Contracted Wife to the MC President

Chapter 3

Harper POV

The room went still. He didn't blink, just stood there by the locked door, all muscle and leather, waiting me out.

I didn't ask why. I didn't fold my arms over my chest either. Fear reads like blood in the water with men like him. I held his stare and reached for the single button on my jacket.

It slid off my shoulders and dropped over my ruined stilettos. The blouse came next, my fingers steady even though nothing else about me was.

I stood there in white lace and tailored trousers, cold air raising goosebumps up my arms.

Reaper pushed off the door. Three strides and he was on me, boots bumping my discarded clothes, blocking out the lamp behind him.

"I'm not a fool, Harper." Low, rough. "You walk into my club offering millions and federal cover, I'm checking for wires. Trackers. Bugs."

He didn't ask first. He never would. His hands closed around my waist, palms scorching, calluses catching on the lace.

I locked my knees so they wouldn't give.

His hands moved up my ribs, clinical for exactly two seconds. Then it stopped being clinical. His thumbs slowed against the curve of my ribs, and his eyes dropped to my throat, watching my pulse jump.

His fingers mapped the line of my spine, and the friction of rough skin against bare skin sent something straight down through me. I shivered. Couldn't help it.

He felt it. His jaw went tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He stepped closer, thighs brushing mine, heat pouring off him until the air felt thin.

I took in the cut of his jaw, the ink crawling up his neck, the way his chest rose too hard, too fast.

His hands came back around front, thumbs grazing the edge of the lace. His pupils swallowed the gray whole. The tension in that room had a pulse of its own.

He looked at my mouth. I looked at his.

Then he let go.

The cold that rushed in where his hands had been almost hurt. He stepped back, turned, walked to the dresser in the corner.

He ripped a drawer open, grabbed a faded black t-shirt, threw it at me. I caught it against my chest.

"Put it on."

"I'm fine in—"

"Your father's armor is dead." He cut me off, turning back with a look that left no room to argue. "You're not his untouched little girl anymore. In my house, you wear my clothes."

I didn't fight it. The shirt swallowed me whole, hem hitting halfway down my thighs, smelling like cedar and leather and gunpowder. Like a brand. Like I was already wearing his name.

I crossed to the armchair in the corner and sat, legs crossed.

He unbuckled his cut and tossed it aside, watching me.

"We need ground rules," I said, falling back into my boardroom voice. "I understand the optics here. But behind this door, there need to be boundaries. I'll take the chair tonight. Tomorrow we bring in a second bed, or—"

"No."

One word, and it cut the sentence dead.

He walked toward the bed, pulled his shirt over his head, and threw it aside. My argument died in my throat. His torso told a story written in violence, muscle over old ink, scars slicing through both, knife lines, bullet scars, a body that had survived things I didn't want to know about.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, unlacing his boots.

"I agreed to protection," I pushed, gripping the arms of the chair. "Not to being your prisoner."

He kicked his boots off and stood, and there was nothing in the way he looked at me that left room for negotiation.

"You agreed to my condition." His voice dropped low, final. "In my house. In my bed. Every piece of you. I don't do roommates. I don't do boundaries. You sleep in my bed, or you walk out those gates and take your chances with your father's men."

He waited. Daring me to run.

I uncrossed my legs, stood, walked around to the far side of the bed, and pulled back the sheets. I climbed in with my back to him and pulled the covers to my chest.

The mattress dropped under his weight behind me.

He didn't take off his jeans. Didn't touch me. He took the side nearest the door, set a black Glock on the nightstand with a hard metallic click, and put his body between me and the only way out. Less husband, more warden.

He clicked off the lamp.

Dark swallowed the room. Nothing but his breathing behind me, steady, close, and the heat coming off him through the sheets.

"Sleep, wife," he said into the dark. "We get married tomorrow. Then the war starts."