Page 7 of Lock

But Lock Lachlan? One look, one breath, and my whole nervous system tried to stage a coup.

That wasn’t normal. It wasn’t logical. It definitely wasn’t convenient.

And the worst part? I had other things I was supposed to be thinking about. Things that actually mattered. That clinic job I’d been clinging to like a lifeline. A routine that looked like: wake up early, brew coffee, prep lunch for the clinic, bike there bynine, spend my day with cranky toddlers and nervous parents instead of patched bikers and club politics.

A normal life. A real life. Something that belonged to me.

Instead, I was back in my room—my childhood room—because apparently I lived in a bubble again.

My chest tightened. I’d worked four years for that clinic job. Applications, interviews, volunteer hours. It was the first thing in a long time that felt like mine. And now? Locked down. Off-limits. Just like that.

If Dad kept me here, it wasn’t just the walls closing in. It was the future I’d started building outside of this place—every shift at the clinic I’d imagined, every kid I’d pictured helping—that felt like it was slipping away before it even began.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind them.

No wonder my scent wouldn’t settle. My whole life felt like it was falling apart.

I crossed to the window without really thinking about it. Down below, the compound looked the same as always at first glance—bikes lined up, a couple of guys talking near the firepit, the old dog from the shop stretched out by the generator shed.

Except it wasn’t the same. Not today.

The air had been off since morning—quieter, tighter, too many lowered voices. Usually by noon there’d be music, laughter, Razor yelling at prospects to sweep again even though the floor was already clean. Today, everyone moved like the ground might crack under them. Like they were waiting for an order or an explosion.

All of it because Lock Lachlan had walked in like a storm cloud with a name.

I let my head rest against the window frame and exhaled slowly.

He shouldn’t have left any kind of impression. I’d barely seen the man. He hadn’t touched me. He hadn’t said a word directly to me. And yet…

Something had shifted the moment his eyes hit mine. Something sharp. Something hot. Something that felt too close to the truth for comfort.

I swallowed hard.

“Stay away from him,” my dad had said.

Right. Easy for him to say.

My body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

I backed away from the window, dropped onto the edge of my bed, and stared down at my hands like they belonged to someone else. My heartbeat still wouldn’t slow. My breathing wouldn’t level out.

It felt like my body had already decided something I absolutely, one hundred percent had not agreed to.

2

LOCK

By the timeI made it back to the clubhouse, my hands ached from how hard I’d been gripping the bars.

I didn’t remember half the ride. Just bits and pieces…the blur of trees, the road cutting ahead of me, the engine screaming under me. None of it was loud enough to drown out the image of Saint on the ground, blood spreading under his head. Or Rowan Roe leaning back in his chair like this was nothing and saying, “Must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

Bullshit.

The Crimson Havoc compound came into view, and the prospects at the gate straightened like they could feel my mood from fifty feet away. One of them lifted a hand, half a wave, half a question.

I rolled past without returning it.

I killed the engine outside the main building and swung off the bike. My boots hit the gravel hard. I didn’t bother taking off my gloves as I pushed through the door.