Page 4 of Claimed By Lock

I stop three feet away. Close enough to reach him. Close enough to make my point.

"Walk away."

He takes in the cut. The patches. The Sergeant-at-Arms flash on my chest. His eyes narrow, calculating, but he doesn't release her arm.

"This doesn't concern you, Sons."

"You've got your hand on a woman who doesn't want it there." I hold his gaze. Don't blink. "That concerns me."

"She's my?—"

"She's nothing to you." Calm. Calm is scarier than loud. I learned that a long time ago. Loud is bluster. Loud is performance. Calm is a promise. "You've got three seconds to let go and walk away. After that, we have a different conversation."

"You threatening me?"

"I'm telling you how this goes." I don't move. Don't shift my weight. Just stand there, steady as stone, and let him see exactly what I am. What I'm capable of. "One way, you leave with your dignity. The other way, you leave with less."

The rally's gone quiet around us. I can feel the eyes — Sons, Road Kings, everyone else. Neutral ground means no violence, technically. But everyone here knows that's more suggestion than rule. And everyone can see that I'm not the one who started this.

Colt's brothers are shifting behind him. Uncertain. They know who I am. Know my reputation. I don't talk much and I don't threaten unless I mean it. And when I mean it, people tend to regret pushing.

The silence stretches. Two seconds. Three.

"This isn't over," Colt says finally.

"Yeah. It is."

He holds my stare for another beat. I watch the calculation happen behind his eyes — the odds, the consequences, theaudience watching every move. His pride wants to push. His survival instincts know better.

Survival wins.

He lets go of her arm.

"You want her so bad, she's yours." He spits on the ground near my boots. "Good luck with that. Bitch ain't worth the trouble."

He turns and walks away, brothers falling in behind him. I watch them go, tracking their path across the rally until they disappear into the crowd near the Road Kings camp.

Then I turn to her.

She's rubbing her arm where he grabbed her. Jaw tight. Cheeks flushed. But she's not crying, not trembling, not falling apart. There's fire in her eyes when she looks up at me — anger and embarrassment and something else I can't quite read.

"I had it handled."

"I know."

"I didn't need rescuing."

"Didn't say you did."

That throws her. She blinks, studying me like she's trying to figure out my angle. Searching for the catch, the expectation, the thing I'm going to want in return.

I don't blame her. Most men who step in like that expect something. Gratitude. Attention. A chance to play hero.

I don't want any of that.

I just wanted him to stop touching her.

"Thank you," she says finally. Grudging, like she had to drag them out. "For stepping in."