Page 44 of Steel's Secret
ELEVEN
THE RUMOR
STEEL
The world looks different when it’s still dark and she’s still asleep. Aria’s curled against my chest, legs tangled with mine, her breath warm on my skin. The room smells like her perfume and sex and the things I’ve tried for years not to want. Outside, the February wind hits the siding hard enough to rattle it, but in here, it’s quiet. Danger always feels the loudest in the quiet.
Her fingers twitch against my ribs, like she’s reaching for me even in sleep. A weak part of me wants to stay. Wants to steal one more hour, maybe two, maybe the whole damn day. But the stronger part, the darker part, the President my father carved out of me, knows sunrise can’t find me here.
Saint Outlaws don’t catch feelings. Saint Outlaws don’t get caught.
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek, and she doesn’t wake. My hand hesitates, just one inch from tracing her jaw again. I feel the warmth radiating off her skin, and I pull back quickly, like touching her again might burn through every layer of armor I have left. If she opened her eyes and looked at me like she didlast night, like I was something worth holding onto, I wouldn’t leave at all.
I slide out of her bed, pull on my jeans, my thermals, then my cut. The leather feels colder than usual, heavier too. Like it knows exactly where I’ve been and who I’ve been with. I grab my boots quietly, but before I move to the door, I hesitate.
Her Saint ring glints from where it hangs on her nightstand lamp, catching the faintest hint of moonlight. Mine by blood. Hers by a choice I’m terrified she’s going to regret.
I lean down, press a kiss to her hair, and whisper against her temple, “Be safe.”
She doesn’t hear it.
I slip out before the sun breaks the horizon, the door clicking shut behind me like the last word in an argument we’ll have again.
My SUV waits in the driveway, exhaust ghosting in the cold. Frost clings to the windshield, glittering beneath the porch light. I pull the door open, climb inside, breath clouding in the freezing air, and for a moment, I let myself look back at her quiet little house.
A thousand thoughts hit at once. What if someone followed her home? What if the SUV wasn’t the only car watching? What if she wakes up and I’m gone, again? What would Tama have told me to do? His voice echoes in the cold space. “Distance saves lives, boy.”
One night. One breath. One mistake I’ll make again.
The engine growls to life, loud in the stillness, and I ride away before I can talk myself into staying.
The clubhouse smells like coffee, bacon, and bad decisions. Most mornings, my brothers keep the noise level somewhere between “rowdy” and “someone’s going to lose a tooth by noon,” but today the room goes sharp the second I walk in.
Eyes lift. Conversations shift. A chair scrapes too fast. Someone stops mid-laugh. A fork hits a plate with a clang that echoes way too damn loud.
Rampage smirks like he’s been waiting. “Well, well, well,” he drawls from behind his mug. “Look who finally decided to show up. President’s got a glow about him this morning.” He raises his eyebrows. “Must’ve been a hell of a sunrise.”
Snickers roll through the room. Throttle chokes on his coffee. Caine mutters, “Mystery woman didn’t let him sleep.” Even Honor, usually quiet, hides a grin behind his toast.
Draft lifts his head from a stack of receipts just long enough to give me the kind of look that says he noticed something he shouldn’t have. Nova whistles low under his breath.
Rock doesn’t smile. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me with those old soldier eyes that see too much. “You look tired,” he says evenly. “Or busy. Hard to tell lately.”
The laughter flickers out.
I grab a plate, ignoring the tension, the looks, the itch crawling up my spine, and load food that the club bunnies prepared. I swallow it down, even though it tastes like gravel. Every chuckle, every sideways glance, every whispered “mystery woman” rides the edge of a knife.
Saints don’t date in secret. We don’t fuck in secret. We sure as hell don’t fall in secret. And they’re starting to smell smoke.
Rampage jabs again, grinning. “Come on, Prez. Tell us who she is.”
“She’s none of your damn business,” I say without looking up.
The table goes dead still.
Rock’s gaze sharpens. “Everything’s our business when it affects the club.”
Which is the whole problem. Aria affects everything.
