Biker's Sin: Stole His Best Friend's EX!

8

Elijah Vega.

I leave the party after.

There’s something about threatening the woman I’m attracted to and then admitting I’m attracted to her that just—doesn’t mix. Whatever cocktail of power and truth I served her back there, I can’t face her again tonight. Not when I know she’s not the type to hide her scars well.

I shut my eyes and toss back the ginger shot in one go. It hits like a damn punch in the throat. Grachi—our head chef and long time herbal witch smiles as if this torture is affection.

“Put on a shirt.” she scolds. “You’re making the staff uncomfortable.”

“Are they new or something?” I stick out my tongue at the extra kick in today’s brew. She’s definitely punishing me for skipping breakfast again.

“They are. Sydney hired a few more. A few of former staff broke the rules—took pictures of the house, posted them online and they are being dealt with.”

I give a slow blink. Dealt with. I don’t need details.

Grachi tuts. “Son, would you like some eggs? Toast? You haven’t eaten properly in days. How do you plan on running this city with nothing in your stomach, hmm?”

I lift myself onto a high stool at the counter while thumbing through the morning paper. “Sure.”

“That’s my boy.” she beams, shuffling around the oversized kitchen. “What about Sergio?”

“No idea.” I don’t look up.

“Oh dear… are you Mrs. Flora’s newest assistant?”

I turn behind me and it’s her. Paloma.

She goes quiet the second she sees me. Her sensational eyes catch on my back where my tattoos pattern across my shoulders like old sins. Her silence tells me more than her words ever could.

“I told you to put on a shirt.” Grachi sighs.

“Morning.” Paloma says—but not to me.

I back focus on the newspaper. Interesting.

“I’m Grachi, head chef. Pleasure to meet you, dear. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m Paloma by the way.” she says politely.

“Paloma…” she repeats, as if tasting the name. “Do you really expect me to believe you left your house before dawn, arrived here by nine, and still managed to eat an earthy breakfast along the way?”

That’s the thing about Grachi—she’s persistent. Like a cattle rancher forking eggs down our throats because she believes food is the answer to everything.

I keep my eyes buried in the newspaper, but I hear the shuffle of feet. She’s dragging Paloma to the table.

“Um, ma’am—” Paloma starts.

“Call me Grachi.” I hear the scrape of a chair—the one right next to mine.

Great.

I catch a whiff of her as she sits down. Sandalwood. Cocoa butter. Milk vanilla. So decadent so soft as the woman she is.

“Here. Sit.” Grachi insists. “What do you think about eggs and toast?”

“I don’t want to trouble you—”

“You’re not. I’m the head chef, sweetheart. It’s literally my job to make sure everyone eats in this house.”

And there she is. Seated beside me like fate doesn’t know how to mind its business. She pulls off her bag and places it on the counter. Her outfit is clean. Black top, white buttons. White skirt with a neat slit and her favourite ballet shoes. She looks composed. Not a single fray in her being.

Rebekah stumbled in last night around 3 a.m. drunk and shouting curses at the moon. I’m guessing Paloma must’ve left early.

Right now, I say nothing. In this house, the walls don’t just have ears—they have teeth. And my father’s rules are written in stone. If they even smell a rumor about me and Paloma, she’ll be out faster than she can say "good morning."

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a notepad and pen. The book is full of colors, patterns, scribbles and highlights. Some organized chaos. She flips it open and starts scanning.

“Morning.” comes a new voice. Rodrigo.

“Morning.” Paloma replies.

I scoff under my breath. She didn’t greet me, but to be fair, I didn’t greet her either.

“Paloma, right?” Rodrigo asks, already halfway into his charming tone.

“Yes, sir.”

And there it is—sir.

I don’t like it.

Rodrigo slides into the seat across from us and, just for fun, pats my head like I’m a damn Labrador. I swat him off without looking up.

“Dad wants us to have dinner together tonight.”

“Anything the king wants, he gets.” I reply, flipping the page of my paper.

Grachi returns like the saint she is and places two plates in front of us. Toast, eggs, grilled tomato, sausage.

“Thank you, Grachi.” Paloma says.

“I’ll have some coffee. I’m already running late for work.” Rodrigo says, already distracted as his phone starts buzzing. He steps away to answers it.

And then it’s quiet.

Except Paloma's hands are mildly shaking as she lifts the knife to eat. Is it me again? What have I done to this girl that even something as simple as eating frays her nerves? So much that she'd lift a scalding-hot pancake to her lips. I can't watch this.

I catch her wrist just before the food touches her mouth.

"Blow." I instruct.

She stares at me like I've spoken in another language. So I lean in, intending to cool the pancake on her fork myself but she misreads it. Thinks I'm moving in to kiss her. Her elbow jerks back, sending the plate of steaming food tipping toward her lap. I barely get my hand under it in time to take the burn myself.

Barehanded.

She gasps.

The burn is instant on my skin like punishment. Yet, my only concern is making sure nothing touches her. I push the mess off my arm, wincing once, and only then do I look up.

Her eyes are wide, lit with something that almost makes the burn worth it.

"Your—your skin."

“It’s fine.” I lift my hand slightly, warning her not to fuss. Not here. Not now.

Grachi is too busy scolding someone across the kitchen so she is unaware of the scene that just unfolded at her sacred breakfast table.

At the sink, I run cold water over my hand. Might need ice. I open the fridge, grab a bag of ice and lean against the counter while pressing it to my palm.

She’s still watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“Your arm... it’s turning red.”

"It's fine." I start walking away, past her but I very much hear her clearly following behind me. I don't think much of it—she's not foolish enough to follow me to my bedroom. When I reach the nearest elevator, I turn to face her.

"You need ointment. Um, not just ice—it could leave a bruise."

I sigh. "And you want to help me with that? Do you not care for your job?" The elevator opens, and instead of letting it close, she follows me in.

"It's my fault, sir. The least I can do." She looks petrified even saying that. But of course, she self-sacrifices. I've never known her to be selfish. She won't leave, even when I remind her of the house rules.

The elevator stops on my floor. My wing.

No one comes here unless it’s cleaning time. And even then, not before seven in the evening.

I don’t say anything else as I walk down the quiet hall and push open the door to my study. She waits at the threshold like she’s still asking for permission. I drop the half-melted ice and pull out a first aid box from the drawer.

“Let me… please.” She steps inside and opens her hand.

I hand her the ointment.

“You should sit, please.” she adds, still so formal.

I nearly smile. Paloma. In my study. Telling me to sit—because of a bloody pancake? If this is what it takes to have her here, I would've put my hand on the stove myself.

I watch her dainty fingers open the ointment tube. Unable to find something to dry the moisture from the ice, she uses her sleeve to gently pat my skin like I’m something fragile. I like the way she handles me. My gaze lifts to the dimensions of her face instead—the sanctity in it, perfection, how her eyebrows tense with concentration as she tends to me.

I don’t look at my hand.

I look at her.

I didn’t know she saw me as human too. I didn’t know she could ever find a seed of reason to pity a man like me? Especially after making me feel like a monster just yesterday. Slowly, she begins rubbing the minty ointment over my arm, and medicine has never felt this soothing before.

“Why would you even put your hand out? You don’t even know me, why would you—”

“You can’t make sense of it, can you?” I interrupt, eyes trained on hers. “That a man who’s known violence would rather take pain than let it happen to someone else? Is that not what you’re really asking?”

Her throat bobs.

"I’m sorry. I thought you were going to—"

"Kiss you?" I finish for her and rise to my feet. Her eyes are of how to respond. "Don’t worry. I don’t blame you for being scared of me. It’s what any sane person would do."

She starts closing the ointment and I extend my hand so she’ll return it.

"I’m really sorry, sir."

"Stop apologizing." I tell her so we look at each other.

“Is there anything I can do? I mean…your skin is visibly red. That could’ve been me.”

She glances down at my arm again, and she’s right—it would’ve been her thigh. I took that hit because the idea of her bruised, blistered would’ve undone me.

“Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to, Miss Girl.” I reply and recognition dawns in her. I told her before—I’m attracted to her. So, if I were to ask for something now, something not so proper, she’d run off.

I take a step toward her and she doesn’t move.

She stays rooted, unsure of what I’ll do… but trusting enough not to run.

When I get close enough that only our breaths have the freedom to pass between us, I bring my lips to her face and stamp a hot kiss there. I see the exact moment her heart leaps. Then I pull back just enough to watch her lips part too.

Wide, alighted eyes are on me.

"I'm attracted to you, Paloma. What I said yesterday—I meant it."

She shoves my chest and stumbles backward in haste. This time, tears pattern in her eyes, and I’m confused. What did I say to make her cry?

"So Caden asked you to do this too? You’re both toying with my life again. I fell for it once already! You play hero, then corner me." Her voice fractures and she’s crying ugly now, fumbling for the door before she flees.