Page 61 of Held-

Brayden’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “That’s true. Guy was roughing up his girlfriend outside a bar. Wouldn’tstop when I told him to. So I made him stop.” His voice is calm, unapologetic. “Broke his jaw and three ribs.”

I should be shocked. Horrified. But instead, I nod slowly. “Would you do it again?”

“In a heartbeat.” His stare is steady, unwavering. “I don’t regret it. Never will.”

I absorb this, trying to reconcile the violence with the man whose arms are cradling me so carefully. “What else should I know?”

A humorless smile tugs at his lips. “You asking for my rap sheet, princess?”

“That depends,” I say, tracing a pattern on his chest. “Are there a lot of pages to go through?”

He chuckles, but there's no humor in it. “More than you'd think, less than your dad probably implied.”

I push myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. His expression is guarded, but not shut down. It carries the sense of a man offering me an exit if I want it—one last chance to step back before I wade deeper into his world.

“I don’t need your entire history,” I tell him. “Just the important pieces. What I should know if I’m going to be here.”

He studies me for a long moment, trying to decide whether I’m steady enough to hear what he’s kept buried. At last, he exhales—a slow, resigned breath.

“I've done time. Twice. Once when I was nineteen—possession with intent to distribute. Did fourteen months in county. Second time was for the assault I just told you about. Got six months but served four.”

My stomach tightens, but I force myself to nod. “Drugs?”

“Not anymore.” His answer is immediate, firm. “Haven't touched that shit in years. The club doesn't deal either. Not since Big took over as president.”

I absorb this information, trying to reconcile it with the man holding me. “What about now? What do you do?”

“Officially?” His lips quirk up. “I'm a mechanic. Co-own the garage with Domino.”

“And unofficially?”

“Even with my colors on your back, princess, there’s only so much I can tell you about the club’s business.”

His reluctance makes me wonder what exactly the Heaven's Rejects do that he can't talk about. A hundred possibilities run through my mind.

“Can you at least tell me if it's...legal?”

“Some of it is. Some of it exists in gray areas.”

“Gray areas,” I repeat.

“Look,” he says, shifting to face me more directly. “The club protects its own. We handle problems that the law can't or won't. Sometimes that means operating outside the lines.” His hand finds mine, thumb tracing circles on my palm. “But I'm not going to lie to you. We're not choirboys.”

I almost laugh at the understatement. “I figured that much out on my own.”

“Does it scare you?” he asks, studying my face with an intensity that makes me shiver.

“A little,” I admit, because there's no point in pretending. “But I'm more scared of going back to being who I was before.”

He nods slowly, as though he understands every part of what I’m not saying. “Sometimes the devil you don’t know is still the safer option.”

“Are you calling yourself the devil?” I smile, trying to lighten the mood.

His answering smile is sharp enough to cut, “Your devil.”

“Can you show me?”

“Show you what?” His fingers pause their lazy exploration of my skin.