Page 12

Light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, pulling me from the deepest sleep I'd had in months. For a moment, panic fluttered in my chest— strange bed, strange room—until my brain caught up with reality. Duke's bedroom. I'd spent the night in Duke Carson's bed while he took the couch. The events of the previous night crashed back: my nightmare, Duke breaking down my door, his insistence that I stay in his apartment.

I stretched, feeling my muscles unwind from knots I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. Diesel wasn't beside me, and a quick glance confirmed he wasn't anywhere in the room. Instead, the scent of coffee and bacon drifted through the partially open door, accompanied by the low murmur of male voices.

I slid from the bed, suddenly conscious of how Duke's t-shirt hung loosely on my frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh. After a brief internal debate, I grabbed the throw blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl. It wasn't much, but it made me feel less exposed.

The wooden floor was cool beneath my bare feet as I padded toward the door. I paused, peering through the crack. Duke stood at the stove, his broad back to me as he flipped something in a pan. He'd changed into a fresh black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, highlighting the defined muscles beneath. Faded jeans hung low on his hips. Even in this domestic setting, he radiated the quiet authority that seemed as much a part of him as his blue eyes or the silver streaking his dark hair.

And there was Diesel, curled contentedly near the apartment door, a satisfied look on his face that told me he'd already been fed. The traitor hadn't even waited for me to wake up.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open wider, stepping into the living room. Duke's gaze lingered longer, taking in my disheveled appearance with an intensity that made heat rise to my cheeks.

"Morning," Duke said, his voice morning-rough. "Coffee's ready."

"Thanks," I managed, tugging the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Sorry, I didn't bring clothes..."

"Lena's coming by later with some things for you," Duke replied, turning back to the stove. "Figured you'd need a few essentials until your door's fixed."

"You didn't have to do that." The protest was automatic, ingrained from years of learning not to accept help that came with invisible strings attached.

Duke just shrugged, his attention on the pan in front of him. "Hungry?"

My stomach answered for me with an audible growl.

I moved toward the kitchen, drawn by the promise of caffeine. The mug Duke had set out for me was large and sturdy, painted with a faded motorcycle design. I filled it from the pot, added a splash of cream from the carton on the counter, and took a grateful sip. The warmth spread through me, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

"Sleep okay?" Duke asked, his voice carefully neutral as he slid eggs from the pan onto a waiting plate.

"Better than I have in months," I admitted, surprised by my own honesty. "Thank you."

Something shifted in his expression – satisfaction, maybe, or relief. He nodded once, then added bacon to my plate and handed it to me.

"Sit. Eat."

I obeyed.

Duke joined me at the table, his own plate piled higher than mine. He ate with the efficiency of a man who viewed food as necessary fuel rather than something to be savored. Still, he'd taken care with my breakfast—the eggs cooked exactly as I'd mentioned liking them days ago, the bacon crisp but not burnt.

As I ate, my gaze wandered around the apartment in daylight. That's when I noticed them: a small stuffed bear with a blue ribbon around its neck and a neatly folded purple fleece blanket resting on the couch. They hadn't been there last night. My fork paused halfway to my mouth, a lump forming in my throat.

The bear was simple—maybe ten inches tall, with soft tan fur and gentle eyes. Nothing elaborate or expensive. But the sight of it sent a jolt through me that was equal parts recognition and fear.

"You okay?" Duke's voice broke through my thoughts.

I realized I'd been staring at the bear, my food forgotten. "I . . . yes. Fine." My voice sounded strange even to my own ears.

Duke followed my gaze to the couch. His expression remained steady, matter-of-fact. "Figured you could use something soft to hold onto when the nightmares come."

No judgment. No teasing. Just straightforward compassion. Tears pricked behind my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to hold them back.

Duke watched me over the rim of his coffee mug, patient and observant. He didn't push, didn't demand an explanation for my reaction. Just waited.

"The blanket too?" I asked, nodding toward the purple fleece.

"Thought you might like it." Duke shrugged as if it were nothing, though we both knew it wasn't.

Such a small gesture, but it knocked the breath from my lungs. When was the last time someone had noticed what I wanted, what brought me comfort, without using it to manipulate me?

"Thank you," I whispered, the words wholly inadequate.

Duke nodded, accepting my gratitude without making me elaborate. He finished his coffee and carried our empty plates to the sink.

"We need to talk about arrangements," he said, rinsing the dishes. "Your door won't be fixed until next week at earliest."

"I can find somewhere else—" I began automatically.

"Not what I meant." Duke turned, leaning against the counter. "You're welcome to stay here. Tonight, and after the door's fixed too, if you want."

The offer hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Not just a temporary solution to a broken door, but something more permanent.

"In your apartment?" I clarified, my heart beating faster.

"I'll take the couch as long as needed," he said, as if anticipating my concern. "No pressure, Mia. Just an option."

“You sure?”

Duke's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "You sleep better here. I sleep better knowing you're safe." A pause, then with careful honesty: "Plus, I want you to stay. Kinda like having you around."

He didn't move toward me, didn't try to influence my decision with proximity or touch. Just stated his preference and left the choice entirely to me.

I glanced at the bear and blanket on the couch, tangible proof that Duke saw parts of me I'd hidden from everyone else—and instead of using that knowledge to hurt or control me, he'd responded with simple acceptance. Even more, he'd tried to provide comfort.

"I don't want to impose," I said weakly, a last token resistance.

"You are absolutely not imposing."

The muffled sound of motorcycles starting up in the lot below filtered through the window. The day was beginning for the rest of the Heavy Kings. Life continuing as normal, while in this apartment, something significant was shifting.

I clutched the edge of the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers. "Okay," I said softly. "I'll stay."

Duke nodded once, satisfaction evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. He didn't gloat, didn't press his advantage. Just accepted my decision with the same quiet confidence he approached everything else.

"Good," he replied, the single word carrying more weight than it should have.

I rose from the table, drawing the blanket more securely around me, and crossed to the couch. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the stuffed bear, lifting it with a gentleness born of years of hiding such comfort items from judgmental eyes. Its fur was incredibly soft, the weight of it in my hands both familiar and new.

Duke watched me, his expression unreadable, as I cradled the bear against my chest. The blanket, the bear, the safety of his space – they wrapped around my battered heart like a bandage over a wound that had been allowed to fester too long.

***

A few hours later, there was a sharp knock on the door. My heart raced before a woman's voice called out, "Hello? Anyone home? Delivery service!"

I opened the door to see a petite woman with vivid blue streaks in her black hair grinning at me, arms laden with shopping bags. "You must be Mia," she said, not waiting for an invitation before shouldering past me. "I'm Lena. Duke sent me with the essentials. Sorry it took me so long." She dropped the bags on the couch and turned to me with bright, assessing eyes. "Honey, from the looks of it, I came just in time."

I stood awkwardly by the door, fingers still clutching the edge. "Duke said you were coming by."

"Yep." Lena moved with the energy of a hurricane contained in human form, already unloading items from the first bag. "He’s been badgerin’ me for days, but he knows how busy things are in the tattoo shop. He said you needed clothes and stuff. Asked me to pick up whatever a woman might need when she's got nothing." She paused, shooting me a sympathetic look that somehow wasn't pitying. "Been there, girl. Sometimes all you've got fits in a backpack."

Heat crept up my neck. "I can't accept all this. I don't have money to—"

"Whoa, stop right there." Lena held up a tattooed hand. "Duke paid for everything. And before you get your panties in a twist about that, the man's loaded. This—" she gestured at the pile of bags, "—is pocket change to him."

My stomach knotted. "I don't want to owe anyone anything."

Lena's expression softened. "I get that. But Duke doesn't operate like that. When he helps someone, there aren't strings." She tilted her head. "Think of it as a gift from a friend who happens to be stupid rich."

"We're not exactly friends," I muttered.

"Not yet." She winked. "Now come on, let's see what fits."

For the next hour, we spread clothes across Duke's bed. I fingered soft fabrics in colors I'd forgotten I liked. Jesse had always insisted I wear what he approved—usually tight, revealing things in dark colors. These clothes were different—comfortable jeans, soft t-shirts, hoodies in purples and blues.

"I know your size was guesswork," Lena said, holding up a simple black dress. "But Duke described you pretty well."

The thought of Duke thinking about my body dimensions made my cheeks warm. "He's . . . observant."

"Understatement of the century." Lena laughed, the sound bright in the quiet apartment. "That man notices everything. It's what makes him such a good president."

I hesitated before asking, "How long have you known him?"

"Years. I'm not patched—women aren't in the Heavy Kings – but I'm family." Pride colored her voice. "I run their tattoo shop. Marked Kings."

"So you're not . . ." I trailed off, embarrassed.

"Fucking him?" Lena snorted. "God no. Duke's like a brother. A scary, overprotective brother who makes sure nobody messes with me." She eyed me curiously. "Speaking of which, you sure picked a hell of a guardian angel."

I folded a soft blue sweater, focusing on making the edges neat. "I didn't exactly pick him. He just . . . showed up."

"Yeah, he does that." She handed me a pair of jeans. "Try these."

I disappeared into the bathroom, grateful for the moment alone. The jeans fit perfectly, hugging my hips without squeezing. When I emerged, Lena had sorted the other clothes into neat piles.

"So," I ventured, sitting on the edge of the bed, "what do the Heavy Kings do exactly?"

Lena studied me. "Weren’t you with someone from the Serps?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, he never told me much. And Duke told me the kings are different to the Serps—”

“Understatement of the century.”

“Right. So I don’t really know. They’re . . . dangerous? Criminals?"

"Well, you’ve got some things right." Lena leaned against the dresser. "The Kings aren't choir boys. They operate in gray areas sometimes. But they protect their own, and people under their care." She fingered the edge of a shirt. "I was nineteen when I met them. My dad had kicked me out for getting tattooed—and not just a little one.” She pulled up her top, showed me an intricate spider inked across her stomach. “Anyway, I was sleeping in my car—which I know you’ve got form in—and I was trying to find apprentice work. Thor—he's like Duke's right hand, beefy Viking-looking dude—saw my sketches when I was drawing at a diner. Next thing I knew, I had a job at their shop and an apartment they helped pay for until I got on my feet."

I digested this. "And Duke? What's he like as their leader?"

Something like respect shone in her eyes. "Duke's fair. Tough when he needs to be. The kind of man who thinks before he acts, but when he acts, God help anyone standing in his way." She paused. "He doesn't bring women to his apartment, Mia. Ever. This place is his sanctuary."

The implication hung heavy between us.

"I'm not—" I started.

"I'm not saying you are." Lena raised her hands. "Just giving you context. Duke doesn't let people in easily. The fact that you're here means something."

I swallowed hard. "He feels sorry for me."

Lena's laugh was sharp. "Duke doesn't do pity. Trust me on that." She tossed me a package of underwear. "Victoria's Secret. Duke said get whatever you'd need. I figured nice underthings make a girl feel human again."

I caught the package, a startled laugh escaping me. "He told you to buy me underwear?"

"He told me to buy you 'everything.'" She grinned. "I took some creative liberties with the interpretation. I chose these, to be clear."

For the next twenty minutes, Lena chattered about the town, the club, small stories that painted a picture of Duke I couldn't reconcile with the intimidating man I'd first met. A man who remembered birthdays. Who visited the elderly widow of a former member every Sunday. Who had built a wheelchair ramp for a local kid with muscular dystrophy.

"So, there’s history between the Kings and the Iron Serpents?"

Lena's expression darkened. "The Serpents are everything Jesse probably told you MCs are. They're vicious. No moral code. They traffic girls, push hard drugs." Her eyes found mine. "Duke and Venom have bad blood going back decades. Something about Venom being involved in Duke's father's death."

My blood chilled. "My ex was Venom’s brother."

"Fuck." Lena frowned. "No wonder you ran."

"I didn't know what he was when we met." The words tumbled out. "He seemed normal at first. Charming. Then he . . ." I trailed off.

"You don't have to explain." Lena's voice was gentle. "Men like that, they're good at hiding what they are until they've got their hooks in deep."

Tears pricked my eyes. "Duke says they're looking for me."

"They probably are." Lena didn't sugar-coat it. "But you picked the one place they won't dare come after you. Duke would burn the world down before he let a Serpent take someone under his protection."

I brushed away an escaped tear. "Why would he risk that for me? He doesn't even know me."

Lena's smile turned knowing. "Maybe he wants to." She gathered up empty bags. "Or maybe he just hates those snakes enough to enjoy pissing them off. Either way, you're safer with him than anywhere else."

"He's . . ." I hesitated.

"Hot as hell?" Lena supplied with a grin. "Built like a brick wall? Got that whole brooding, protective alpha thing going on?"

Heat flooded my face. "I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it." Her laugh was infectious. "You wouldn't be the first woman to notice he's easy on the eyes. But he doesn't let many people into his world."

"I'm not looking for anything," I protested weakly. "I just need somewhere safe until I figure out what to do."

"Sure." Her tone made it clear she didn't believe me. "Just be careful with him, okay? Duke acts tough, but beneath all that leather and muscle is a man who feels deeply." She gathered her purse. "And for what it's worth, I think you might be good for him. He needs someone who sees past the president patch."

After Lena left, I spent an hour arranging my new belongings in the small space Duke had cleared in his closet. Each item I hung felt like a statement – I'm staying. At least for now. The decision should have terrified me, but instead, a quiet calm settled over me. For the first time in years, I'd connected with another woman without Jesse's jealous interference. Without his voice in my head telling me not to trust anyone.

I took a long shower, luxuriating in hot water and the expensive shampoo Lena had brought. Afterwards, I dressed in new soft pajama pants and a tank top, then curled up in the armchair I'd claimed as my favorite. The stuffed bear Duke had given me sat beside me, its glassy eyes somehow comforting.

The apartment grew darker as evening set in. I wrapped myself in a soft purple throw blanket and picked up the bear, hugging it to my chest while my mind drifted through the day's revelations. Duke wasn't just a scary biker president. He was a man who built wheelchair ramps and remembered birthdays and never brought women to his private sanctuary.

Until me.

The lock turned at precisely seven-thirty. Duke's massive frame filled the doorway, his sharp eyes finding me immediately in the dimness. He paused, something unreadable flickering across his face. In the shadow-dappled light, with his broad shoulders and watchful gaze, he looked dangerous and beautiful all at once.

"You're still here," he said softly, shutting the door behind him.

I nodded, suddenly aware of how I must look – curled up in his chair, hugging a teddy bear like a child. "Lena came by."

"I see that." His eyes moved over me, taking in the new clothes, the damp hair framing my face. "Everything fit okay?"

"Perfect." I shifted under his gaze. "Thank you. I'll pay you back when I—"

"No." The single word was firm but gentle. "You won't."

He moved to the kitchen, shrugging off his leather cut and hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. The muscles in his back shifted beneath his t-shirt as he reached for a glass. My mouth went dry.

"Lena told me a bit about the Kings," I blurted. "About what you do."

Duke turned slowly. "Did she now." It wasn't a question.

"Not everything," I amended quickly. "Just . . . enough to understand why Jesse is afraid of you."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And are you afraid of me, Little One?"

That nickname again. It sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. "I should be."

"But you're not." He leaned against the counter, those steel-blue eyes seeing too much.

"You're sure about staying?" he asked after a moment of charged silence.

I nodded, my heart pounding against my ribs. "If it's okay?"

Duke crossed the room in three long strides. He stopped beside my chair, close enough that I could smell leather and motorcycle oil and something uniquely him. Slowly, with a gentleness that made my breath catch, he rested his hand on my shoulder. His touch was light, but it sent electricity racing through me. I leaned into it instinctively, craving more of that strong, steady warmth.

"More than okay, Little One," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating through me.

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the air between us thickened with possibility. His thumb brushed lightly against my collarbone, and I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to turn my face into his palm.

He broke the contact first, moving back toward the kitchen. "Hungry?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

It struck me that I was more than hungry.

I felt fucking starved.