POV Bella
Wind tore at my jacket—his jacket—as we carved through the night toward forbidden territory. Each turn pressed me deeper against Ajax's spine, my thighs bracketing his hips in a mockery of intimacy that felt more real than anything in my carefully curated life.
The garage materialized from shadow like something out of a fever dream—corrugated metal and cracked concrete, utterly removed from my world of marble and crystal.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh relief. Motor oil perfumed the air, mixing with leather and something indefinably male that made my pulse quicken.
"Home sweet home." Ajax killed the engine, his voice carrying dark amusement. "Not exactly the Sinclair stables, is it?"
"It's perfect." The honesty surprised us both.
Tools lined pegboard walls with military precision. Three motorcycles in various states of assembly occupied the main floor, chrome catching light like scattered stars. A workbench dominated one corner, scarred wood telling stories of countless late nights.
I claimed a rickety stool, tucking myself into shadows while Ajax moved through his domain with liquid grace. His hands found tools without looking, muscle memory guiding each motion as he examined his bike.
Then he stripped off his shirt.
The fabric peeled away like a reveal, exposing lean muscle wrapped in ink. A dragon curved around his ribs, breathing fire toward his heart. Scars interrupted the artwork—white lines marking crashes, fights, a life lived at full throttle.
My thighs clenched involuntarily. Heat pooled low in my belly, dangerous and demanding.
"See something you like?" He didn't look up from the engine, but his smirk was audible.
"Just wondering if you ever wear appropriate safety gear." My voice came out steadier than expected. "All those scars suggest otherwise."
"Each one's a story." He straightened, wrench in hand, sweat already beading along his collarbone. "This one? First street race, took a corner too fast." His finger traced a jagged line across his shoulder. "This? Bar fight with Jake's ex's new boyfriend."
"Charming."
"Never claimed to be Prince Charming, starlight."
The nickname rolled through me like thunder. I stood, drawn by invisible threads toward danger wearing skin and ink.
"I don't know anything about motorcycles." I stopped just outside his reach, playing at casual interest. "Maybe you could explain what you're doing?"
Ajax set down the wrench with deliberate slowness. When he turned, his eyes had darkened to forest shadows.
"You don't give a damn about the bike." Each word dropped like a stone into still water. "You just wanted a closer look at me, didn't you?"
"Your ego is showing." Anger flared, safer than truth. "Maybe you're compensating for other shortcomings. Classic overcompensation behavior, really."
The barb landed. His jaw tightened, that dangerous stillness settling over him like armor.
"Shortcomings?" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Should I call character witnesses? I've got a long list of girls who'd testify otherwise. Laila alone could write sonnets about my lack of... shortcomings."
The name sliced through me. Laila with her perfect body and eager hands. Laila who didn't have an expiration date.
"Did you bring Laila here?" The question erupted before I could swallow it back. "Is this where you conduct your 'activities' with her? Against that wall? On that workbench?"
Silence crystallized between us. Ajax's expression shifted—surprise melting into something predatory, recognizing the weapon I'd just handed him.
He moved faster than thought. One moment he stood three feet away, the next his oil-stained hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against his bare chest. Heat seared through fabric, skin to skin where the jacket gaped.
"Are you jealous, starlight?" His breath painted heat across my cheek. "Does it bother you thinking about me with other girls? About what I do to them in places like this?"
"No." The lie tasted like copper. "Why would I be jealous of something that means nothing?"
"Nothing?" His thumb traced circles on my hip, each rotation sending sparks through my nervous system. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this means nothing?"
"It doesn't matter what I tell myself."
"Laila was at my apartment last night." The words struck like calculated blows. "Showed up wearing this little red dress, nothing underneath. Begged me to take her to bed."
My nails dug crescents into my palms. "I don't care."
"She pressed against me in my kitchen, right against the counter." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Kissed my neck, told me she'd do anything I wanted. Anything to make me forget about you."
"Stop."
"Madison before that. Two weeks ago, at Jake's party. Followed me to the bathroom, dropped to her knees right there." His fingers tightened on my waist. "Said she'd heard stories about me. Wanted to know if they were true."
The images burned through my mind—poison I couldn't expel. Other girls touching him, tasting him, having what I couldn't let myself want.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice cracked on the question.
"Because you're lying." His free hand rose to my face, thumb brushing my bottom lip. "Lying about not caring. Lying about feeling nothing. Your whole body changed the second I mentioned them."
"You're cruel."
"I'm honest." He leaned closer, lips nearly touching mine. "Want to know what I told them? Laila with her perfect body, Madison on her knees?"
I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
"I told them no." The confession hung between us like a blade. "Sent Laila home. Walked away from Madison. Haven't touched anyone since—"
"Since when?"
"Since you." His forehead pressed to mine. "Since that dance rehearsal when you finally stopped fighting me. Since I kissed you against your gate and realized everyone else tastes wrong now."