24. Chapter 24

24

Clara

T hirty minutes later, my thighs grip leather and metal, chest pressed against a back that’s harder than the Ducati’s chassis. The bike purrs between my legs, but that’s not what’s making me dizzy.

“Hands around my waist.” His voice vibrates through his back into my chest.

Ah-huh, you’ve gone mad, Clara.

Indeed, because I slide my hands lower instead.

Much lower.

His abs tense under my fingers as they drift south. Rock-hard muscle jumps under my touch.

The traffic light ahead flashes yellow. He guns it, the bike’s engine screaming as we thread between two SUVs. My fingers slip lower, tracing the edge of his belt. His thighs flex against mine as he maneuvers the bike, and I take advantage of the movement to press my palm flat against him.

My turn to feel him tense.

Not slowing the bike, he tilts his head to the right just a little. “Testing your luck, Caldwell?”

“Just improving my grip.” I lean closer, “Safety first.”

A sound rumbles through his chest—deep, primal. But he doesn’t push my hands away. I let them stay there, pressed against the growing hardness beneath his pants. His back expands with each breath, solid and wide against my chest. When did he get so… massive? I didn’t notice it the last time we fought.

The thought snags—

Ice-blue eyes behind black feathers.

No.

Jake’s blood, hot and sticky between my fingers.

Stop.

“Run, Clara. Don’t look back—”

Fuck. Focus on now. The solid wall of Leonid’s back. Real things. Here things. Like how the bike suddenly growls like a goddamn beast, and the pulsing vibrations between my thighs are like a fucking invitation to go wild.

My stomach drops as we accelerate, wind whipping by. Bastard . But I’m not about to let him hold all the cards. I trace circles dangerously close to his zipper, feeling him grow harder under my touch.

The bike swerves slightly.

“Careful there.” I keep my voice light. “Someone might think you’re losing your edge.”

His only response is to take the next corner faster, forcing me to press tighter against him. The city blurs past—all chrome and glass catching the late afternoon sun.

When was the last time I felt this… free?

Before Elijah. Before everything went to hell.

The thought sobers me.

What am I doing? Playing motorcycle chicken with a mob boss while my son…

No. Not now. I refuse to let guilt poison this moment. For once, I’m not Caldwell. Not a mother with impossible choices. Just a woman on a bike, tormenting the most dangerous man in the city.

He cuts through traffic like it’s a game of Frogger, the streets his own version of Mario Kart. He dodges cars, weaves between lanes, and accelerates with a reckless abandon that would make even the most hardened stuntman cringe. I’m not sure if I should be terrified or impressed, but adrenaline is coursing through my veins, and all I can do is… enjoy the ride.

“Your mind’s wandering.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to when your hands get polite.”

I resume my torment, tracing the inseam of his pants. “Better?”

His growl gets lost in the engine noise, but I feel it rumble through his chest. The bike accelerates again, weaving through traffic like a missile seeking its target.

His right hand leaves the handlebar, catches both my wrists, and yanks them up to his chest. Pins them there against hard muscle.

I should fight it. Should hate how easily he controls me.

Through my gloves, his heartbeat pounds steady and strong against my palms. My helmet rests between his shoulder blades, the visor fogging slightly with each breath. Safe. The word should make me laugh. Nothing about this man is safe.

And yet…

I close my eyes inside the helmet, feeling the wind whip past us. His body blocks the worst of it, like a wall between me and everything else. Everything I’ve been running from. God , I’m glad it wasn’t him behind that mask. Glad the monster who took Jake wears a different face.

My stomach growls, loud enough to hear over the engine’s roar. Perfect timing. For once, food actually sounds good.

I lift my head, catching our reflection in his side mirror. Two riders in black, my helmet pressed against his back. His head turns slightly—checking the traffic behind us. No, not the traffic. The black SUV that’s been three cars back since we left the clinic. His shoulders tense under my hands.

“Company?” I squeeze his chest once.

He taps my fingers once. No .

Just being careful, then. Old habits. When you’ve got as many enemies as he does—as we do—paranoia keeps you breathing.

Five minutes later, we pull up to a faded brick building with a glowing sign that reads “Katerina’s Hearth.” Before I can swing my leg off the bike, his hand catches my wrist.

“When we’re done here…” The promise in his voice makes my skin prickle. “You’re going to regret being such a tease.”

I lean in, letting my breasts press against his back one last time.

“I can’t wait.”

The helmet comes off, leaving my hair standing on end. Leonid’s already scanning—left, right, rooflines, parked cars.

He yanks off his helmet with a satisfying snap, his hair tousled in that just-fucked way that makes my fingers itch to mess it up more. Meanwhile, I’m gaping at his back like I’ve never seen a man before. My eyes devouring the way that damn Henley stretches over his shoulders, clinging to his chest like a second skin. It’s unfair, really—he’s just standing there, looking like every dangerous thing I shouldn’t want.

Jeez, if he can set my hormones on fire just by standing there, I’m in deep trouble.

I swallow and take a breath.

Why don’t you just drool on his boots while you’re at it?

I shift my weight, the hospital slipper making an embarrassing squeak against the pavement. Christ. Nothing says “sexy” like paper-thin foam between your feet, and God knows what’s on this street. At least the other one hasn’t fallen apart yet.

“Where are we?” I ask, finally snapping out of my trance, and realize I’ve never been to this part of town before.

I glance around. This isn’t what I expected. No sleek lines, no fancy valet out front. Just a crumbling brick building with faded red paint and old-style signage. There’s a bunch of worn storefronts nearby and a few older folks chatting on benches, eyeing us like they’re half-suspicious, half-bored. Not exactly a five-star spot. More like the kind of place you go if you don’t want to be found.

“What’re you looking at, kiska ?”

His voice slides down my spine like warm honey, and I realize I’m still clutching the helmet like it’s a life preserver. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, deliberate, lingering. That damn smirk appears—the one that makes me want to climb him like a tree or punch him in the throat. Maybe both.

My toes curl in the flimsy slippers, and I catch his eyes dropping to my feet. The slight twitch of his lips makes heat flood my cheeks.

“Not a word about the footwear,” I warn, but it comes out breathier than intended when he steps closer, his body heat making my skin prickle despite the afternoon sun.

His eyes darken, that familiar molten brown that Elijah gets when he’s spotted the last cookie and won’t take no for an answer—

No. Stop that train of thought right fucking now.

He reaches the door first, those broad shoulders blocking most of my view as he does another security sweep.

“After you,” he rumbles, holding the door. The gesture would almost be gentlemanly if his eyes weren’t promising all sorts of filthy things. His gaze drops to where his hoodie hits mid-thigh on me, and suddenly, the air feels too thick to breathe.

The bells chime overhead as I brush past him—too close, not close enough. His heat radiates like a furnace, and fuck me if I don’t lean into it just a little. The slight inhale behind me says he noticed.

Bad Clara. Very bad Clara.

But then the smells hit me, and holy mother of… The aroma wraps around me like a warm blanket—rich beef stroganoff that’s been simmering for hours, mushrooms drowning in butter and herbs, something that might be pirozhki fresh from the oven.

My stomach growls shamelessly.

“Hungry?” His breath tickles my ear, and when did he get so close? His chest nearly touches my back, and I can feel the vibration of his words.

“For food,” I clarify, “Just. Food.”

For now.

His low chuckle makes things clench that have no business clenching in public. “Of course, kiska . Just food.”