Breaking Through

Blake

The morning sun filtered through the garage doors, catching dust in golden streaks. The clubhouse was quieter than last night, the kind of still that comes before the brothers start moving, engines roaring, deals and banter filling the space. I was leaning against one of the bikes, arms crossed, watching. And more specifically, I was watching her.

Lucy. She’d woken up and moved through the room like she belonged here, even though every muscle in her body screamed she didn’t. I saw the way she flinched at sudden movements, the way her eyes darted around before settling on a safe point—usually me.

She carried herself differently than most women in this place. Not naive, not fragile, but cautious in a way that made you notice. Every glance, every hesitant step, told me she’d survived more than she should have had to. It was in her posture, in the way she breathed around men who didn’t know her yet.

I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be afraid. But I didn’t. Not with words. I never did. Actions speak louder, and she’d learned that by now.

She was at the table, sipping coffee, studying the bikes lined up in the lot. I could feel her mind racing, cataloging everything she didn’t understand. The way she tensed when one of the brothers started the engine nearby. The subtle flinch when a door slammed. She was hyper-aware, alert. Dangerous, in her own way, but fragile at the edges. And I didn’t trust anyone else to keep her safe—not here, not ever.

Riker passed by, smirking, and I felt the familiar heat in my chest. He caught my glance and knew better than to test me again. Not today. Not when I was already tethered to her without permission, without explanation, without plan.

I took a step closer to her table, deliberately casual, keeping my distance just enough to let her breathe. She didn’t look at me, just traced the rim of her mug with her finger. I could see the way she tried to hide the tremor in her hands. That tremor told me more about her than any story she’d give. She was running from something—or someone. I could see it in her spine, in the set of her shoulders, in the careful way she moved.

I didn’t pry. I never pried. I just watched. And I waited.

“You ready?” I asked finally, voice low, calm. She startled, glancing up, eyes wide for a second before she masked it.

“I… think so,” she said, voice hesitant but steadying. She was learning how to pretend, how to fold herself into this world without folding completely.

I nodded, and she followed me out the door. The bikes gleamed in the sun, lined up like soldiers waiting for inspection. I swung onto mine first, then offered her the back. She hesitated, and I could feel her weighing the risk.

“Don’t ride if you don’t want to,” I said.

Her hand hovered near the seat before she finally settled in. “I want to,” she said, voice low.

The words made my chest tighten. Not in the way some men feel when women speak soft words to them. No, this was deeper. Protective. Acknowledge-this-world-but-I’ll-stay-with-you kind of feeling. Dangerous, because I can’t keep her safe forever. Dangerous because I wanted to keep her close anyway.

We roared out of the lot, the engine’s growl vibrating through me. I could feel her tense against my back, and I didn’t shift. Didn’t ask her to relax. She’d learn, eventually. Or she wouldn’t. That wasn’t my concern. Not yet.

The ride was silent, save for the engine and wind. I let her watch the world rush past, let her think she had some control, even though I knew the truth. Out here, with me, she didn’t. None of it belonged to her. And that was okay—for now.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. She was gripping the jacket just a little tighter than necessary, knuckles white. I wanted to tell her it was okay to let go, to trust. But I didn’t. Actions again. My protection, my presence, my steadiness—that was enough.

When we returned to the lot, she hesitated before sliding off. The gravel crunched under her boots, and I caught the small way her shoulders rose and fell in relief when she touched solid ground.

“You did good,” I said. Not praise. Observation. A fact.

She looked up at me, a flicker of something—gratitude, fear, curiosity—passing over her face. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. I watched her walk toward the clubhouse entrance, slow and careful, every step measured.

I stayed outside a moment longer, keeping watch. The brothers began stirring, engines starting, voices carrying over the lot. I felt the weight of my patch on my chest, the history behind it. The responsibility. The danger. I thought about the world she’d stepped into, the one she couldn’t see yet, the one that would test her in ways I couldn’t protect her from.

And still… I couldn’t let her go.

Not when I’d felt that moment on the road. Not when I’d seen her trembling at my back and realized it wasn’t just fear. It was the world trying to swallow her whole. And I swore to myself—I swore in the silence of that morning, with the sun hitting the chrome of the bikes—that I wouldn’t let that happen.

I’d keep her safe. Not because she asked me to. Not because I was good at it. Because I couldn’t stop. And maybe… maybe because a part of me was already too tangled in her to ever untangle again.

The day stretched ahead, loud and alive. She would step into it slowly, carefully, learning to navigate the chaos. And I would be there, always on the edge, always watching.

Because letting her see me, letting her into this world—it was dangerous. For both of us.

But some things worth protecting were always dangerous.