War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

“You baked instead of drinking?”

He’s watching me closely, but that’s not what slows me. It’s what I hear in his voice that does that. It’s an ache of pain and regret, and I know what he’s saying even though he’s asking me a question. I’m sorry I hurt you.

“Yes,” I say softly. “And I took up boxing.” I smile. “That shit was good for what I needed.”

He doesn’t smile. And oh God, I wish I could soothe his ache. He might have hurt me, but he didn’t do it intentionally. “I hope you kicked his ass.”

We’re talking about a “him” as if I kicked some guy’s ass, but he’s talking about his own ass, and I can’t help but allow him further into my heart for this. For caring about me like this. “It wasn’t his ass that needed kicking. It was the universe’s ass I kicked.”

His gaze shifts to look behind me and I turn to see Mum coming our way carrying one of the other cakes. I look back at him. “There’s still one more cake I’ve gotta get. Thanks for taking that one.”

I hurry back to the kitchen to retrieve the cake. And to escape him. However, we meet again on my way out. He takes this cake from me, too, but we’re surrounded by people on their way outside, so we don’t get into another conversation.

I stay at the clubhouse for another twenty minutes before slipping away. I tell Mum I’m tired after a long week and because she’s busy with everything, she lets me go without argument.

When I arrive home, I know it’s a night for a long bath. After seeing Fury, I have a lot of stuff to work through, and a bath is the best place for that.

Just after 10:00 p.m., my intercom buzzes, dragging me off the couch where I’ve been watching Friends reruns. Figuring it’s Holly, I press the intercom button and say, “It’s late, Hols, and I was too snuggly warm on the couch for this, but if you brought me cake leftovers, I’ll let you in.”

A deep rumble surprises me. “It’s not Holly.”

Shit.

Fury.

“Oh. Hi.”

“You gonna let me in or you wanna keep talking through the intercom?”

Double shit.

I press the button to let him up and then run into my bathroom to check my hair and face.

Of course I do.

Ugh.

Why do I care how I look when I don’t want to encourage him?

There’s only one answer to that and I avoid thinking about it.

He knocks on the door and I open it, but I don’t let him in.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, only allowing the door halfway open.

His eyes don’t leave my face. “Why do I get the impression you’re avoiding me?”

“Because I am.”

“Why?”

I want to forget the pain of the last four years.

I want to tangle my fingers in his hair.

I want to reach out and pull him inside.

But I do none of those things. “I can’t do this, Fury. Not again.”