really. My dad was a boxer, but he died in the ring when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry,” Dante murmured.
“Don’t be,” I said. “He was an asshole.”
“Older or younger brothers?” Dante asked carefully.
“Older,” I said. “Twins.”
“But you had to cut ties.” Dante stepped a little closer, leaning against the counter as he watched me.
Something about having those dark eyes focused on me was grounding, in a way I’d never quite experienced before. Knowing he was listening—really listening to me. He was interested in me. Not the me that could kiss or be useful or help him build relations with Hell’s Ankhor. No, he was interested in the me that could be shy and doubtful, the one who had a shitty childhood. And that made me want to open up to him in a way I never did with other people.
“They weren’t exactly the caretaking type,” I said. “They were always bullies, ever since I was a kid. But when dad died, it really escalated, you know? They were boxers like him. And I took after Mom, but she ran out, too, when I was ten. So it was just me and my brothers.”
Dante’s hand fell to my shoulder, a gentle, stable touch. It was only then that I realized I’d been breathing a little fast and a little shallow. I took a deep breath, and Dante’s hand squeezed in approval. And that felt good, too. Grounding. Calming.
“I guess I was a disappointment to them, or an embarrassment, or just someone to be angry at instead of mom, and then dad,” I said. “They tried to bully me into being a ‘real man.’ You know. Big and strong and violent. And it never took, as I’m sure you can tell.”
Dante said nothing, but he mirrored my wry little smile.
“Anyway, we were barely a family, and certainly not a nice one. So when I got into my business program, I just… left. Didn’t look back. There was a flyer for a part-time position at Custom Ankhs posted on campus my first week at school, and I applied. Thank God they hired me.”
I wondered, sometimes, where I’d be if I hadn’t fallen in with the club. Honestly, the thought scared me. Striking out on my own had been hard, even with the support of the club.
I shrugged, trying to stay away from maudlin thoughts. “Fell in love with bikes, with the club, and started prospecting. And here I am.”
“Easy as that, huh?” Dante asked. His hand slid from my shoulder to my nape. It was a gentle, comfortable touch that encouraged me to tilt my face up to meet his eyes. Just a little.
“Guess so,” I said softly.
How were we standing here talking about this? I hated talking about my past—digging up those old memories usually put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day, unwilling to get too close to anyone or let them pull me out of it. But telling Dante about it, even just scratching the surface, felt like letting go of a weight. Like maybe he could help me carry it.
His fingers tightened just a little bit on my nape—just enough to change it from a caress to a grip. He stepped a little closer and his sharp eyes tracked curiously, almost hungrily, over my face.
God, I wanted him to take whatever it was he seemed to want. To just hold me tighter, lean down, and kiss me the way he had in my bedroom. Devouring.
In the doorway, someone cleared their throat meaningfully.
Dante dropped his hand from my neck and took a sharp step back. Jazz glanced between us, eyebrows raised, and ambled casually into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge.
I swallowed and turned away from Dante, hurrying to find a bullshit task to occupy my hands while I wrestled the desire roaring in my chest into something more manageable. Even after Jazz wandered back upstairs with his beer, shooting us a few suspicious glances on his way, the moment between us was broken.
I was relieved, really. If he’d kissed me—if I’d let him—it’d just complicate things further. But I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, too. Logically, I knew that I’d just be playing with fire by pursuing this, setting myself up for a fall in so many ways. But God, I wanted it. It was like when Dante got close to me, put his hands on me like that, my brain just powered down.