Chapter 4

“How did you even find me?” I ask, my voice sharp enough to cut through the silence. “You know what, forget it. Just leave.”

Calix doesn’t move. His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, and I hate that I can feel it like a touch I didn’t ask for.

“Came from a race,” he says finally, taking a step forward, his boots scraping against the concrete. “The engine on my bike got knocked.”

Another step. The air between us seems to shrink.

“I heard there was a mechanic shop nearby,” he continues, his voice low, rough, and too damn steady.

By the time the last word leaves his mouth, he’s standing right in front of me. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath brush my cheek, smell the faint mix of smoky musk, and danger clinging to him.

He leans in just a fraction, and my pulse kicks up, sharp and angry, like my body’s ready for a fight I didn’t agree to.

“That’s how I came here. So don’t flatter yourself by thinking I came here to find you or something.”

My pulse kicks once, sharp and fast, and I hate it. Hate that he still knows exactly how to get a reaction out of me without even trying.

I lift my chin, refusing to step back. “Good,” I mutter, my voice low and firm. “Because you’re not welcome here. So leave.”

He smirks, slow and deliberate. “Can’t leave without getting my bike fixed, Rhi.”

“Then find another shop,” I snap. “I’m busy.”

I turn away before he can say anything else, wiping my hands on a rag and reaching for one of my tools. My movements are deliberate, if I look busy enough, maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

But of course, he doesn’t.

Behind me, I hear him exhale through his nose, a faint chuckle following. “You don’t really have a choice,” he says, voice casual but with that irritating authority threaded through it. “You’re gonna fix it. Unless you want me hanging around here longer.”

My hand tightens around the wrench. “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath.

“Yeah, I get that from you a lot.”

I spin around and glare at him, but he only grins wider, shoving his hands into his pockets. He knows exactly what he’s doing, pushing my buttons, testing how far I’ll bend before snapping.

“Fine,” I hiss. “Bring it in.”

He whistles low, signaling to one of his guys, and they wheel his bike closer into my workspace. He follows, slow and confident, like he owns the air around him.

I crouch beside the bike, ignoring the way his eyes follow every move I make. “You said the engine’s out?”

“Knocked,” he answers. “Started rattling halfway back from the ridge.”

“Sounds like your carburetor’s clogged.”

“English, Rhi.”

I glare up at him. “It’s dirty. Needs cleaning.”

He lifts his hands, smirking. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I ignore him and start working. I reach for my wrench and start removing the engine casing, the metal clicking and scraping under my touch. The shop fills with the sound of tools, the smell of oil, and the heavy silence of his stare.

I slam the wrench onto the ground, not even trying to hide my irritation. “Why are you staring at me?”

He exhales a slow drag of smoke, lips curling. “I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the way you’re working.”

I narrow my eyes. “I am the one working, idiot. So you’re looking at me.”

He grins, a flash of teeth and arrogance. “Fair point.”

I shake my head, turning back to the bike, but my wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin. She doesn’t like him near us. Doesn’t like his scent in our space.

I reattach the carburetor and wipe my hands on my shirt, but before I can step back, he moves.

He pushes off the pillar, stretches lazily, and walks over. My pulse jumps before I can stop it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded handkerchief, that same smirk still tugging at his lips.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping back slightly.

“Hold still,” he says, ignoring me completely.

His hand reaches out, fingers brushing my chin. The touch is firm, not gentle. He tilts my face up before I can react and wipes at the side of my cheek, dragging the cloth slowly across my skin. His thumb grazes my jaw.

My breath stalls from surprise and the sheer nerve of him touching me like he has the right.“What the hell are you doing?” I manage to get out, snatching his wrist.

He doesn’t move, just looks down at me with that same infuriating calm. “There was oil on your face,” he says. “Hard to look at you when you’ve got half an engine smeared across your cheek. Was starting to bug me.”

I push his hand away roughly, heat crawling up my neck. “I don’t need your help.”

He smirks. “Didn’t say you did.”

God, I hate him. The way he talks. The way he looks at me is like he’s enjoying every second of annoying me. The worst part? He’s good at it.

I turn back to the bike and focus on finishing up. I tighten the last bolts, check the spark plug, and adjust the throttle. My hands move quickly, my brain screaming for distraction. I refill the fuel tank, check the valve clearance, and then lower the bike from the stand.

“Done,” I say shortly.

“That fast?” He asks.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” I straighten up, wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. Sweat and grease streak across my skin.

He eyes the engine, crouching slightly to check my work. His movements are slow, deliberate. He nods once, impressed but not saying it.

When he stands, he holds out the same folded cloth again. “Here.”

I hesitate.

He raises a brow, waiting.

With a quiet sigh, I snatch it from his hand and wipe the sweat from my face.

He flicks his cigarette to the floor and crushes it under his boot. “Looks good,” he says, tapping the handlebars. “Am I supposed to pay for it?”

I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “You think I do charity work here?”

He laughs under his breath. “Didn’t think so. Call out your account number, then.”

“Cashapp,” I correct, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I don’t give strangers my account number.”

“Strangers?” He tilts his head. “That hurts.”

I roll my eyes and type in the digits. A few seconds later, my phone pings with the notification. “Happy?” he asks.

“Ecstatic,” I say dryly.

He glances over his shoulder at his crew. They’re already mounting their bikes, engines rumbling to life one by one. The air fills with the smell of fuel and dust.

But he doesn't move yet.

He takes a slow step closer, his presence swallowing up the space between us again. His eyes lock on mine, unreadable but sharp.

“See you soon,” he says quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching into that same infuriating smirk.

Before I can say anything, he turns away, pulling on his helmet.

The engine growls beneath him as he straddles the bike. He glances back once, his gaze catching mine just long enough to send a pulse down my spine. Then he winks, quick, cocky, confident—and revs the throttle.

The sound fills the yard as the Iron Claws roll out in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

When the last echo fades, I finally exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath.

The shop feels too quiet now. My heart’s still pounding, my skin still prickling where he touched me. I drag a hand through my hair, muttering under my breath.

“Damn bastard.”

Damn bastard. Still the same arrogant jerk who thinks the world spins just to piss me off.