Shirley
I noticed it first in the way Dante’s eyes never seemed to rest anymore. Even when he was with me—whether it was late at night in bed or across from me at breakfast—there was a restless flicker beneath the calm mask he tried to wear. He was wound tight, every muscle always poised as if waiting for an attack that hadn’t yet come.
At first, I tried not to question it. After all, tension was his constant companion; he was the Alpha of a biker pack and a man who had enemies at every corner. But there was something different about this. This wasn’t just suspicion—it was dread.
That morning, I sat at the worn wooden table in the clubhouse kitchen, the smell of fried bacon and coffee mixing with the faint smoke of last night’s bonfire. Zara was chattering beside me about some ridiculou
