Crimson Steel

Chapter Nine - Bound by Smoke

Avery woke to the scent of smoke—and him.

Colt’s room was dim, quiet, and all wrong for her. No softness, no comfort. Just wood floors, rumpled sheets, and silence heavy enough to choke on. She’d barely slept, nerves strung so tight she could still feel them humming under her skin.

But she didn’t cry.

Didn’t panic.

She sat up and ran a hand through her hair.

And then she smiled—tight, sharp, deliberate.

If she was going to be claimed, she was going to be claimed on her damn terms.

When Colt opened the bedroom door, he didn’t expect what he saw.

She was sitting at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting casually on her thigh.

Hair brushed and smooth.

Eyes dark with smoky liner.

Skin glowing, lips bold and red.

A silk blouse that didn’t belong anywhere near a biker clubhouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that hugged every curve.

And of course—heels. Four inches. Designer. Unapologetic.

Colt didn’t say anything.

He just dragged on his cigarette, slow and deliberate, eyes sweeping over her like a silent dare.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I took my time,” Avery replied, voice calm. “Figured you’d appreciate that. Since now you get the full experience.”

His eyes narrowed, not with anger—but something darker. Possession. Approval. Maybe even a flicker of amusement.

She stood and walked toward him with the kind of grace that didn’t belong in his world—but damn if she didn’t own the space anyway. Perfume wrapped around her like a challenge. Everything about her said I’ll follow your rules—but I’ll do it my way.

“Downstairs. Now,” Colt said.

She passed him without flinching, brushing his shoulder with her perfume as she moved. “After you, President.”

The moment they stepped into the clubhouse, conversation dipped again.

Only this time… it wasn’t shock.

It was recognition.

Colt’s girl.

The sharp-click of Avery’s heels echoed through the room like gunfire, and heads turned—fast. Some men watched her with curiosity, others with wariness. A few of the women gave her looks laced with quiet loathing. But no one touched her. No one got close.

Because Colt walked just behind her—close enough to remind the room exactly where the hell she stood now.

Under his protection.

Under his claim.

But still on her own two damn feet.

He leaned in, voice low enough only she could hear.

“You wore that for attention?”

She smiled without looking at him. “No,” she said softly. “I wore it so you’d remember I’m not one of your girls who rolls out of bed and forgets who she is.”

He said nothing at first.

But she felt it—the tension coil behind his teeth like a leash being pulled.

Then came the quietest, most dangerous response:

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

And she knew it—this wasn’t over.

This was only the beginning.

The main room of the clubhouse buzzed with low voices and sharp glances as Colt and Avery moved through it like a storm front.

She held her head high.

He didn’t need to touch her to claim the space.

Not yet.

But that moment was coming.

They stopped at the center of the room—right between the bar and the pool table. All eyes were already on them, but now? Now, everyone stopped moving.

Cal leaned against a beam near the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was watching a slow detonation.

“Got something to say?” Colt asked, loud enough for the whole place to hear.

The silence deepened.

He stepped behind Avery, just slightly, then reached out and hooked his fingers around her hip—tight enough for her to feel the message, light enough not to hurt.

“This woman,” he said, voice even but sharp, “is under my protection.”

Avery froze.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

It wasn’t a secret.

It was a command.

Colt didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

He turned her toward him, his grip shifting to the back of her neck. His hand was warm, rough, possessive—and then his mouth came down on hers.

Hard. Deep. Final.

Gasps rang out around them.

Someone let out a low whistle.

Avery’s hands curled into fists at her sides, but she didn’t push him away.

Because something deeper than shame unfurled inside her—need.

His mouth stole her breath, owned her completely in that moment. Tongue sliding against hers like he was daring her to remember every damn reason she hated him—and how badly her body forgot them all.

When he pulled back, his mouth hovered against hers, their breaths colliding.

“Anyone touches her…” he said without looking away from her eyes, “they’ll lose the hand they did it with.”

He turned to face the room, arm still draped across her lower back.

“Any questions?”

No one answered.

They wouldn’t dare.

Avery’s lips were still burning.

Her mind screamed to step away, to say something smart, to reclaim the space.

But her body?

Her body had already surrendered.

Colt didn’t wait for her to speak.

He leaned in again, his voice brushing her ear like sin.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Now you’re starting to understand how this works.”

And then he let her go—just like that—walking off toward the bar like he hadn’t just ignited her entire nervous system in front of half the club.

And Avery?

She stood there with shaking hands, flushed skin, and the hard truth heavy in her chest:

He owned her now.

And the scariest part?

Some part of her wanted it.

Avery straightened her blouse, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and forced herself to walk like Colt’s kiss hadn’t just rattled her down to her bones.

She moved through the clubhouse like it didn’t touch her. Like her cheeks weren’t still flushed. Like her knees weren’t the tiniest bit weak.

She saw the stares. The whispers. She didn’t look at any of them.

Ignore them. You’ve stood in courtrooms with killers before. This is no different.

Except it was.

Because this time, she was the one under the microscope.

And the man who owned the room also claimed her—with lips, with touch, with a look that promised things she wasn’t ready to admit she wanted.

She made it to Colt, who was sitting at the long bar table, talking low to Cal.

He didn’t glance her way. Just tapped the wood once.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

Avery’s jaw clenched, but she moved anyway, sliding onto the stool beside him.

Cal gave her a nod of acknowledgement, then walked off.

The bartender—someone named Ace, with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck—set a plate of food in front of her. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Strong coffee in a chipped mug.

Colt didn’t eat.

He watched her.

“You’re not going to feed me by hand too?” she muttered, picking up her fork.

His lip twitched. “Not unless you want me to.”

She ate because her pride wouldn’t let her not. Because if she hesitated, if she showed even a c***k, he’d see it. They’d all see it.

And even though her stomach twisted and every bite felt like swallowing her pride, she finished the plate.

When she set her fork down, Colt stood.

“I’ve got things to handle.”

She nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

He reached for her chin, fingers firm but not cruel. Tilted her face up toward him like he was checking her for cracks.

“You stay in my room. Don’t wander.”

“I wasn’t planning on socializing,” she said, voice low.

His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping something invisible away—just to remind her who she belonged to now.

“Good,” he said. “You’re not one of them. They know it. And they don’t like what they don’t understand.”

She held his gaze. “Then maybe you should’ve warned me before parading me through the room like a trophy.”

He leaned in, breath grazing her cheek.

“I wasn’t showing you off,” he said. “I was showing them what happens when something’s mine.”

Then he turned, just like that, and walked away without looking back.

And Avery? She exhaled slowly, coffee cooling by her hand.

She hated being here.

She hated what he made her feel.

But more than anything… she hated that she was starting to feel safer here than she had in weeks.

Even if it came with a collar.

Colt’s room was quieter without him in it.

Still smelled like him—smoke, cedar, leather—but the intensity dropped the moment the door shut behind her.

Avery leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly.

She needed a win. Any win.

Something small, something to tilt the scale back in her direction, even if just for a second. She was tired of being pulled into his orbit with nothing to hold on to.

So, she snooped.

Not because she didn’t trust him—she didn’t, not fully—but because she needed control. Needed to know she could still move freely, even in a world that had pressed its boot against her neck.

She started small.

The dresser. T-shirts folded in rows. Boxers. Socks. A drawer filled with lighters—some cheap, others silver and scuffed like they’d seen too many years and too many fights.

The nightstand. A gun. Two knives. A bottle of whiskey. A single photograph tucked into the back corner, face down. She didn’t flip it. Her hands were already starting to shake.

Then she checked the closet.

Leather jackets. Heavy boots. Bulletproof vest.

And on the top shelf, tucked between a stack of old gloves and a locked box—

A small gift box.

Her breath caught.

The ribbon was still there. Faded, but intact.

She pulled it down with shaking hands.

She didn’t need to open it.

She knew what it was.

The watch. The one she gave him senior year—black strap, minimal face, engraved on the back: Time never scares me with you.

She bought it with her savings. Worked two weekends at the vet clinic to afford it. Gave it to him in private, just before he left town for a club run with Bear. She never even knew if he wore it.

She assumed he’d tossed it.

Hell, maybe he pawned it and never looked back.

But here it was.

In his closet.

Still in the box.

Still wrapped.

Still kept.

Her throat tightened.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the box like it might burn her if she opened it.

He was all leather and steel now. Brutal. Cold. Sharp-edged and unrelenting. She thought he had buried the boy who used to look at her like she was the only good thing in his life.

But this?

This was proof that boy never died.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because now she knew—under the whiskey voice and the ruthless touch, he still remembered.

He still felt.

Avery closed the box and shoved it back on the shelf like it had teeth. Like it might bite if she held it too long.

Her body had already betrayed her too many times since she came back—burning at his voice, aching under his gaze.

This?

This made it worse.

Because now it wasn’t just her body betraying her.

It was her heart.

And that scared her more than anything else in this world.

Avery barely had time to shove the closet shut and smooth the crease out of her blouse before the door opened.

Colt stepped in like he owned the air in the room. Which, of course, he did.

She stood near the window, trying not to look like she’d been snooping, trying harder not to look like she’d just found the only sentimental proof that the boy she once loved still lived inside this ruthless man.

But he knew.

He always did.

He set his phone on the dresser without saying a word, his eyes already locked on her.

She tried to turn away.

Tried—and failed.

Colt crossed the room in three slow steps and stopped just in front of her.

“You found the box,” he said, voice flat, unreadable.

Her throat tightened. “I was looking for a towel.”

“You lie like a lawyer.”

She didn’t respond.

He stepped closer—just close enough that she had to tilt her head to keep from breathing him in.

“You look different,” he murmured.

“I didn’t change.”

“No,” he said, gaze dropping to her mouth. “But something in you did.”

She swallowed.

He lifted a hand, brushing a single finger down the side of her neck.

“You think I can’t feel it?” he said, his voice suddenly like gravel wrapped in silk. “The way your breath goes shallow when I walk in? The way your thighs tighten when I get too close?”

She tried to move, but his hand caught her wrist—lightly, not cruel, but with the kind of hold that said you’re not walking away from this.

“Colt…”

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said, voice dipping lower, “but your body knows the truth.”

She hated how right he was.

How just his words made her skin flush, her pulse spike.

He dipped his head, lips brushing just below her jaw.

“You still want me.”

Avery’s breath hitched.

“You hate that I own you,” he whispered. “But you hate more that it feels good.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “You don’t own my thoughts.”

“No,” he said. “But I own everything else.”

His mouth found hers again—slow this time, controlled, devastating. Her hands pressed against his chest, but they didn’t push.

Not really.

His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her in, deepening the kiss until her body betrayed her again—arching into him, mouth opening under his like it was meant to.

When he finally pulled back, her eyes were glassy.

His voice was nothing but iron.

“Next time you go looking through my things,” he murmured, “just remember—if I wanted you to know how much I still wanted you, I would’ve shown you.”

Then he stepped away, and just like that, the spell broke.

He left her standing by the window, breathless, lips swollen, body trembling.

And every part of her knew the truth now.

She wasn’t fighting Colt.

She was fighting herself.