Page 11 of Angel’s Claim

About Dusty harassing Bree at O'Malley's. About stepping in. About pancakes, my cut and the motel. I keep it simple, just the facts, nothing about the way she looked at me or the feeling in my chest I don't have words for yet.

When I'm done, Canvas is grinning like this is the best thing he's heard all week.

"You gave your cut to someone you met an hour ago," he says.

"Yeah."

"And you're going back tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"And you're not stupid enough to think this is just about helping someone out."

I don't answer that.

Eden smacks Canvas on the arm. "Leave him alone. I think it's sweet."

"Sweet," Brick mutters into his beer. "Wait till Phoenix hears about it."

"I'll tell him in the morning," I say.

"You better," Canvas says. "Before someone else does."

I nod and head toward my room, their laughter following me down the hall. I don't regret it. Giving her my cut. Walking her to the motel. Promising to come back tomorrow.

I don't regret any of it.

And when I close my door and sit on the edge of my bed in one of the prospects rooms: barely bigger than a storage closet, just a twin mattress and a dresser Diesel helped me fix up, I can still see the way she smiled when I said I'd see her tomorrow.

Yeah.

I’m in trouble.

Chapter 3 - Bree

I stand in the middle of the room for a full minute after Angel leaves, still wearing his cut, still trying to process the last two hours of my life.

A motorcycle club prospect just bought me pancakes, walked me to a motel, and gave me his vest because I was cold.

His cut, he called it. And the way he said it, like it meant something important, something I should understand even though I don't, makes me overthink all this.

I pull the leather closer around my shoulders and breathe in that masculine musky odor. Now that I'm alone, I can admit it smells like safety. Like someone who steps between strangers and danger without hesitation. Like someone who notices when you're shivering and fixes it without making you ask.

I don't know what to do with that.

I've spent my entire life around men who notice things. My father noticing when I've gained weight, Chase noticing when my smile isn't bright enough for the cameras, Victoria's various boyfriends before she married my father noticing when I'm in a room and wishing I wasn't.

But Angel noticed I was cold and gave me his jacket.

That's it. That's all.

Except it's not all, because he also promised to come back tomorrow, and I smiled like an idiot when he said it, and now I'm standing in a motel room in the middle of nowhere wearing a stranger's motorcycle vest and feeling more settled than I have in years.

I need to shower.

I need to sleep.

I need to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life.