figure that charged through the destroyed entrance.

Duke swept into the room like vengeance personified, his gun drawn and ready. He moved with terrifying efficiency, checking corners, scanning for threats. His eyes, cold and calculating, took in every inch of the small space. In that moment, I glimpsed the man who ruled the Heavy Kings MC – dangerous, lethal, utterly merciless toward anything that threatened what he considered his.

The realization that I now fell into that category hit me with dizzying force.

He found no intruders, no visible threats. Only me, shaking violently, and Diesel pressed against my side. The deadly intent in Duke's eyes shifted immediately, softening to concern. He lowered his weapon, tucking it into the holster at his hip.

"Mia?" His voice was gentle, a stark contrast to his violent entrance. "What happened?"

I struggled to find words, my throat raw from screaming. My teeth chattered, my body still convinced it was in danger despite my mind's understanding that I was safe.

"N-nightmare," I managed to stutter, embarrassment flooding me as I realized what I'd caused. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Don't." Duke cut me off, moving closer. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he sat on the edge, careful to maintain space between us. "Nothing to be sorry for."

Diesel, normally wary of men after Jesse's cruelty, nudged Duke's hand with his nose. A gesture of trust that made my chest ache.

"I woke you up," I said, mortified. "And your door . . ." I gestured helplessly at the splintered remains.

"Door can be fixed." Duke shrugged, dismissing it entirely. "You're what matters."

The simple statement hit me with unexpected force. When was the last time anyone had put my wellbeing first? Jesse certainly hadn't. The foster families who'd shuttled me through the system definitely hadn't.

Duke studied me, his blue eyes taking in my trembling hands, the cold sweat that plastered my hair to my forehead. "Wait here," he said, as if I had any intention of moving.

He returned minutes later with a steaming mug that he placed on the nightstand. The sweet scent of warm milk and honey rose from it, an unexpectedly childlike comfort from such an imposing man.

"Drink," he instructed, his voice gentle but brooking no argument. "It'll help."

I wrapped my cold fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into my skin. The first sip coated my raw throat, sweet and soothing. Such a simple gesture, yet tears pricked behind my eyes.

"Thank you," I whispered, embarrassed by how shaky my voice sounded.

Duke nodded, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Want to tell me about it?"

I hesitated, staring into the mug.

"Jesse," I said finally, the name bitter on my tongue. "And his brother. They were . . ." I swallowed hard. "They were coming for me."

"You're safe here," Duke said with absolute certainty. "Dreams are scary, but they’re just that—dreams."

I nodded. “I know.”

"Trouble is, now you don’t have a door. We can’t have you staying in a room with no door."

I glanced at the destruction. "I should—"

"You should finish that milk and try to get some rest," Duke interrupted. "I'll stay until you fall asleep tonight. Nothing's getting past me."

"You need to sleep too," I argued weakly.

A small smile curved his lips. "I function just fine on less sleep than most people."

"Okay," I whispered.

Duke shifted to lean against the headboard, his large body a solid wall of security beside me. I sipped the milk, feeling warmth spread through my chest.

Diesel settled at the foot of the bed, his watchful eyes moving between us before he sighed contentedly and laid his head down. His acceptance of Duke spoke volumes.

"He doesn't usually trust men you know," I said, nodding toward my dog.

"Smart dog," Duke replied. "He shouldn't trust most men."

I set the empty mug on the nightstand and leaned back against the pillows, suddenly aware of Duke's proximity. The warmth radiating from his body, the clean scent of his soap, the steady rhythm of his breathing – all of it wrapped around me like a protective cloak.

"Try to sleep," he murmured. "I'll be right here."

Part of me wanted to curl against him, to seek the comfort of human contact after months of isolation. Another part whispered warnings—remember what happened last time, remember how it started, remember how it ended.

Duke seemed to sense my internal struggle. He didn't reach for me, didn't push for more contact than I'd accepted. He simply remained, solid and patient, offering security without demands.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about tomorrow. Just be here now.”

I closed my eyes, trying to sort through the tangle of feelings. The fact that he'd heard my scream and come running, gun drawn and ready to face whatever threatened me, stirred something primal inside me. No one had ever put themselves between me and danger before.

As sleep began to pull me under again, gentler this time, one thought surfaced with startling clarity: I was developing feelings for Duke Carson that went far beyond gratitude. And that realization was both the most comforting and the most terrifying thing I'd felt in years.

***

Duke's apartment was nothing like I'd expected, yet somehow exactly right. I stood just inside the doorway, Diesel pressed against my leg, taking in the space that Duke Carson called home. The living room spread before me – not lavish, but solid and thoughtfully arranged, just like the man himself. Worn leather furniture that had molded to the shape of his body sat atop a faded but clean area rug. Bookshelves lined one wall, packed with volumes whose spines showed the wear of actual reading, not just display. The air smelled of leather, coffee, and something distinctly male – a scent that made my pulse quicken despite my determination to keep my guard up.

"It's not much," Duke said from behind me, his deep voice resonating in the quiet space. "But it's private. And . . . it has a functioning door."

After my nightmare and the destruction of my door, Duke had insisted I couldn't stay in my room. "Not safe," he'd said with that tone that left no room for argument. When I'd weakly suggested getting a hotel, his expression had darkened. "The Serpents have eyes everywhere. You stay with one of us."

Now here I was, standing in the MC president's personal space, suddenly aware of how intimate this arrangement would be.

I took a tentative step forward, letting my eyes travel over the details of the room. A large, comfortable-looking couch faced a modest television that didn't appear to get much use. A coffee table held a few motorcycle magazines, a heavy ashtray, and a half-empty mug. The kitchen area was small but functional – clean counters, a coffee maker that had seen better days, a refrigerator covered with a few photographs held by magnets.

But it was the bookshelves that surprised me most. History books dominated – Civil War, World War II, biographies of military leaders and presidents. Scattered among them were well-worn paperback thrillers and a few classic novels. I wouldn't have pegged the Hard Kings' president as a reader.

"You like history," I said, running my finger along the spine of a biography of Ulysses S. Grant.

Duke moved past me to the hall closet, his broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow space. "Good to learn from other people's mistakes," he replied, pulling out sheets and a blanket. "Especially men who led during war."

I nodded, continuing my survey of the apartment. A small dining table with four chairs sat near the kitchen, papers neatly stacked at one end. Club business, I assumed, though I was careful not to look too closely. What I didn't know couldn't hurt me—or get me killed.

On a side table near the couch sat several framed photographs. I drifted closer, curious about this glimpse into Duke's personal life. One showed a younger Duke with Thor and Tyson, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grinning widely. Another featured an older man with the same piercing blue eyes as Duke, wearing a Heavy Kings cut with a President patch.

Next to the photos, a polished wooden box sat open, revealing a vintage pocket watch resting on velvet. The gold case was scratched from years of use, the chain tarnished but intact. Something so personal, displayed where Duke would see it daily – a reminder of someone significant.

"My father's," Duke said, noticing my interest. "Only thing of his I kept after he died."

I drew back, feeling like I'd intruded on something private. "I'm sorry."

Duke shrugged. "Long time ago."

The statement wasn't an invitation for sympathy, just a matter-of-fact sharing of information. I respected that. Had always hated when people offered empty condolences for my own losses.

What struck me more than the items in Duke's apartment was what was missing. No feminine touches. No signs of past relationships displayed or hidden away. The space felt thoroughly, unapologetically his.

Duke moved with surprising grace for such a large man, gathering the linens and gesturing for me to follow him. "Bathroom's through here. Bedroom's next to it."

I trailed behind him, Diesel at my heels. The hallway was short, opening to a bathroom on one side and the bedroom on the other. Duke pushed the bedroom door open wider, and I peered inside.

The room was dominated by a king-sized bed with a dark navy comforter. The headboard was solid wood, sturdy and masculine. Two nightstands flanked the bed, each with a lamp and a handful of books. A dresser stood against one wall, a small TV mounted above it. The closet door was partially open, revealing neatly hung clothes – jeans, shirts, the spare leather cut I'd seen him wear when his main one was being repaired.

My heart beat faster as I looked at the bed. It was enormous, easily big enough for two people.

For Duke and me.

The thought sent an unexpected rush of heat through my body.

"You take the bedroom," Duke said, setting the clean sheets on the foot of the bed. "I'll sleep on the couch."

I turned to protest, but the words died in my throat as I found him standing closer than I'd expected. Close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, smell the faint scent of mint on his breath. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

Duke Carson was an undeniably imposing figure—six-foot-four of solid muscle, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, strong arms inked with tattoos that told stories I couldn't yet read. His dark hair was shot through with silver at the temples, his beard neatly trimmed but not enough to hide the strong line of his jaw. His hands, when they moved, showed a surprising gentleness that contradicted his size.

I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of my body's reaction to his proximity. A tightening low in my belly, a slight trembling in my fingers, a warmth spreading across my skin. It had been so long since I'd felt desire – real desire, not the twisted compliance I'd forced myself into with Jesse. The recognition of it made me step back, bumping against the dresser.

Duke noticed my retreat. He always noticed everything. His eyes tracked the movement, then deliberately moved away, giving me space.

"Bathroom's stocked," he said, gesturing to the door across the hall. "New toothbrush in the drawer if you need one. Towels in the cabinet."

"I can't take your bed," I said, finally finding my voice. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"No." The word was gentle but firm. "You need the privacy. The rest."

"But—"

"I've slept in worse places than my own couch, Mia." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Much worse."

I could imagine. The Heavy Kings MC president probably had stories that would make my blood run cold. Yet standing in his bedroom, watching him arrange fresh pillowcases with unexpected domestic competence, I couldn't summon fear. Only a growing warmth that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with the man himself.

Duke straightened the last pillow and stepped back. "There's t-shirts in the second drawer if you want something more comfortable to sleep in."

The thought of wearing his clothes, surrounding myself with his scent, sent another wave of heat through me. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Diesel had already made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed, clearly approving of the new arrangement. Traitor.

"I'll let you get settled," Duke said, moving toward the door. "Bathroom's all yours."

As he passed me, our arms brushed briefly—a whisper of contact that shouldn't have meant anything. But the jolt that ran through me was electric, instant, and unmistakable. His step faltered slightly, the only indication he might have felt it too.

"Duke," I said softly, stopping him at the doorway.

He turned, his expression carefully neutral.

"Thank you for this."

"You're welcome, Little One." His voice dropped lower on the nickname, a rumble that vibrated through me like a physical touch.

That name. Little One.

It made me hot, confused, and quite frankly, it made me fucking wet.

I watched him walk away, broad shoulders filling the doorframe before he disappeared into the living room. The space felt emptier without his presence, yet somehow more breathable too.

Forget your lust, forget your lust.

In the bathroom, I found the promised toothbrush and quickly went through my nightly routine. The mirror reflected a face I barely recognized – cheeks with more color than they'd had in months, eyes less shadowed despite the nightmare. A week of regular meals and relative safety had begun to erase the hunted look I'd worn for so long.

Back in the bedroom, I hesitated before opening the second drawer. It felt invasive, personal. But Duke had offered, and the thought of sleeping in my same clothes was unappealing.

The drawer slid open silently, revealing neatly folded t-shirts. I selected a black one that looked oldest, softest. The fabric was worn thin in places, the Heavy Kings logo faded across the chest. I changed quickly, the shirt falling to mid-thigh on my frame.

The bed waited, large and inviting. I pulled back the comforter and slid between the sheets, their freshness unable to mask the underlying scent that was purely Duke—clean sweat, leather, and something woodsy I couldn't name.

Diesel jumped up beside me, circling three times before settling with a contented sigh. I reached to turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by slivers of moonlight through the blinds.

In the silence, I could hear Duke moving around in the living room—the soft clink of glass, water running briefly, the creak of the couch as he settled his large frame onto it. Muffled sounds that reminded me I wasn't alone.

I turned onto my side, pulling the comforter higher around my shoulders. The bed was comfortable, far more so than the narrow twin I'd been using in my temporary room. But it was the knowledge that it was Duke's bed – the place where he slept, dreamed, perhaps even brought women—that made my skin prickle with awareness.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing thoughts. What would it feel like if he were here beside me? If those strong arms pulled me against his chest? If those surprisingly gentle hands moved over my skin?

The thoughts startled me with their intensity. After Jesse, I'd been certain I'd never want a man's touch again. Had built walls specifically to prevent it. Yet here I was, lying in Duke Carson's bed, wearing his shirt, imagining how his body would feel pressed against mine.

It was dangerous territory. Duke was dangerous territory – MC president, criminal by most definitions, capable of violence I'd only glimpsed hints of—he had a gun, at least that much was clear. But as sleep finally began to claim me, wrapped in his scent and the strange peace of his apartment, I couldn't bring myself to care. For the first time in years, I felt not just safe, but seen.

***