Crimson Steel

Chapter Ten - Sharp Tongues & Sore Knuckles

The morning was quiet, golden light bleeding through half-closed blinds, dust dancing through beams of sun.

Colt moved like a shadow beside her—slow, steady, deliberate.

Avery stirred beneath the covers, half-asleep, warm and unaware—until she felt the first kiss brush across her shoulder. Then her neck. Then the delicate curve just behind her ear.

Soft.

Intentional.

His hand slid beneath the sheets, fingers trailing her bare hip like he already knew how she’d respond. Light touches at first, then firmer—down her thigh, curling possessively.

She inhaled, sharp and quick.

“Colt…”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed her again. Slower this time. Hungrier. His hand moved, fingertips brushing the edge of her panties like a threat.

“Wake up,” he murmured against her skin.

“I’m awake,” she breathed.

“Good.”

His voice had that low morning rasp—dangerous and intimate. His mouth was at her collarbone now, working lower. His hand slipped under the waistband, fingers teasing, not quite giving her what she wanted.

Avery arched into him, lips parting—and then her voice cut the heat like glass:

“How do you want it?”

He froze.

The power shifted instantly.

His eyes met hers—sharp, dark, and slightly… surprised.

She smiled, slow and wicked. A tiny victory.

He tried to recover. “Don’t start a game you can’t finish.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, dragging her nails down his chest. “I’m just following orders.”

His grip tightened slightly, a flicker of frustration flashing in his gaze—because she wasn’t wrong. He’d told her to ask.

She leaned up, close enough to brush her lips against his—but didn’t kiss him.

Then, with one push to his chest, she rolled him off her and sat up, hair wild, smirk wicked.

“You had your chance, Mercer.”

She slid out of bed and strolled toward the bathroom in nothing but a silk camisole and that ever-present perfume he hated loving.

Just before closing the door behind her, she looked over her shoulder.

“Next time, try answering the damn question.”

The door clicked shut.

Colt lay back on the mattress, jaw tense, staring at the ceiling with a quiet curse under his breath.

She was playing now.

And she was getting good at it.

The shower steamed the bathroom mirror, but Avery didn’t rush.

She took her time.

Lipstick.

Perfume.

Silk blouse buttoned to the top, tucked into a perfectly pressed pencil skirt.

Earrings. Hair pinned. Four-inch heels strapped tight.

It was her armor.

Her middle finger to the world she didn’t belong in.

And to the man waiting just beyond the door.

She opened it, stepping out with a slow click of heels, towel in hand as she dabbed her damp neck.

Colt was standing by the window, fully dressed now—black jeans, boots, clean shirt clinging to muscle and violence. His cut hung from the back of a chair, but the presence was already there.

He turned the moment she entered, eyes dragging down her frame.

A smirk flickered at his lips.

“Going to court?” he asked.

“No,” she said coolly, “just breakfast.”

He walked toward her, each step quiet but heavy, until the space between them thinned to nothing. One hand came up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“You look like trouble,” he murmured.

“I am,” she said with a tilt of her chin.

His fingers trailed down her throat, slow, measured. Then he leaned in, lips brushing her jaw.

“Don’t play games with me, Avery,” he whispered. “You’ll get burned.”

The threat in his voice wasn’t cruel—it was a promise. A warning. And it made her knees tighten just to stay upright.

Then, just like that, the moment was gone.

He pulled back and grabbed his cut off the chair, slipping it on like a king putting on a crown.

“Let’s go,” he said. “You’re eating with me.”

She blinked. “I thought I was supposed to stay in the room.”

“You’re under my protection,” he said, walking to the door. “They don’t get to question who you sit with.”

He opened it but didn’t look back.

“Move those designer heels, counselor. I’m not asking twice.”

And despite everything inside her screaming to push back… she followed.

Because part of her was already burning.

And she didn’t know how to stop.

The main room of the clubhouse was louder than Avery remembered. A low hum of voices, the clink of cutlery, classic rock rolling from an old speaker near the bar.

But when she walked in with Colt, the volume dropped.

Just a notch.

Enough for her to feel the attention.

Colt didn’t flinch. He didn’t glance at anyone. He walked straight to the long table near the front, pulled out a chair, and waited until she sat before taking the one beside her.

A plate was already waiting—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. Colt had his usual black coffee, a heavy mug already half-drained.

She noticed, again, how quietly he commanded respect.

No glares. No threats. Just that heavy, constant presence.

And now, it included her.

No one joined them. No one dared.

She started to eat, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

Colt watched her over the rim of his mug.

“I said you could sit with me,” he muttered, “not stop breathing.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?”

His mouth twitched.

She sipped her coffee, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Your room’s boring, you know.”

“Not supposed to be entertaining.”

“I’m not asking for a nightclub,” she said. “Just… a tablet. Something to stream. I feel like I’m in witness protection without the luxury.”

He tilted his head, amused. “That’s because you are.”

“Then be a better handler,” she said under her breath, picking up a piece of toast. “If I’m going to be your captive, I expect better conditions.”

He leaned back, one arm resting casually on the back of her chair. “You want a tablet.”

“Yes.”

“To stream?”

She glanced sideways. “And maybe download a few law journals.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept watching her like he was measuring how serious she was.

Then: “Fine. But I’ll have it locked. No internet. No communication outside the compound.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he gave her a single look.

That was not a negotiable clause.

“Fine,” she muttered, taking another bite. “You’re worse than some judges I’ve dealt with.”

“Judges don’t have enemies trying to put bullets in your spine,” Colt replied calmly.

Her fork paused mid-air.

He didn’t look sorry.

And she didn’t feel safe enough to pretend he was wrong.

They finished the meal in silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—but wasn’t warm either.

It was a truce.

Temporary. Fragile.

But hers, for now.

The clubhouse had settled into its nighttime rhythm—quieter now, darker. Fewer voices, fewer eyes. Engines no longer rumbled in and out. The music had shifted to something low, bluesy, lazy in the background.

Avery sat on Colt’s bed, back against the wall, legs curled beneath her.

She’d changed into something softer—leggings, an oversized sweater, bare feet tucked beneath her. She still wore perfume. Still wore her pride. But the day had worn down her edges.

When the door opened, she didn’t look up.

She didn’t need to.

She could feel it was him.

He set something down on the nightstand.

“Here.”

She turned her head. A black tablet lay there, sleek and new. She blinked. “That was fast.”

“I’m not half-assed,” Colt said, removing his cut and tossing it on the chair. “You ask for something, you get it. Within my limits.”

She picked it up, pressing the power button. It buzzed to life, already charged.

“You really locked it?”

He raised a brow. “You think I wouldn’t?”

She tried to smirk, but she was tired. “Just checking.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Colt didn’t leave. He just stood there, watching her.

“Thanks,” she said after a long pause, voice soft. “For this.”

“You’re welcome.”

She didn’t expect that.

Simple. No bite. No teasing. Just… honest.

The silence stretched, comfortable this time.

She set the tablet aside, still warm in her lap, and glanced up at him.

“You always this quiet at night?” she asked.

“Only when I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

His gaze met hers—steady, unreadable.

“About what it means to have someone in my bed again who doesn’t flinch when I walk into the room.”

Avery’s breath caught.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t know how to.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, back to her for a moment before he looked over his shoulder.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said. “Club life’ll do that to you.”

“Nightmares?”

He nodded once.

She leaned back against the headboard, quiet.

“I don’t sleep much either,” she admitted.

He turned to face her fully now, gaze sharper. “Why?”

“Memories,” she said simply. “Court cases. Mistakes. Things I said. Things I should’ve said.”

Their eyes locked in that still moment.

Then Colt stood, stepped closer, and sat beside her.

Not too close.

But closer than safe.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to pretend either.”

Avery’s throat tightened.

It was the gentlest thing he’d said to her since she arrived.

She looked at him then—not as the club president, not as the man who kissed her breathless or made her blood burn—but as Colt, the boy she once knew, carved into something harder by time and violence.

“Do you miss him?” she asked suddenly. “Bear?”

His jaw ticked. “I miss parts of him. The way he ran the club? No. But he had my back. Always.”

She nodded slowly. “My dad never wanted this life for me.”

“I know.”

Another silence.

Then, softly: “He was right.”

Colt’s hand brushed hers. Not a grab. Not a claim.

Just a touch.

And Avery didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Avery turned her hand over, her fingers brushing his—but she didn’t thread them through.

“I need to say something,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

Colt didn’t push. He just waited.

She swallowed, forcing the words out before pride could kill them. “I don’t know how to do this… with you. How to be yours.”

He turned his body slightly, watching her with that heavy stillness that always made the air feel too tight.

“We’ve got too much history,” she continued. “Too much pain. Too much distance. I can’t just fall into your bed and act like it’s natural.”

A pause.

She exhaled.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s anything. Especially yours.”

Colt leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs, voice low and sure.

“It’s not hard,” he said. “Not when you’ve wanted to f**k someone since high school.”

She stilled.

He looked at her then—dark eyes burning into her like he wasn’t hiding a damn thing.

“I wanted you when I didn’t even know what the hell to do with the feeling,” he said. “You were sharp, stubborn, always walking away when I got too close. Drove me insane.”

Avery’s chest tightened.

“I screwed around with other girls to get your attention,” he added. “Didn’t work. All it did was make you hate me more.”

“It did,” she admitted softly.

His hand found her jaw, tilting her face toward his.

“But I never stopped wanting you.”

He kissed her.

This time it wasn’t a warning.

It wasn’t a power play.

It was heat.

Longing.

Years of tension finally breaking through flesh and bone.

Avery gasped against his mouth when his hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, body to body, heat to heat.

She didn’t try to stop it.

Her brain screamed boundaries—logic, caution, escape—but her body had already betrayed her. Her hands gripped his shirt, mouth parting under his, breath catching when his tongue slid against hers.

Colt shifted, pressing her back against the mattress, his body over hers—strong, steady, familiar.

“I feel you shaking,” he said against her throat. “But you’re not pulling away.”

“Because I hate how much I want this,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, sliding a hand beneath her sweater, palm flat over her stomach. “You hate that you want me.”

Her back arched when his fingers grazed the edge of her bra.

“You think too much,” he muttered.

And then he kissed her again—harder.

Her hands tangled in his hair, lips clashing with his, fire licking up her spine. When he rolled his hips into hers, she moaned—and that was the moment she knew:

She wasn’t going to stop this.

And Colt?

Colt knew it too.