Chapter 2

Hunter "Crosscut" Maddox lingered near the podium. He kept his posture casual, but his attention unwavering as he observed the performance unfolding before him. The crowd around him buzzed with excitement, their eyes fixed on the trio at the center of the stage—two men and a woman who moved with a fluid, practiced grace that spoke of countless hours perfecting their craft.

This was Hunter's inaugural venture into the dimly lit, pulse-quickening world of a kink club. Thorns the rugged, tattooed biker who could handle any challenge thrown his way. But here, in the shadowed corners of Thorns feeling it so strongly among strangers was another.

His gaze flitted across the crowd, noting the way people were drawn to the scene, their expressions ranging from awe to envy. But Hunter's eyes kept returning to the man on the stage, the way he moved, the confidence that radiated from him. It was like watching a mirror that reflected all the things Hunter craved but had never dared to seek out. There was also something about the way the man moved that stirred a memory in him.

Hunter narrowed his eyes, but between the lighting, the riveting bodies, and the way the man was turned toward the tied woman and totally focused on his whip, there was no way for Hunter to identify him.

His thoughts were a tumultuous blend of apprehension and dark excitement. He was the morally grey peacekeeper of the Seattle underworld. A man who navigated the murky waters of the city's not so law-abiding citizens with an iron will and a steady hand. Yet, here, surrounded by the echoes of chains and soft moans, his body stirred, and his cock hardened.

The desires he had buried deep beneath his biker persona were suddenly at the forefront, brought out by the potent mix of fear, excitement, and raw sexual energy that filled the club.

He knew the risks, both to his position within the MC and to his own carefully guarded heart. Yet, as he watched the dominant figures on the stage, he couldn't deny the pull, the almost gravitational lure that drew him closer to the flame.

As the performance on the stage ended, the atmosphere shifted palpably. The audience's murmurs transformed into a collective 'oohhh'—a sound that rippled through the crowd like a wave, marking some unseen, but intensely intimate moment that had just unfolded on the podium. Hunter, curious and increasingly drawn in by the charged energy of the room, used his size to his advantage. His broad shoulders and muscular frame made it easy to weave through the throngs of people, edging closer to the podium.

Where most of the attention was on the embracing couple, Hunter's eyes were fixed on the man who had dominated the stage with such authority only a moment ago. There was something about him, some magnetic pull that had captivated Hunter from the moment he laid eyes on him. As the man stepped back from the intimate tableau he had created with his partners, he turned toward the beam of a spotlight, and the dim, mysterious silhouette Hunter had been admiring came into full, breathtaking focus.

The breath froze in Hunter's lungs, and a cold shock of recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning— Fucking Ethan Stephenson . The same Ethan Stephenson who walked the streets of Seattle with a badge and an aura of uncompromising morality. The detective was well known in the circles Hunter moved in, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Straight-laced, stone-faced, and by all accounts a thorn in the side of anyone who didn't play by the book. They'd crossed paths several times and Hunter didn't like the man one bit—even if he'd like to fuck him or get fucked by him in a heartbeat.

But that was beside the point here.

Whereas Thorns & Roses, moments ago, had seemed a Valhalla where Hunter could indulge in his fantasies, it was now overshadowed by a man from his normal life.

A man looking every bit the dominant force he had been on the stage. Blood rushed so fast from his head to his cock he almost staggered. The contrast between the Ethan Stephenson Hunter knew—a man who wore his authority like armor—and this version, who wielded it like a weapon in the shadows of the club, was jarring.

Oh yeah, the man was undeniably gorgeous, with his intense eyes, usually concealed by sunglasses, and that hard, chiseled jaw that could make anyone's heart beat faster. But he was also the kind of unbending, inflexible prick who'd made life difficult for Hunter and his brothers on more than one occasion.

Time to go!

But before Hunter could process the internal order, before he could turn and retreat into the anonymity of the crowd, Ethan's eyes met his. It was a collision of worlds, a moment where the air seemed to thicken, and time slowed down. Hunter's heart thudded in his chest, his initial shock mingling with a flare of something else—something like challenge, or maybe desire, crackling between them.

Hunter stood there, caught in Ethan's gaze, feeling like a deer in the headlights. The recognition in the detective's eyes was unmistakable.There was a flicker of something—surprise, confusion, maybe even the echo of the same inexplicable attractionHunter felt.

The intensity of the moment held Hunter captive, his instincts screaming at him to move, to break the connection and flee from the complications that Ethan Stephenson represented. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, trapped in the gravitational pull of Ethan's gaze.

That perfect face tilted, and an eyebrow lifted in a challenge. Ethan lifted his right hand with the palm up and crooked his index finger.

Well, fuck indeed.