Darkness

Lucy

The morning light seeped through the thin curtains, weak and pale, but it was enough to make me flinch. My head throbbed, a dull echo of adrenaline and exhaustion from the night before. I sat up slowly, the unfamiliar sheets rough beneath my fingers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in a bed that wasn’t heavy with fear, the kind that made the walls feel like they could close in on me.

I swallowed hard. The room was small, plain, but clean. No pictures on the walls, no clutter—nothing to distract from the quiet hum of the house waking around me. The door was closed, locked from the inside, which was a comfort I didn’t expect to feel.

I traced my fingers along the edge of the bedspread, trying to steady the tremble in my hands. The events of last night kept replaying in my mind—Blake’s bike, the roar of the engine, the diner, the bar, Riker’s smirk, and the way Blake had just… protected me without asking. My chest tightened at the memory.

I wasn’t used to feeling safe around anyone, especially not a man like him. Rough, dangerous, and impossible to read. He was everything I’d been taught to avoid. Yet something in the way he moved, the way he’d watched over me, made me wonder if danger could ever feel… protective.

I forced myself to stand, wobbly-legged, and moved to the window. The morning light revealed a line of motorcycles parked outside, each one gleaming in the weak sun. Men wandered the lot, some heading inside, others leaning against their bikes in small clusters, talking and laughing. I stiffened. This was his world, the one I’d stepped into without permission.

The thought made my stomach twist. I’d spent years keeping my distance, learning how to disappear, how to make myself invisible so no one could hurt me again. And now I was here, in the middle of a place that radiated chaos, surrounded by people I didn’t know, and the one man I did know… he was the one who had pulled me into it.

A knock on the door made me jump. My heart hammering, I turned to see Blake leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, casual. But the way he watched me suggested he wasn’t just greeting me—he was checking, measuring.

“Morning,” I replied cautiously, keeping my voice even.

“You awake?” His brow lifted slightly, not waiting for an answer.

“I was,” I said, trying to mask the nervous tremor.

He stepped inside anyway, careful not to crowd me, but I felt his presence fill the room. “Food’s on the table downstairs. Coffee too. You gonna join or not?”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to retreat back to the bed, hide from him, from the club, from the noise of the world. But another part—a part I hadn’t felt in a long time—wanted to see him, to see this world he belonged to, to understand why he had brought me here.

“I’ll come,” I said finally.

His lips quirked, just the faintest edge of something like a smile. “Good. Don’t take too long.”

Downstairs, the smell of coffee hit me first. Strong, bitter, and comforting in a way that surprised me. A few men lounged at the table, early risers already talking business and laughter. The air hummed with energy, rough and alive, and I felt every nerve in my body alert, like I was a stranger in a foreign country.

Blake guided me to a chair beside him. “Sit,” he said, voice flat but firm.

I obeyed, keeping my hands wrapped around the mug he slid toward me. Coffee burned my fingers through the ceramic, but I didn’t pull away.

He watched me while I drank, quiet, assessing. I couldn’t tell if it was concern, curiosity, or something else entirely. It made my chest tighten, made me want to look away and hide, but I didn’t.

“You handled last night better than I expected,” he said finally, low, but not judgmental.

I blinked, unsure how to respond. “Better than you thought?”

“Most people in your situation? They freeze, run, or break down.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. The words carried weight, and I felt it in my gut.

I looked down, stirring my coffee, letting the silence settle. It was easier than explaining. Easier than saying I wasn’t used to being watched, to being protected, to having someone care without asking for anything in return.

“You scared?” he asked suddenly, and the question caught me off guard.

I swallowed. “Always,” I admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just let the words hang in the air, heavy and real. Then, almost like an afterthought, he said, “Good. Means you’re paying attention.”

I didn’t know if that was reassurance or warning. Maybe both.

Breakfast was awkward but quiet. He gave me space, and I gave him mine. But I could feel his eyes on me, on my hands, on the way I shifted in the chair. And I caught myself looking back, more than once, trying to read him, trying to see the man beneath the leather, beneath the scar, beneath the reputation that preceded him.

When I finally finished, I set the mug down and glanced at him. He didn’t look at me, just nodded toward the door.

“Want a ride back out? Or are you staying here a while?” he asked.

I hesitated, mind racing. My instincts screamed to run, to put distance between us. But part of me—the part that had held on for just long enough last night—knew I wanted to follow. That I wanted to see more.

“I’ll stay a while,” I said finally.

Blake didn’t react much, just nodded again, but I caught the flicker of something in his eyes before he turned away. Approval? Relief? Something I didn’t have the courage to name.

The morning stretched, quiet now, the clubhouse coming alive in measured waves around us. And as I watched him, the man who terrified and fascinated me in equal measure, I realized something I hadn’t admitted yet.

I was starting to trust him.

And that terrified me more than anything.