Page 7 of Fallen Dove (Fallen Lords MC 2nd Gen #1)

Adley

The Brewers had half the town pressed into the Social Club. Jerseys, foam fingers, pitchers of beer, and every table not glued to the pool tables was jammed with people hollering at the TVs. My calves ached from the start, but with this many bodies, I didn’t get to think about it. Orders stacked in my head like falling bricks, and I just kept moving so they didn’t crush me.

It was Penny’s night off, which meant no backup. Thorn was behind the bar, flashy as ever, and Mason was… everywhere. One second behind the taps, the next talking to the kitchen, the next cutting across the floor to check with Arlo and Oliver at security. Cole, Nickel, Wrecker, Pipe, and Brinks had parked themselves at two of the front tables, and were half-watching the game, and half-watching the crowd like kings on their thrones.

I ducked back to the bar, leaned across the counter, and called to Thorn over the noise.

“Seven old fashioneds!”

“Shit,”

he said, snapping his fingers.

“Out of mix. Can you grab me another case from the back? Orange label on the box.”

I blew out a breath but nodded.

“Yeah, okay.”

The storeroom was cooler, quieter, and was like stepping into another world. The shelves loomed with neat stacks of liquor bottles, mixers, and paper goods. I scanned labels, sour mix, grenadine, and cola syrup until I spotted the orange Thorn had mentioned. Of course it was on the top shelf.

I braced and reached up. The case was heavier than I’d expected, and as I eased it forward, the balance shifted wrong. The cardboard dragged, my arms buckled and I staggered half a step.

A warm presence filled the doorway. Mason.

He crossed the room in two strides, steady and fast, and caught me just as the case started to pitch. One arm locked firm around my waist, the other shoved the box back onto the rack with a grunt.

I froze, and my heart jackhammered. His chest was pressed to my back, solid and unyielding. His arm anchored me, and a broad palm was flat against my stomach. For a beat, the hum of the overhead light was the only sound.

“Mason,”

I whispered.

Time held us there, me braced against the shelf, and him braced against me. Then, like someone cut the thread, he let go. The loss made me sway. He shoved a hand through his hair, and his eyes avoided mine as I turned toward him.

“Sorry,”

he muttered.

I tried to catch my breath.

“Uh, don’t be sorry. You just saved me. And the mix.”

His jaw flexed, and he pointed past me.

“Grab those two bottles of whiskey. I’ll get the case.”

I moved quick, and plucked the bottles by their necks while I tried to pretend my cheeks weren’t on fire. Mason lifted the case down with an easy roll of muscle, balanced it against his shoulder, and nodded toward the door.

We stepped back into the roar of the bar together.

“I said old fashion mix, Adley,”

Thorn called, grin wide as he clocked the whiskey in my hands.

Before I could answer, Mason’s voice landed, hard.

“Next time you need a heavy fucking case, go get it yourself. Adley almost killed herself trying to haul it.”

“Oh, shit,”

Thorn blurted.

“I forgot we shoved it on the top. My bad.”

I slid the whiskey onto the bar mat.

“I’ll just put these here and go check on my tables. Be back for the drinks in a minute.”

I ducked out before either of them could say more.

The Brewers scored and the whole room rattled with cheers. I balanced plates, scribbled refills, laughed at bad jokes, but under it all, I felt Mason’s eyes. Watching. Not hovering. Just… there.

And no matter how many times I told myself to ignore it, my body kept noticing.

Mason

Christ.

The feel of her against me wouldn’t leave my skin. Soft curves pressed into my chest. Her breath hitched when I caught her. One arm around her waist and it was like fourteen years disappeared. The only difference was that back then, she’d been a kid reaching for something she didn’t understand. Tonight, she was a woman, and my body understood too damn well.

Rules.

No staring. No closer than five feet. Only talk about work. I’d carved them into my skull like commandments, and in one stupid second with a falling box, I’d almost broken every single one.

She walked back out to the floor, whiskey in hand, and I should’ve turned my focus to Thorn, to the mix, to the endless crowd ordering beers and wings. Instead, my eyes tracked her. The sway of her hair when she ducked her head to hear a customer. The way she smiled, tired but real, when a table tipped her.

I hated it. Hated how easy it was to forget she was Slayer’s daughter. Hated how much I remembered the taste of that kiss fourteen years ago.

I poured shots, wiped down taps, and barked at Thorn when he got too flashy with a shaker. And every time I lifted my head, there she was. Busy, hustling, laughing when she thought no one was looking.

And every damn time, my chest tightened.

I couldn’t let this happen. Couldn’t let myself slip. Not with her. with the club counting on me to keep my shit straight.

So I kept my hands busy, kept my face hard, and repeated the rules until they were all I heard.

No staring. No closer than five feet. Only talk about work.

If I broke them… it wouldn’t just be me paying the price.