The noise from the main room of the compound was muffled here—just a faint thrum of music and the occasional burst of laughter spilling down the hallway. The garage had its own atmosphere, thick with the scent of motor oil, metal, and gasoline. The concrete floor was streaked with years of work, and the walls held racks of gleaming tools in perfect order.
Cordelia stood near the entrance, uncertain whether to step in or wait. Ash was crouched by a stripped-down Harley, his forearms taut and slicked with a faint sheen of sweat, grease smudging the back of his hand. His shirt clung to his back in places, riding up just enough when he shifted to show the defined cut of muscle at his waist.
A little dangerous. A little untamed. And entirely distracting.
He looked up when he sensed her pres
