5. The Saints MC

Zara's POV

I pull the door shut behind me and take three steps before slamming straight into a wall of solid muscle.

"Watch where you're going, Little Dove."

I look up, and naturally, the universe has decided that the last thing I need tonight is Damon Veyron standing in my way with that infuriating smirk on his face.

I glare at him.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Beast? Don't you have a motorcycle to crash into or a biker gang to terrorize?"

His grey eyes travel over my face, and his smirk deepens when he notices the anger I haven't quite managed to hide.

"Funny you should mention crashing into things, considering you just walked straight into me. Again."

"Maybe if you weren't built like a fucking brick wall, I would have seen you."

"Maybe if you watched where you were going instead of stomping around like an angry little bulldog, we wouldn't have this problem."

I stare at him in disbelief. "Did you just call me a bulldog?"

"Would you prefer Chihuahua? You've certainly got the attitude for one."

I take a step toward him, pointing a finger at his chest.

"Listen here, you oversized, tattooed asshole. I have had the worst fucking day of my life, and if you think I'm in the mood to entertain your pathetic attempts at being funny, you can take that smirk and shove it up your—"

"Careful, Little Dove. Someone might think you like talking about what you want to do with my ass."

My mouth falls open.

For the love of God.

"You're disgusting."

"And yet you keep talking to me."

"Because you're standing in my fucking way!"

He glances toward the closed suite door behind me, and his amusement fades just enough for me to notice.

"Feel better after giving your former fiancé a piece of your mind?"

My hands curl into fists. "You were listening?"

"I was standing right here, not hiding in a ventilation duct. It's a public hallway, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart."

"Would you prefer darling?"

"I would prefer that you shut the hell up."

He studies me for a moment, his eyes moving over my face as though he is trying to figure out whether I am about to slap him or burst into flames. I am considering both options, and the fact that he seems entertained by the possibility makes me want to hit him even more.

"Come on," he says, turning toward the end of the corridor.

I don't move. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Downstairs."

"Congratulations. You've mastered walking. What does that have to do with me?"

"I'm taking you somewhere else."

I fold my arms. "Did I ask you to take me anywhere?"

"No, but considering the state of your family, your former fiancé's apparent inability to keep his dick out of your sister, and the fact that your father would probably drag you back into that reception room if you gave him half a chance, I think we can agree that leaving you here is a fucking terrible idea."

I hate that he has a point and I hate even more that he knows it.

"I can take care of myself."

"I never said you couldn't, Little Dove."

"Then stop acting like I need a babysitter."

Damon steps closer, lowering his voice so that the staff moving through the corridor won't hear us.

"I'm not babysitting you. I'm getting you out of a hotel full of people who have spent the evening treating your life like a business arrangement. You can argue with me the entire way if it makes you feel better, but you're coming with me."

I lift my chin. "And if I refuse?"

His smirk returns.

"Then I'll have the pleasure of watching you argue with a wall, because I'm not leaving without knowing you're somewhere safe."

"You are so fucking arrogant."

"I've been told."

"By whom? The voices in your head?"

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that catches me off guard.

"Get your things, Little Dove. We're leaving."

I should tell him to go to hell.

Instead, I follow him, mostly because the thought of returning to the reception room makes my stomach turn. I have no intention of allowing my parents to parade me in front of their guests as though nothing has happened, and I certainly don't want to see Victor or Arabella again tonight.

Damon walks beside me without touching me, which is probably the only sensible decision he has made all evening.

By the time we reach the parking area, I have managed to insult his driving, his motorcycle, his personality, and the unfortunate amount of confidence he possesses for a man who looks like he was carved out of granite by someone with anger issues.

He accepts every insult with irritating good humour.

When he holds out a helmet, I stare at it.

"You cannot be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You expect me to get on that death trap in this dress?"

He looks at my wedding dress, then at the motorcycle.

"I'll admit the dress wasn't designed for riding, but I don't remember seeing a limousine waiting for you."

"I have a car."

"And I have a motorcycle. Look at us, both owning things."

I snatch the helmet from his hand.

"One day, Beast, I'm going to make you regret every smart remark that has ever come out of your mouth."

He climbs onto the motorcycle.

"Get in line, Little Dove."

The ride to the Saints MC clubhouse is one long exercise in trying not to wrap my hands around Damon's throat. I hold on because the road demands it, not because I enjoy the feel of his solid back beneath my hands, and I absolutely refuse to acknowledge the way his body shifts with every turn.

When we finally arrive, I climb off and hand him the helmet.

"If you tell anyone I held on to you, I'll deny it."

Damon removes his own helmet, revealing that infuriating grin.

"Don't worry. I'll tell everyone you were terrified and nearly squeezed the life out of me."

"I wasn't terrified."

"Of course not."

"I was trying to make sure I didn't fall off and leave you with the satisfaction of telling everyone I died because your driving is shit."

He laughs again.

I am beginning to suspect that making me angry is his favourite hobby.

The clubhouse is larger than I expected, a solid building with motorcycles parked outside and the Saints MC emblem displayed prominently above the entrance. The moment Damon walks through the door, the atmosphere changes.

Conversations pause.

Men look up from their drinks and conversations, and several straighten instinctively when they see him. Nobody challenges him, and nobody demands to know where he has been. They simply acknowledge his presence with a respect that seems to come naturally.

I have seen Damon in formal settings, surrounded by wealthy people who pretend not to be intimidated by him. This is different. These men don't appear to be pretending anything.

He belongs here.

And they know exactly who he is.

"President," a broad-shouldered man says as he approaches us.

He has dark brown hair, a rugged face, and the sort of relaxed confidence that suggests he has known Damon long enough to insult him without losing his teeth.

His gaze shifts to me, and his eyebrows rise.

"Well, I'll be damned. You went out for a wedding and came home with a wife."

Damon gives him a flat look.

"Rocco, keep talking and you'll be sleeping outside with the dogs."

Rocco grins.

"I'm just trying to understand how you managed to get married without telling your own VP. Should I be offended, or should I start preparing a speech for the divorce party?"

"Keep preparing that speech and I'll make sure you're the guest of honour at your own funeral."

I snort before I can stop myself.

Rocco looks delighted.

"Oh, I like her already."

"That's unfortunate," I tell him. "I haven't decided whether I like you yet."

"Give it time. I'm charming."

"That makes one of us."

Damon shakes his head and gestures toward the others gathering nearby. A dark-haired woman with grey-blue eyes approaches first, her expression curious but composed.

"Valentina Veyron," she says, offering her hand. "Damon's sister."

I shake it, surprised.

"I didn't know he had a sister."

"There's a lot you don't know about my brother," she replies, glancing at him. "Most of it is probably for the best."

"Finally, someone in this family with a working brain," I say.

Valentina laughs, and Damon mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a threat.

The introductions continue. Maddox Kane, the quiet, intimidating Sergeant-at-Arms, acknowledges me with a reserved nod. Cruz Mercer, the Road Captain, looks me over with open suspicion, as though he is trying to decide whether I am a threat to his club or merely a particularly troublesome inconvenience. Jace Holloway has the imposing build of a man who has solved more problems with his fists than his words, while Nico Ferraro greets me with a grin and immediately asks whether Damon has always been this miserable around women.

"Only the ones who talk back," I reply.

Nico laughs.

"Then you've got him exactly where you want him."

Beckett Shaw, who has been observing the entire exchange from a nearby table, offers me a polite greeting. His calm, analytical gaze makes me feel as though he has already noticed more about me than I would like him to know.

What strikes me most isn't their size or their tattoos, but the way they all watch Damon when he speaks. They respect him, trust him, and seem willing to follow him into hell without asking whether the journey will be comfortable.

Damon isn't simply a man who wears a president's patch.

He has earned it.

And for all his arrogance, I find myself wondering what it takes to command that kind of loyalty.

"So," Rocco says, leaning against the table, "are we going to pretend this is normal, or can somebody explain why our president suddenly has a wife?"

Damon's expression hardens slightly.

"My marriage is none of your business."

"Absolutely," Rocco agrees. "Which is why I'm asking about it in front of everyone."

Valentina gives her husband an exasperated look.

"Ignore him. He thinks being irritating is a personality."

"It has served me well," Rocco says.

I laugh despite myself, and Damon turns to look at me as though my moment of amusement is a personal betrayal.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing, Little Dove."

"That expression says otherwise."

"I'm just enjoying the miracle of seeing you smile without threatening to kill somebody."

"Give me five minutes. I can fix that."

Before he can reply, the clubhouse door opens.

A woman walks inside with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing she is welcome wherever she goes. She has dark hair, striking green eyes, and a figure that draws attention without her needing to ask for it. She barely glances at the men around her before her gaze settles on Damon.

Her face lights up.

"There you are," she says, walking straight toward him. "I've been trying to reach you all evening."

Damon has barely turned before she slides her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Not a greeting on the cheek.

Not a friendly embrace.

A kiss that is entirely too familiar.

My smile disappears.

For a moment, I simply stand there, watching my husband allow another woman to kiss him in front of his entire club. The woman seems perfectly comfortable doing it, and the men around us show no particular surprise, which tells me this is not the first time they have witnessed such a scene.

Damon eventually draws back, his expression unreadable.

"Serena."

She smiles up at him, keeping one hand on his chest.

"That's all I get? After you disappear for hours, I deserve a better greeting than that."

My stomach tightens.

I don't know who Serena is, but I know one thing with absolute certainty.

She knows Damon intimately.

And judging by the way she touches him, she has no intention of pretending otherwise.

Damon glances in my direction, and for the first time since we arrived, his expression becomes difficult to read.

Serena follows his gaze.

Her eyes settle on me, travelling from my wedding dress to the ring on my finger before returning to my face.

Her smile changes.

"So you're the wife."

I lift my chin and meet her gaze.

"And you are?"

Her eyes flick briefly toward Damon before returning to me.

"Serena Knox."

She offers no explanation for the kiss, no apology for the way she has her hand resting against my husband's chest, and no sign that she thinks she has crossed a line.

I smile sweetly.

"Well, Serena, now that we've established who I am, perhaps you can explain why you greeted my husband like you were expecting him to take you to bed."

The clubhouse falls quiet.

Rocco suddenly becomes very interested in his drink, while Nico turns away with a grin he clearly struggles to hide.

Damon closes his eyes briefly. "Little Dove."

I look at him. "What, Beast? I'm only asking a question."

Serena's smile remains in place, but the warmth has disappeared from her eyes.

And judging by the way she looks at me, I have a feeling my marriage is about to become a great deal more complicated than I ever imagined.