Page 51 of Steel's Secret
He means it as protection. But somehow, it feels like betrayal.
Against her. Against myself. Against whatever fragile, fucked-up thing we’re building between us that feels too real to ignore and too dangerous to keep.
The lie settles in my chest like shrapnel. Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Her name lights the screen.
Aria:Are you okay?
My throat tightens. The lie twists deeper.
Rock glances at the phone. “You gonna answer?”
“Not yet.” Because if she hears my raw, hoarse voice, still laced with violence, right now, she’ll know everything I’m trying to hide.
And if she knows… she’ll stay. Or she’ll run. Either way, I lose.
I pocket the phone and head for the exit.
Rock follows, boots echoing beside mine.
“You can’t keep this from the club forever,” he says.
“I’m not keeping anything.”
“Bullshit. And you know it.”
I stop at the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
Outside, snow falls in soft sheets, coating the world in a blanket of white. A quiet lie pretending it’s clean.
Rock waits. “Brother,” he says quietly, “just tell me you’re not going to let this girl burn down everything your father built.”
My eyes close just for a second, and I lean against the building. When I open them, the lie answers for me. “I won’t.” Because the truth, the one I’ll never say out loud, is, if it comes down to the club or Aria…
I’m not sure I’d choose the club.
I push off the wall and head for the SUV parked at the curb. Rock follows without needing a word. He slides into the passenger seat, slams the door, and the heater rattles to life the second I twist the key.
We ride in silence. Two men carrying too much blood and not enough answers. Snow spits across the windshield, the tires skidding once on black ice before catching. By the time we pull into the clubhouse lot, the violence is still drying on my hands, and the rage hasn’t settled at all.
Voices crash into each other. Pots bang in the kitchen. Someone’s music rattles the wall. It all grates on me.
I step inside, and the sound dims a fraction. Not a lot, but just enough for me to feel it. Brotherhood silence. The kind that follows violence.
Rampage is the first to notice the state I’m in. He’s leaning against the pool table, cue in one hand, beer in the other. His grin fades when he sees my jaw, my hands, the cut of bruises already forming.
“Jesus Christ, Prez…” he mutters. “You walk through a war zone or start one?”
“Don’t,” I growl.
He lifts both hands in surrender. “Hey, you know me. I don’t judge. Usually.”
City appears next to him, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to slice. He studies me the same way he studies financial ledgers. Looking for cracks, for inconsistencies, for problems.
And today? I’m the fucking problem.
“You good?” City asks. No. Not even close. But I nod once, curt. Unconvincing. His eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding on the carpet.”
