Page 68 of Held-

“Fuck yeah!” Dom cheers, nearly toppling over in his enthusiasm. “She's a keeper, Bray!”

I'm still hesitating, not entirely convinced this is a good idea. “I've had a few drinks already,” I admit, not wanting to risk riding back impaired with her on the back of my bike. “If we stay, we might need to crash here tonight.”

To my surprise, this doesn't seem to faze her. “If you want to stay, it’s fine. Really.”

“One round,” I tell Dom, pointing a warning finger at him. “Then we reassess.”

“Fair enough!” Dom throws his arm around my shoulders, nearly knocking us both off balance as he steers us toward the door. “Come on, preacher's daughter! Let me introduce you to the fine art of competitive drinking!”

I shoot Cece an apologetic look, but she just smiles and follows us back into the chaos.

CECE

I'm tiptoeing behind Brayden,the floor beneath my bare feet cold enough to make me wince. My head is pounding with the special kind of regret that only comes from tequila shots and bad decisions, and I'm desperately trying not to make eye contact with the half-naked woman passed out on the pool table.

“Almost there,” Brayden whispers, his massive hand wrapped around mine as he guides me through the wreckage of last night’s party. Empty bottles, discarded clothing, and at leastthree unconscious bodies are scattered across the clubhouse floor, casualties of their own terrible decisions.

“Did I really challenge Big to a drinking contest?” I whisper, flashes of the night hitting me in a disjointed reel of chaos.

Brayden’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter. “You did. And you held your own until the fifth round.”

“Oh God.” I press a hand to my temple, where a construction crew appears to be operating heavy machinery. “No wonder I feel as though I’ve been run over.”

“Shh,” he warns as we approach a snoring prospect sprawled in the hallway. Brayden steps over him with ease, then turns to guide me around the obstacle. I tug on Brayden’s hand, forcing him to stop.

“Remind me why we’re sneaking out,” I whisper. “It’s morning. We could just walk out the front door.”

Brayden looks back at me, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Trust me, princess. I’m sparing you from the chorus of vomiting that’s about to kick off once these degenerates wake up. And the hangover complaints? Absolute torture.”

I wince at the mental image. “Fair point.”

“Besides,” he adds, “after the way you danced on that table last night, you might want a head start before anyone remembers.”

“I did what?” My stomach drops so fast I'm surprised it doesn't crash through the floor. “Please tell me you're joking.”

His grin widens, and I can't tell if he's messing with me or not. “Come on, lightweight. Let's get you home before the walking dead rise.”

We finally reach the front door, and Brayden eases it open. The morning sunlight hits me like a physical assault, and I groan, shielding my eyes.

“Oh god, turn it off,” I mutter, which earns me another low chuckle from Brayden.

“Not sure I have that ability, but I can try.”

Brayden keeps a steady arm around my waist as we cross the gravel lot. The stones attack my bare feet with zero mercy, and it suddenly occurs to me—in true walk-of-shame fashion—that my shoes have vanished into the void.

“Um, Brayden? My shoes...”

“In my hand,” he says, holding up my sandals that I hadn't even noticed him carrying. “You insisted they were 'torture devices designed by the patriarchy' around midnight.”

“Oh God,” I groan, mortification heating my cheeks. “Please tell me I didn't actually dance on a table.”

His silence is answer enough.

“Kill me now,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my face. The movement makes my head spin, and I stumble slightly.

“Easy there,” Brayden says, tightening his grip on my waist. “Let's get you home and into bed.”

The thought of climbing onto his motorcycle makes my stomach turn. The vibration, the noise, the motion—every part of it feels destined to end in spectacular embarrassment.