Chapter 6

Kasey’s POV 

​The lecture hall air was thick and stagnant, heavy with the weight of old textbooks and the dull metallic tang of the ventilation system. 

Professor Dhalia’s voice droned on from the front of the room, a low hum that almost merged with the sound of pages turning, pens scratching, and the occasional stifled yawn. Something about neurobiology and behavioral responses to stimuli — though honestly, all the stimuli in the world couldn’t make me care right now.

I stared blankly at my open notebook, my pen hovering over a line that had stopped halfway through a sentence fifteen minutes ago. Instead of neurons and receptors, all I could see was Leo, the way his hands had framed that blonde’s face last night, the way his head had dipped lower, his mouth finding hers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like it wasn’t supposed to be me.

My chest ached with a quiet, humiliating pulse that I’d tried to suffocate with the logic that he wasn’t mine. Yet. But logic had a cruel way of losing its voice whenever it came to Leo.

Every time I shut my eyes, the scene played on repeat—her laughter, his smirk, and the neon lights slicing through the dark, painting his tattoos in shades of blue and red. The same tattoos I used to trace with my fingers back when we were dumb teenagers, and I still believed love was something you could earn if you waited long enough.

My mind drifted to Landon. The memory of his offer made my stomach clench; not twist with nervous excitement, but tighten with unease.

"You want him to love you? I can help you with that, Trouble."

He’d said it like it wasn’t the craziest thing in the world. Like it was just an offer. A simple, transactional deal.

And I hadn’t said yes. I hadn’t said no either. I’d just cried the whole way back to the dorms, clutching the scent of his leather jacket like it could hold me together, the low rumble of his bike still vibrating somewhere in my chest.

Now, sitting in the middle of a crowded classroom, surrounded by the scratch of pens and the low buzz of whispered questions, I could still feel that vibration. Like it had branded itself into my skin.

I tapped my pen against the notebook, trying to focus on the diagram of the amygdala. It didn't work. I’d spent all morning trying to convince myself that I didn’t need Landon’s help, that I wasn’t that desperate.

​But I was. Utterly and completely. 

Because I had spent years trying every innocent, straightforward method to get Leo to look at me the way he looked at other girls and every single attempt had failed.

He used to be my friend, back when we were just kids running wild around the Clubhouse. He’d sit next to me during club meetings, share stolen snacks, and once helped me steal Tyler’s prized pocket knife—the one dad had given him on his eighteenth birthday. 

He used to call me Snotty, too, because my allergies were always bad enough to make me sound like I was dying.

Then one day, he just… stopped calling me that.

For a moment, I thought maybe it meant something. That maybe he’d finally started to see me as more than the girl who tagged along behind him and the other boys.

But hope’s a cruel thing. A week later, he showed up with another girl; someone older, prettier, someone who didn’t trip over her own shoelaces. And that was it.

He hadn’t started seeing me differently. He’d just stopped seeing me at all.

After that, I might as well have been part of the furniture; always there, easy to overlook.

"Miss Starling?"

​I blinked. Professor Dhalia was staring at me from the front of the room, one brow perfectly arched in displeasure. "Would you mind repeating what I just said regarding the neural pathways of sustained desire?"

Oh, shit.

A few giggles rippled through the rows behind me. I scrambled for my notebook, pretending to glance at notes that didn’t exist. "Uh—something about… the limbic system, controlling emotions?"

​More laughter. I had definitely used the wrong buzzword.

Double shit.

The professor sighed, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe less daydreaming, more listening next time?"

"Yes, ma’am," I muttered, cheeks burning as I sank lower into my seat.

When the lecture finally ended, I shoved my things into my bag and hurried out before anyone could stop me. The corridors buzzed with noise; laughter, music, and the echo of heavy boots. 

Most of the students here were from the club, or at least connected to it. Sons of patched members, daughters of old allies, and a handful of outsiders who didn’t know better.

This campus was their territory. There were club emblems stitched into leather jackets, bikes parked like trophies outside lecture halls, and parties that could make Vegas blush.

I’d grown up around all of it. The roar of engines, the smell of gasoline and beer, the low laughter of men who’d lived too many dangerous nights. It was a world I was born into but never really part of; not like Leo or Landon or Tyler.

They fit into the chaos. I hovered on the edge of it, wanting in but never belonging.

My phone buzzed in my pocket pulling me out of my thoughts. 

A message.

Landon: Have you thought about my offer, Trouble?

Just seeing that nickname made my breath catch. Trouble. He’d been calling me that since I was sixteen; the night I’d snuck into a Serpents’ rally and nearly got caught. He’d found me hiding behind his bike, eyes wide, and instead of yelling at me, he’d just smirked.

"You’re trouble, you know that?"

It stuck.

I typed back, fingers trembling slightly.

Kasey: I don’t know if it’s a good idea.

The typing dots appeared. Then vanished. Then appeared again. He was deliberately making me wait.

Landon: You’ve been trying your way for years. Has it worked?

The accuracy of the shot left me breathless. He’d aimed for the weakest part of my armor and hit dead center. Before I could muster a reply, another message flashed up.

Landon: Meet me at the pit after class. Don’t make me come find you.

​I stared at the screen, heart hammering. The pit was the underground training lot behind the auto shop, a restricted area where patched members sometimes sparred or worked on the most sacred club bikes. It was strictly off-limits for students and women, unless summoned.

Why did he want us to meet there?

I exhaled, pushing the phone into my pocket, trying to steady the mess in my chest.

I knew Landon was dangerous, not just in the way he carried himself, but in how easily he could see through me. And worse, in how much I wanted to say yes to his offer.

Because if there was even the smallest chance that he could teach me how to make Leo see me… wasn’t that ultimate victory worth it?

​The thought made me sick and a little desperately euphoric.

I was doing this.

***

By the time I made it to the pit, the sun had started to dip behind the old warehouse roofs, throwing everything in a dusky orange haze. The air smelled thick and chemical, like oil, metal, and stale cigarette smoke, and the low rumble of engines vibrated through the concrete floor.

​No one was around; at least, no one visible. The main floor was cavernous and empty except for a few bikes lined up against the far wall, one of which I knew by heart. Black matte, low-slung seat, chrome details dulled with age. Landon’s ride.

I spotted him before he turned, leaning against a stack of crates like he’d been waiting for hours. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling around his jaw, making the tattoos on his neck shift when he spoke.

"You’re late."

His voice slid through the air with that quiet authority that made even grown men listen.

"I had class," I muttered, crossing my arms. "Some of us actually go to school, you know."

Landon had graduated years ago when Leo and I were still in high school. At twenty-six, he had two degrees in Business Administration and Criminal Justice, but I guess he didn’t need them much seeing as he'd be taking over the Brotherhood leadership once his father retired.

That earned me the slightest smirk, a brief flash of the dimples that were always so disarming. "You want me to teach you how to make my brother fall for you, and you’re starting by arguing about punctuality?"

"I haven't said yes, yet," I shot back, though my voice lacked conviction and seemed to echo in the vast space.

​He exhaled smoke in a steady stream, flicked the cigarette away into the dust, and pushed off the crates. The way he moved was lazy and deliberate, like every step was measured for maximum impact. "No, but you showed up, Trouble. That’s a yes in our language."

He came closer, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. His eyes were that unsettling mix of grey and storm that were always unreadable. Up close, I could see the faint scar cutting through his right eyebrow, the sharp line of his jaw and the dark scruff on his chin.

God, he was beautiful in the most dangerous way possible.

​"I still think this is a bad idea," I whispered, the air catching in my throat.

"It probably is," he agreed, a faint, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "But when has that ever stopped you from chasing what you want?"

The truth of it was a gut-punch. He saw me. He saw the desperate, foolish heart of me that refused to quit, and he was holding it in his hands.

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, its edges soft and worn. The gesture was so oddly academic amidst the surrounding grit. He flipped it open, his focus entirely on the page.

"So," he said, looking down at the page like he was about to read me my fate. "Before we start, there are rules."