Page 16 of Steel's Secret
FOUR
SHELTER OF SINS
ARIA
The wind has turned feral. Every gust claws at the walls like it wants in. The storm is louder now, a steady roar that drowns out thought. Steel stands by the door with his arms crossed, the lamplight catching the cut of his jaw. He hasn’t said a word since the last flicker of power.
“You’re not driving home in that,” he says finally. His tone leaves no room for argument.
“I’ve handled worse.”
His eyes glance toward the door where snow presses up against the glass. “Not tonight, you haven’t.”
I glance out the frosted window, watching the wind drag ribbons of white across the lot. He’s right, and that pisses me off. “So, what, I’m stuck here?”
He nods once, quiet, final. “Roads are closed. State cops already pulled the barricades.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
He wipes his hands on a rag, nodding toward the phone sitting on the bench. “Rock texted ten minutes before youshowed. Said they shut down the county line, wreck on 127, whiteout conditions. Nobody’s getting in or out till morning.”
The way he says it, steady and certain, sounds less like a warning and more like a verdict.
I let out a sharp breath and start pacing. The shop feels smaller by the minute. The smell of grease, the hum of the heater, it’s all too much. “You’d rather freeze than owe anyone, huh?”
He glances over, mouth twitching. “You talking to me or yourself?”
That lands too close to home. I shoot him a look. “You think I can’t take care of myself?”
“I think you’re here, arguing about pride while a blizzard tries to bury us both.” He checks the old generator by the wall, tapping the side like it might wake up. It sputters, then dies completely. “Well. That’s shot.”
“Perfect,” I mutter.
He moves toward a cabinet, rummaging until he finds a small kerosene lamp. The glass is clouded, the wick half-burned. He lights it anyway, and the weak flame paints gold across the walls. The heater crackles, coughing once before giving up.
I glance toward the door, half-thinking maybe we could make a run for the clubhouse, but the window kills the thought fast. Snow’s already drifted halfway up the bay door, wind shoving it higher every minute. Even the alley between the shop and the main building’s gone, buried under a solid wall of white. The bikes out front look like headstones, the path erased. We’re not going anywhere until the storm decides to let us.
The silence that follows hums in my bones. Snow whistles through cracks in the siding, but inside, it’s just the soft hiss of flame and the thud of my heartbeat.
Steel kneels beside the Harley, checking something just to stay busy. His hand is bleeding, a thick red line across his knuckles.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
He doesn’t look up. “Occupational hazard.”
I grab the first aid kit from the shelf before I can talk myself out of it. “Sit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you give orders?”
“Since you’re about to drip all over the bike you love more than people.”
He grumbles something under his breath but sits anyway. I find a clean rag, dampen it, and take his hand. The heat of his skin nearly derails me.
“Still play nurse when you’re pissed?” he mutters.
“Still act like pain makes you immortal?” I counter.
He doesn’t flinch when I clean the cut, but I can feel the tension in him coiled tight, full of electricity. My fingers brush the chain around his neck, and the ring catches the light. Tama’s ring. The air thickens with memory.
