I'd never ridden on the back of a motorcycle before that night, and I picked possibly the worst possible circumstances to start — adrenaline still crawling under my skin, my own garage sitting behind us with a cracked window and Jax staying behind to deal with the aftermath, my arms locked around a man I'd known for less than forty-eight hours as the town gave way to open road and then, gradually, to trees.
"You good back there?" Ronan called over his shoulder, voice nearly lost to the wind.
"Define good."
Something that might have been a laugh reached me through the engine noise, brief and surprised, like he hadn't expected himself to make the sound. It was the first thing resembling genuine humor I'd heard from him since we'd met, and despite everything, despite the fear still sitting
