LILITH AND THE BIKER

CHAPTER FIVE

SEAN’S POV

That smile.

It was a inconvenient, entirely irrational thought, especially considering I didn't even know her name. I forced my eyes away first, taking a slow sip of sparkling water to anchor myself.

"You're staring," Marcus murmured, sliding another polished glass under the tap.

"I'm observing."

"That's what you called it five minutes ago."

"I don't recall asking for your clinical input, Marcus."

He let out a low laugh, turning away.

Before I could reply, a sharp vibration rattled against my thigh. I pulled out my phone.

> **ETHAN:** *Ten minutes. Traffic on Regent Street is a complete nightmare.*

I stared at the glowing text. I had given him thirty minutes. He’d already burned through twenty-seven.

> **ME:** *Make it five.*

I shoved the phone back into my jacket and turned back toward the main bar. She was still standing in the same spot, but the moment my eyes landed on her, she glanced down at her phone screen.

Her posture shifted instantly. Not dramatically—just enough to catch a trained eye. Her shoulders squared, her jaw locked, and whatever fragile trace of amusement had touched her face vanished. She typed a brief message. waited.

Nothing.

She locked the device, the screen fading to black. She offered one final, searching look toward the main entrance. No one came.

I shouldn't have cared. I had a complex surgical case in less than nine hours and a dilatory business partner arriving at any moment.

I cared anyway.

She picked up her leather clutch from the counter and turned toward the back corridor, leaving her untouched water behind.

"Don't," Marcus said quietly without looking up from his work.

I paused. "Don't what?"

"Whatever impulse is currently crossing your mind."

"I'm stepping away to wait for Ethan in a quieter space."

"Of course you are."

I ignored him and walked toward the dimly lit hallway.

The rear corridor led toward a quiet, private mezzanine overlooking the city skyline. I spotted her through the floor-to-ceiling glass paneling, standing near an open architectural window. Rain-slicked city lights stretched out beneath her like a scattered grid of amber and white.

She had taken off her heels.

The detail held my attention. She was holding them loosely by their straps in one hand, standing barefoot on the cool hardwood, staring down at the street several stories below.

I stepped through the doorframe, letting the heavy oak drop into place to cut off the muffled bass from the main floor.

"Most people use the elevator when they're looking to escape a terrible evening," I said softly.

She spun around, her heels clicking faintly against her knuckles. Surprise flashed across her features, followed quickly by a guarded amusement.

"Are you following me?"

"No."

She looked pointedly over my shoulder at the empty lounge. "Then what are you doing back here?"

"Searching for a space where I don't have to shout to be heard."

She glanced around the secluded room. "Convenient."

I stepped further inside, resting one hand in my pocket. "The person you were waiting for isn't coming, are they?"

Her slight smile dissolved. "You remember that?"

"I have a good memory."

"Evidently." She knelt gracefully, slipping her feet back into her heels and standing up to face me. "No. He isn't."

There was no need to ask for details. "A partner?"

She shook her head.

"A friend?"

Another quiet shake of her head.

"Then why stand by the door for half an hour?"

She studied my face for several long seconds, her dark eyes reflecting the cool ambient light from the window. "I was supposed to handle an obligation tonight."

"That doesn't really answer the question."

"I know."

I leaned back against the high wooden counter. "Do you always answer direct questions with evasions?"

"Only when the answers are thoroughly uninteresting."

"Fair enough."

A quiet settled between us. It wasn't the heavy, awkward silence of two strangers trying to find common ground; it was still, measured, and oddly comfortable.

She turned back to face the glass, watching the rain streak down the exterior pane. "I probably shouldn't even be here."

"Then why stay?"

Her fingers tightened around her clutch. "Because going home feels worse."

The quiet confession hung in the air. It wasn't delivered with drama or a plea for sympathy; it was stated as a dry, exhausting fact. The kind of weariness that sleep couldn't fix.

I knew better than to push for details she didn't want to offer.

I gestured toward the empty leather armchair near the window. "May I?"

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine, before giving a single, subtle nod.

I sat.

Neither of us spoke for a long time. It was a bizarre contrast—I spent my life surrounded by surgeons, administrators, and high-society acquaintances, yet sitting in a dark room with a complete stranger felt infinitely more grounded than any conversation I'd had all week.

"What about you?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.

"What about me?"

"Why are you hiding in the back room of a nightclub?"

"My associate is late."

"Very late?"

"Infuriatingly late."

A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "Perhaps he's avoiding you."

"Most people who work with me have considered it at one point or another."

That earned a soft, low laugh.

I looked at her. There it was again—the unguarded expression I had decided I needed to see a second time.

"You laugh more naturally when you aren't trying to maintain control," I remarked.

Her eyes softened, a faint flush touching her cheekbones. "And you observe far too much."

"Occupational hazard."

"A doctor?"

I nodded once.

"What discipline?"

"Trauma surgery."

She looked genuinely taken aback, her gaze lingering over my face with renewed interest. "That explains the way you evaluate a room."

"How do I evaluate a room?"

"Like you're assessing every person in it for structural damage."

"Force of habit. Usually, I'm right."

She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving. "And what's my structural damage?"

I studied her dark eyes, the fine lines of her face, the tense line of her throat. I could have given her the diplomatic, polite answer—that she was fine, that she was beautiful.

Instead, I gave her the truth. "You wouldn't want me to answer that."

Her smile faded just a fraction, her gaze darkening with curiosity. "Try me."

I shifted in the chair, turning fully toward her. Our eyes locked. For the first time all evening, I allowed myself to look at her without clinical distance, without professional detachment.

As a man.

She was striking—not in the immaculate, highly artificial manner of the women my family routinely pushed into my orbit, but in a way that felt quiet, sharp, and lingering. There was an intense restraint about her, a wall built so high it made the prospect of breaking through it feel dangerous.

She broke the eye contact first, dropping her gaze to her hands. "What's your name?"

I paused. "Sean."

She raised her eyes again. "Just Sean?"

"Just Sean."

A subtle smile touched her lips. "Good."

"Good?"

"Sean sounds considerably less intimidating than Doctor."

A rare, quiet laugh escaped me. "Does it?"

"Significantly."

My phone vibrated violently against my chest. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

ETHAN:I'm downstairs at the VIP entrance. Where are you?

Finally.

I stood up, sliding the phone away. "My meeting just arrived."

Something quick and fleeting passed across her face—a sharp flick of disappointment before her composure snapped back into place.

"I understand," she said smoothly. "Thank you for the water."

I should have turned, walked out the door, met Ethan, and locked my focus back onto my life.

Instead, I looked down at her. "You don't have to leave this room."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You aren't asking me to join your meeting."

"No. But the rain isn't letting up, and this room is quiet."

"Why tell me that?"

I didn't have an answer that made sense within the parameters of my usual restraint.

She watched me for a long, quiet moment, evaluating the space between us. Then, slowly, she reached down, slipped her heels off once more, and leaned back against the leather cushion.

"I wasn't planning on going back out into that crowd anyway."

"Neither was I," I murmured.

That was the problem. Ethan could wait another ten minutes.

For the first time in years, I deliberately ignored my own schedule, stepped back toward the window, and stayed.