Iron Reapers MC: Blood Runs Iron

Chapter 6 — Quiet Walls, Loud Wants

Back in that tiny, dim room, I kicked the door shut and shoved the chair under the knob again—pointless, probably, with Rafe camped two feet away, but it made me feel less exposed. Frustration hummed under my skin like a live wire: Jensen, Troy, Elena, the secrets, the sudden weight of a father I never knew… and him. Rafe. Every glance, every brush of his hand, that steady dark gaze—it all tangled together until my head spun hot and tight, sharp-edged stress twisting into something heavier, thrumming low and aching deep in my bones.

“Stupid,” I muttered, pacing two steps before hitting the cot. “Absolutely ridiculous brain.” I flopped back, chest heaving slow, ragged breaths. My body felt coiled so tight it ached—restless, over-warm, desperate for something I wouldn’t name. I slipped a hand down, beneath my waistband, trying to focus, trying to find any release. But every time I started to soften, my mind snagged—on the threats waiting outside, on Cain’s eyes mirroring mine, on Rafe. His voice, his scarred eyebrow, the way he’d touched my hand like he knew exactly what I craved—and nothing happened. No warmth spreading, no crest building. Just that same hollow, throbbing ache, growing sharper with every useless attempt. I bit my lip and let a small, shaky moan escape—half irritation, half pure, unmet need.

That was when the chair scraped and the door pushed open.

I froze. Hand still there, cheeks burning so hot I swore I’d combust, yanking my arm away like I’d been burned. Rafe stood in the doorway—shoulders filling the frame, dark eyes heavy, locked straight onto me—shut it quietly behind him and leaned his back against the wood, trapping us together. No smirk. No teasing. Just intent, rough and low:

“Heard you.”

I scrambled to sit up, yanking the blanket up to my chin, sarcasm fraying thin but still clinging on. “Oh? Taking up eavesdropping as a new hobby? Do I need to file a noise complaint or are you the entire police force tonight?”

He pushed off the door and crossed the space in three slow strides, stopping right at the cot edge—close enough that I could smell leather, rain, and him. His voice dropped, thick and rough like gravel, stripped bare: “You sound frustrated, Kaelin. Not just the usual firecracker mad. The kind your hand alone can’t fix.” He leaned down, eyes searching mine, honest and dark. “I can hear it in every breath. Want me to help?”

My heart hammered so hard it shook my ribs. Every warning bell screamed run, but my traitorous body leaned in instead—aching, starving, done with fighting everything including itself. “And what,” I managed, voice trembling despite me, “makes you think I’d trust anyone that close? Especially someone who answers to my father?”

Rafe’s hand brushed my jaw—light, calloused, sure—and his thumb traced my bottom lip. “Because I’m not offering to own you. Or claim you. Or tie you to anything. Just… give you a relief you can’t get alone. A helping hand. Nothing more unless you ask.” His gaze never wavered. “Say yes. Or say no. I walk right back out. Your call.”

Silence stretched, heavy and thrumming. The ache between my legs throbbed—sharp, demanding, impossible to ignore any longer. Guard or not, sarcasm or not, I was burning alive and my own hands weren’t enough.

“Fine,” I whispered, half-defiant, half-desperate, dropping the blanket just enough. “Don’t make me regret it, Razor.”

His jaw tightened at the name, and then his hand was there—warm, certain, steady—taking over where mine failed. It was different. Firm. Patient. He knew exactly how to touch, exactly how much pressure, exactly where to push until my head fell back and my guard fractured clean down the middle. Moans broke free without permission—loud, raw, entirely his fault—and when I tried to muffle them he said, low against my ear, “Let it out. No one but me hears you. And I’m not judging a damn thing.”

It built fast this time—heat coiling tight and hot, cresting higher than I ever managed alone—and when I shattered, I clutched his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, crying out his name like it was the only word I knew. He stayed steady, gentle, guiding me through every tremor until I slumped back, breathless, flushed, boneless—and staring up at him wide-eyed, my walls suddenly paper-thin and trembling.

He brushed damp hair from my forehead, his hand lingering at my hip for a heartbeat before pulling back. “Better?”

I nodded, throat too tight for sarcasm just yet. “…Don’t get cocky.”

Rafe’s mouth curved—that slow, knowing smile that did dangerous things to my stomach—and he leaned down, voice rough and quiet: “Wasn’t planning to. Sleep now, firecracker. I’m still right outside. And Kaelin?” His gaze dropped, heavy and dark. “Next time you need this? You don’t struggle alone. You knock.”

Then he was gone, door clicking shut. I lay there long after, skin humming, body loose at last—and realizing with equal parts wariness and something terrifyingly soft: I hadn’t felt safe like that in… forever. And that? That was more dangerous than any threat Jensen could hurl.