Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
But when her call for help turned desperate, keeping his distance wasn’t an option. Now Alanna is under Drift's protection—and under his skin.
A stalker from school thinks she’s his to claim. Drift is about to prove otherwise
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DRIFT
The sun hung low over Crossbend, bleeding gold across the cracked asphalt of Alanna’s new apartment complex. The place wasn’t fancy—four units tucked behind a strip of oaks, paint sun-bleached to the color of old bone—but it was solid. Safe.
My motorcycle club, the Redline Kings, owned the whole building, which meant no one besides one of us laid a finger on it. The security was top-notch.
This was also one of the reasons several of my club brothers and I were helping Jax’s little sister move in, as he’d left on his honeymoon last week.
The rented moving truck’s tailgate thudded open, shaking dust loose from the hinges. I stepped forward, hands closing around the edge of a heavy box marked Kitchen Stuff-Fragile. My fingers fit easily beneath the cardboard lip. Didn’t matter that it weighed a ton; I could’ve carried it with one hand. But I didn’t. The longer it took to take the box to the apartment, the longer I got to keep my distance.
Alanna stood near the stairs, sunlight sliding through her hair like liquid gold. Loose curls brushed over her shoulders, the color bright against the soft gray tank top she wore. The fabric clung in ways I had no business noticing. She had on ripped jeans that hugged her curves and white sneakers, and there was a faint smudge of dust on her cheek from where she’d brushed a hand across her face earlier. She looked so damn alive, while I felt like something carved out of shadow.
“Sure you got that, Drift?” Axle called while he leaned against the truck door, a cold bottle of water in his hand.
I grunted, heading for the stairs. “You offering to help or just narrating?”
That earned a short laugh from Nitro, who was wrestling with a rolled rug. “Narrating. Asshole probably forgot how to lift something heavier than a diaper bag.”
Axle flipped him off, but grinned. “Fuck you. I’m supervising.”
“Yeah?” Nitro kicked at the truck door, slamming it shut with a loud bang. “Then supervise this.” He shoved the rolled rug into Axle’s chest. “Straight up the stairs, boss man.”
Their bickering filled the humid air, easy and sharp-edged. The sound of brothers who’d walked through fire together.
I didn’t join in. My silence wasn’t new. They were used to it. But today, it came with a pulse behind it. Every step up those stairs, every echo of her laugh below, tightened something inside me. The warm, throaty sound scraped down my spine like a slow drag of smoke. She was laughing at Axle trying not to trip on the rug as he cursed Nitro under his breath.
It shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But I had no way to stop it.
I shifted the box higher, forcing my focus back to the stairs. The wooden steps creaked beneath my boots. The whole building smelled faintly of fresh paint, sawdust, and the ocean air drifting up from the coast a few miles south.
Inside, the apartment was small but bright. Pale walls, clean floors, and a couch we’d carried up earlier. Simple. Perfect for Alanna. The kind of space that would feel like freedom after years of being locked in someone else’s idea of perfection.
I set the box on the counter and wiped a streak of sweat from my temple with the back of my hand. More trickled between my shoulder blades, and my shirt clung to my shoulders, the black cotton damp and stretched tight.
She came in behind me, carrying a plant in a chipped terracotta pot. “That goes in the kitchen?”
“Yeah,” I said, stepping aside.
Her smile flickered, uncertain. “You don’t have to do all the heavy lifting, Drift.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know, but—” She hesitated, setting the plant down beside the box. “You’ve been at this for hours.”
“So have you.”
Her laugh came out soft and husky, cracking something in my chest. “Touché.”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her nails were painted a pale pink, and her skin glowed with the faintest sheen of sweat. I shouldn’t have noticed that.
There was a tiny freckle at the corner of her mouth. I shouldn’t have noticed that either.
Or the way the light caught her eyes—same steel-gray as Jax’s but softer. It damn near took the air out of my lungs.
Fuck.
I turned away, yanking open another box before I did something stupid, like stare too long. “Where do you want these dishes?”
“Cabinet by the sink.” Her voice followed me as I walked into the kitchen, light and careful. Trying to fill the silence I kept throwing at her.
Behind us, the others were still moving around. Edge thumped what sounded like a chair leg against the floor. “You sure this thing’s stable?”
“Stable as you,” Nitro shot back.
“That’s not fucking reassuring,” Rev snorted.
Edge, our VP, was as loyal as they came, a leader I’d follow anywhere, and a genius when it came to weapons. But he was also just a little bit psycho, which made him somewhat…unstable at times.