CHAPTER 1 - The Stranger in Leather

Flora's Pov

"You look like you need something stronger than coffee."

I glanced up from my untouched latte, meeting eyes so dark they seemed to swallow light. The man standing beside my corner table wore leather like a second skin, tattoos crawling up his neck, and carried danger the way other men carried briefcases.

"I'm fine," I lied, turning back to the window of the downtown café.

He sat down anyway.

"Damien." His voice was gravel and smoke. "And you are definitely not fine."

My hands trembled around the cup. He was right. I was not fine. I had just walked out of my engagement party—left Richard and his perfect family and their perfect expectations behind without a word. My phone buzzed incessantly in my purse. Twenty-three missed calls.

"Flora." I did not know why I told him. Maybe because he was a stranger. Maybe because those dark eyes promised he understood what running felt like.

"Pretty name for a pretty girl who looks ready to burn her whole life down." He leaned back, studying me with unsettling intensity. "Let me guess. Rich fiancé? Controlling family? They have your whole future mapped out and you just realized you cannot breathe?"

I stared at him. "Are you a mind reader?"

"I'm good at reading people. Survival skill." His lips curved into something too sharp to be called a smile. "Question is, Flora—are you actually going to run, or are you going to go back and play the good girl?"

Anger flared hot in my chest. "You do not know anything about me."

"I know you have been sitting here for forty-five minutes working up the courage to turn your phone off. I know your engagement ring is in your purse, not on your finger. And I know that if you go back now, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

I should have stood up. Should have walked away from this dangerous stranger who saw too much. Instead, I pulled out my phone and powered it off.

"There." My voice shook. "Happy?"

"Not yet." He stood, extending his hand. "Come with me."

"I do not even know you."

"Exactly." His eyes held a challenge. "For once in your life, Flora, do something reckless. Something that is just yours. Tomorrow you can go back to being whoever they want you to be. Tonight, be anyone else."

It was the worst idea imaginable. My mother would die. Richard would lose his mind. His family would never forgive the scandal.

I took his hand.

The world tilted. His palm was rough, calloused, and warm against mine. He pulled me up and suddenly I was standing too close, breathing in leather and motor oil and something uniquely him.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Somewhere you can scream if you need to."

He led me outside to a motorcycle that looked like barely restrained violence—all black chrome and raw power. My sensible dress and heels seemed ridiculous next to it.

"I have never been on a motorcycle."

"Good." He handed me a helmet. "First time for everything."

I hesitated. This was insane. I did not know this man. He could be anyone. Could take me anywhere.

But Richard knew exactly who I was, and look where that had gotten me.

I put on the helmet.

Damien's hands adjusted the strap under my chin, his fingers brushing my throat. "Hold on tight, Flora. Do not let go no matter what."

I climbed on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. Solid muscle beneath the leather. He felt immovable, unbreakable—everything I was not.

The engine roared to life between my thighs.

"Last chance to run back to safety," he called over his shoulder.

I tightened my grip. "Go."

We tore through the city streets, and I had never felt so terrified and alive. Wind whipped past us. Lights blurred into streams of color. I pressed against his back and let myself disappear into the rush of speed and freedom.

He took me to a bar on the edge of downtown I had never known existed. The kind of place where everyone wore leather and ink, where eyes tracked our entrance with predatory awareness.

"Damien." A massive man behind the bar nodded. "Been a while."

"Jake." Damien's hand settled possessively on my lower back, guiding me to the bar. "Whiskey. Two."

I should have said I did not drink whiskey. Should have admitted this whole scene made me want to run. But I was so tired of should.

The whiskey burned. I loved it.

"Better?" Damien asked, standing close enough that I felt his heat.

"Getting there."

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something dangerous flickered across his face. "I need to make a call. Stay here. Do not talk to anyone."

The command in his voice should have irritated me. Instead, it sent an unfamiliar thrill down my spine.

He disappeared toward the back, leaving me alone at the bar.

That was when three men walked in, and Jake's expression went carefully blank.

The largest one's eyes locked on me.

"Well now," he said, approaching with a smile that made my skin crawl. "Damien's got himself a pretty little pet."