Ride With Me

Chapter Twenty-Two

While Piper slept, a soft, even rhythm of breaths filling the quiet bedroom, Knox carefully slipped out from beneath the sheets. She barely stirred, her body heavy with exhaustion. He gently removed the damp towel that had been wrapped around her, its coolness a lingering reminder of her injuries, before pulling the blanket snugly over her bruised, naked body. Her raven hair was scattered across the pillow like a dark halo, her face softened by sleep, all the sharpness and fire that usually lived in those icy blue eyes temporarily gone, leaving behind a vulnerability that tugged at him.

For a moment, Knox simply watched her, a silent observer of her repose. Then, with the quiet grace of a predator, he stepped away from the bed. The early-afternoon sun streamed through the sheer curtains, spilling pale gold across the room, warming the edges of the blankets and casting long, soft shadows. Outside, the world had settled into the lazy, humid heat of the day, the distant hum of traffic a low thrum. But inside the bedroom, everything was still, suspended in a bubble of shared intimacy and silent understanding.

Knox pulled the door almost completely closed behind him, leaving Piper to her peaceful slumber. Then he headed downstairs, his bare feet padding softly on the cool wood floors. He found his phone on the kitchen counter, its screen dark. He checked the time—late afternoon. He ordered takeout, his fingers flying across the screen. Chinese. Enough for both of them, a generous portion that would linger. The restaurant promised it would take about an hour to arrive. Piper should be awake by then. And if she wasn't? He would heat it for her, his brow furrowing slightly at the thought.

He set his phone down and poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. He dropped a few ice cubes into it, the sharp sound in the quiet house, before carrying it into the living room. He sank onto the plush couch, the cushions yielding beneath him, and took a slow, deliberate drink, savoring the burn. Then his eyes wandered, drawn to the walls.

The room was a gallery of photographs. They covered the walls, sat in ornate frames on tables, lined the mantels—a visual chronicle of a life lived. Family photographs. Years of them. Some newer, their colors vibrant and sharp, others old enough that the edges of the pictures had begun to fade, softening with the passage of time and memory. Knox stood, a silent observer in this intimate space, and moved slowly through the room, studying them, piecing together the fragmented narrative of Piper's life.

One photograph made him stop.

Piper.

Much younger, perhaps ten or twelve years old.

She was perched on a dirt bike, grinning widely at the camera, scrapes on her knees and elbows, a testament to youthful exuberance and inevitable tumbles. Beside her, an older man crouched low, his weathered hand pointing toward something outside the frame, apparently explaining something about the bike with an animated expression. Knox studied the picture, his gaze lingering on the man's strong hands and his weathered face.

Her grandfather.

He knew almost nothing about the man.

Piper hadn't told him much the night before, only offering a few tantalizing glimpses into her past. Just one thing had stuck with him, a phrase that echoed in his mind, a whisper of a philosophy. His motto. "Move silently and accordingly. Never let them know your next move." That was all she had given him.

But somehow, looking at this photograph, Knox could begin to imagine the kind of man who had taught her those words, who had instilled that quiet discipline. Her grandfather was burly. Not merely big. Built. Broad shoulders that strained against his shirt, thick arms corded with muscle, a heavy chest that spoke of a lifetime of hard work rather than hours spent in a gym. Even standing beside the dirt bike, he looked like a man who could have picked the damn thing up and carried it if he had to. Built like an oak tree, solid and unyielding. Knox smiled faintly. Yeah. He could see it. He could see the lineage, the shared strength.

He moved on, his gaze sweeping across the wall.

Another photograph caught his attention.

Piper, looking a little older this time, perhaps a teenager, stood between a woman with the same raven-colored hair and darker, intense eyes and a man on her other side who immediately made Knox pause. Those eyes. The same icy stare Piper carried, a glint of fierce intelligence and unwavering resolve. And the man was nearly as large as the one in the photograph with her grandfather, his frame solid, his presence commanding. Knox studied the three of them for a moment, a tableau of family, of protection. Then he looked back at the younger Piper, her defiant stance, her rebellious grin.

"No wonder you're so tough," he murmured, the words a soft observation.

He continued through the room, his glass of whiskey held loosely in his hand, taking another slow drink as he navigated the memories captured on the walls. Then he reached a photograph that looked like it belonged to another lifetime. Black and white. Old enough that the edges had softened with age, the image imbued with a vintage patina. Knox stopped, his breath catching slightly. A young man sat casually on a motorcycle, one boot planted firmly on the pavement, one hand resting casually against the handlebars. He wore a leather jacket, his collar turned up against a phantom chill, his dark hair slicked back and carefully oiled, a stark contrast to Knox’s own tousled mane. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, a plume of smoke curling lazily toward sky.

The man had an easy confidence about him, an unstudied swagger. The kind Knox recognized immediately, a kindred spirit across the decades. But it wasn't the man that truly caught his attention. It was the motorcycle. Knox stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, then widening in a flash of disbelief. "No f*cking way." He leaned toward the photograph, his whiskey forgotten. A Vincent Black Shadow. Even for its time, that motorcycle had been something special.

Rare.

Expensive.

Built for speed when most motorcycles were still regarded primarily as practical machines rather than instruments of performance and rebellion. And there it was. Sitting proudly beneath Piper's grandfather, a testament to a shared passion that transcended generations.

Knox stared at the photograph for several long seconds, his mind racing. He knew bikes. He knew their history, their legends. He knew what certain machines meant to people who understood them, who lived and breathed them. And a Black Shadow wasn't something you casually owned; it was a statement, a declaration of intent. His eyes traced the old motorcycle in the photograph, taking in its unmistakable silhouette, its powerful lines. Then he looked at the young man sitting on it. Her grandfather. A slow, genuine smile pulled at Knox's mouth. "Well, damn."

Suddenly, the dirt bike photograph made more sense. The scraped knees. The grease stains on her jeans. The innate ease with which Piper handled a motorcycle, her almost instinctive connection to the machine. The way she talked about riding, about the races, as though it were as natural as breathing, as fundamental as her own heartbeat. She hadn't simply learned to ride. She had been raised on the seat of a bike. It had been passed down to her through generations, a legacy etched in chrome and gasoline.

Knox looked around the room again, his gaze sweeping across the photographs, the motorcycles, the family. Piper. It wasn't just something she did. It wasn't a hobby she indulged in. It wasn't some rebellious phase she would eventually grow out of. It was her life. Just as riding was his life. And that realization hit him with a force that surprised him, a truth that settled deep in his gut.

Knox took another slow drink of whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. This was why he had always avoided relationships, why he kept women at arm’s length, a comfortable distance. Not because he didn't want a woman, not because he couldn't find one. Hell, he had opportunities, fleeting connections that faded as quickly as they began. He simply never wanted anyone badly enough to give up the things that mattered to him. The bike. The races. The solitary nights spent chasing asphalt beneath the glow of streetlights. The raw, visceral sound of an engine screaming beneath him. The freedom. The danger. The entire, exhilarating, untamed life. Eventually, it would always come down to a choice.

Me or the bike.

Me or the races.

Me or the life.

And he had never, in his entire life, been willing to make it. No woman had ever been worth giving any of it up.

Until now.

Knox's gaze drifted toward the staircase, toward the woman sleeping upstairs, her breath a soft cadence in the quiet house. Piper Sinclair wouldn't think twice about telling him to get lost if he ever tried to take that life away from her. He knew it. She would never surrender the road, the freedom, the very essence of who she was, for a man. And strangely, that didn't scare him. It made something deep in his chest settle, a quiet assurance. Because he didn't want her to give it up. He didn't want a softer, domesticated version of Piper. He didn't want her to stop racing, to stop pushing her limits. He didn't want to tame the woman who had, quite literally, beaten him. He wanted her. Exactly as she was. Fierce, untamed, and utterly, gloriously herself.

Knox looked once more at the photograph of her grandfather perched proudly on that rare, iconic motorcycle. Three generations. Three different eras. And somehow, the same damn love of two wheels, the same insatiable hunger for the open road, running through all of them like a shared bloodstream. He smiled, a genuine, open smile. This woman had literally been raised on the seat of a bike. No wonder she understood him. No wonder she hadn't looked at his life, at his solitary existence, and seen something that needed fixing, something to be tamed. She' had grown up knowing exactly what it meant, what it demanded, and what it gave in return.

Knox looked toward the stairs again, a new resolve settling within him. He had spent his entire life convinced he'd never meet a woman worth choosing over the road, over the life he had carved out for himself. Turns out, he hadn't needed to find one who would make him choose. He needed to find the one woman who would never ask him to, the one who shared the same wild spirit, the same unyielding passion.

His match.

Finally.

And judging by everything he knew about Piper Sinclair so far, she would probably kick his ass if he ever suggested otherwise.

Knox chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine. "Yeah," he murmured to himself, his gaze lingering on the staircase, on the promise of the woman who waited upstairs. "I think I finally met my match."