Chapter 11: Claiming Games
The silence after Dex left was a physical thing. It pooled in the corners of the loft, thick and deafening, broken only by the hollow groan of the ruined door as it shifted in the frame. Jade stood for a long time, her back against the cool window, waiting for the tremor in her hands to stop.
It didn’t.
Sleep was impossible. She spent the hours past midnight staring at the ceiling, replaying the crack of the door, the scent of blood, the crushing weight of Dex’s forehead against hers. The tears had dried into a tight, salty film on her skin. By 7 a.m., exhaustion had been sandpapered into a raw, buzzing alertness. She needed to move. To do something normal.
She showered, the water scalding her skin until it turned pink. She dressed in simple black jeans and a cream-colored knit top, pulling her still-damp curls into a loose knot. Armor, of a sort. Her phone, with its spiderwebbed screen, was a useless brick. She tossed it into her bag anyway.
The decision to leave felt perilous. Going out meant crossing the threshold Dex had violated. It meant the hallway, the elevator, the world where Cole’s laughter might still be hanging in the air. But staying felt like surrendering to their chaos.
She took a deep breath, yanked the broken door open with a grating screech, and stepped into the hall.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering intermittently. The air smelled of fresh paint and something else—a sharp, oily scent. She looked down. A dark, iridescent puddle of motorcycle oil shimmered on the floorboards just outside her door. It hadn’t been there last night. It led in a dribbling trail down the hall toward the stairwell door.
Her pulse kicked. A message. Or a taunt.
She turned sharply toward the elevator, her boots clicking on the linoleum. Just get to work. Just be normal.
She was ten feet from the elevator when the door to the laundry room swung open.
Cole stepped out.
He moved with a languid, unhurried grace, as if he’d been waiting. He held a single, folded black t-shirt in his hand. His hair was damp, curling at the temples, and he smelled of soap and cheap detergent. The playful charm was back, but it sat on his face like a mask that hadn’t quite set.
“Well, look at you,” he said, his voice a smooth, morning rasp. “All clean lines and purpose.” His eyes traveled over her, taking in the knot of her hair, the sharp line of her collarbone above her top.
Jade kept walking, aiming for the elevator call button. “I’m going to work.”
“At this hour? You’re dedicated.” He fell into step beside her, matching her pace. “Door’s looking rough. Heard the commotion last night. Sounded… intense.”
She jabbed the button. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, blocking her path to the elevator doors. The space in the narrow hallway suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Ask a question? Show concern for my neighbor?”
“We’re not friends, Cole.”
“We shared popcorn.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were assessing, calculating. “We shared more than that, if memory serves.”
The elevator dinged, a hollow sound in the tense air. The doors slid open, revealing the empty, mirrored interior. An escape.
She moved to step inside.
His hand shot out, not to grab her, but to slam flat against the closing sensor. The doors hesitated, held open. His other arm came up, bracing against the frame opposite, caging her in the opening.
“Hey,” she snapped, trying to duck under his arm.
He shifted, his body turning into hers, and with a fluid, frightening ease, he backed her up—not into the elevator, but against the wall beside it. Her shoulder blades hit the newly repaired drywall with a soft thud. The folded t-shirt in his hand pressed between them, a crumpled barrier.
“Cole, get off me.” Her voice was low, a threat she didn’t feel.
He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm, minty. “You smell good. Like you scrubbed last night right off.”
She shoved against his chest. He was immovable, a wall of lean muscle and intent.
“Dex isn’t the only one who claims things, Jade,” he whispered, the words slipping into her ear like smoke. His lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath her lobe. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a brand. His teeth grazed her neck, a sharp, fleeting scrape that made her gasp. Not from pleasure. From the sheer, shocking assertion of it.
A hot wave of fury drowned out the flicker of fear. She brought her knee up, aiming for his groin.
He anticipated it, twisting his hip to take the blow on his thigh. “Ah, ah,” he chided softly, his hand snapping down to clamp her thigh, holding it still. His grip was iron. “Feisty. I like it. But you’re gonna hurt someone.”
She was pinned. His body held hers against the wall, his hand a hot band on her leg. The fluorescent light flickered above them, strobing across his focused, amused face. The reality of it, the sheer physical dominance, crashed over her. She was strong, but he was a practiced fighter. This was his language.
“Get. The fuck. Off me.” Each word was bitten off, cold and clear.
He studied her eyes, looking for the fear he expected. He saw anger, bright and blazing. He saw something else, too—a traitorous hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat. Her body was betraying her, reacting to the danger, the proximity, the raw testosterone of the encounter.
He saw it, and his grin widened, turning genuine. “There she is,” he murmured, almost to himself. His gaze dropped to her lips. “The girl who sends texts to bikers and lets them break her door down.”
“I’m not playing with you.” She spat the words. “I’m going to work.”
She went utterly still then. Not submission, but a tactical retreat. She let the fight drain from her muscles, her body going limp against the wall. His grip on her thigh loosened, just a fraction, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance.
In that instant, she brought her hands up and planted them flat on his chest. She pushed, not with wild strength, but with a solid, steady force fueled by pure, cold disdain. “Move.”
He stumbled back a step, his brow furrowing. The playful mask slipped completely, revealing a flash of something harder, more volatile, underneath.
The elevator doors, tired of waiting, began to close again. Jade didn’t break eye contact with him. She sidestepped smoothly into the car as the doors slid shut.
His face, caught in the narrowing gap, was a complex snapshot of frustration, admiration, and a dawning, bitter respect. He didn’t try to stop the doors.
They closed with a final, muffled thud.
Inside, Jade sagged against the mirrored wall, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She stared at her reflection—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, the pale column of her neck where his teeth had scraped. A faint, red mark was already forming.
She touched it. The skin was hot.
The elevator descended. The rattling calm of the mechanism was a joke. Her heart felt like it was trying to crack her ribs. It wasn’t just fear. It was a sickening, electric cocktail of fury, violation, and a dark, shameful thrill. Her body was still humming, her nerves lit up from the struggle. He had been wrong, but he had also been right. Her physical response had been a confusing betrayal.
The lobby was quiet, sterile. She pushed through the glass doors into the muted gray of the morning. The city air was cool, damp with impending rain. It did nothing to cool the fire in her veins.
Halfway down the block, she stopped at her usual coffee cart. Her hands shook as she handed over cash for a black coffee she didn’t really want.
“Rough night?” the vendor asked, noting her expression.
Jade attempted a smile. It felt like a crack in porcelain. “Something like that.”
She took the paper cup, the heat seeping through to her palms. As she turned, the smell of the oil from the hallway seemed to cling to her. Or maybe it was just in her mind. She stood on the sidewalk, people flowing around her, feeling utterly, completely alone in the crowd.
Cole’s whisper played on a loop in her head. ‘Dex isn’t the only one who claims things.’
A claim was an act of ownership. It was a statement made to the world. It required no consent.
She took a sip of coffee. It tasted like ash.
Across the street, leaning against a building’s brick facade, was a motorcycle. A familiar, well-ridden Harley. Dex sat on it, one booted foot on the curb. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, his profile sharp and unreadable. Waiting.
He must have seen her leave. He must have seen Cole block her in the hall from some vantage point she hadn’t noticed.
He turned his head. His eyes met hers across the busy street. There was no wave, no nod. Just a slow, deliberate once-over, taking in her disheveled state, the coffee clutched in her white-knuckled hand. His gaze lingered on her neck, where the mark from Cole’s teeth would be visible.
His expression didn’t change. But something in the set of his shoulders hardened. He looked from her, back toward the entrance of her building. Then back to her.
A silent question hung in the space between them, traffic be damned.
Did he touch you?
Jade held his stare. She didn’t nod. She didn’t look away. She let him see the anger, the confusion, the aftermath. She let him see the mark.
Dex’s jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek flexed. He gave one last, long look at her building, then turned the key in his bike’s ignition. The engine growled to life, a sound that cut through the city’s murmur like a knife.
He didn’t ride toward her. He didn’t ride away. He just sat there, the engine rumbling, his eyes locked on hers, a sentinel at the crossroads. Waiting to see which way she would go.
The roar of his engine was a challenge, a dare against the mundane morning traffic. It vibrated in the soles of her boots. Jade watched the cars blur between them, a river of normalcy separating her from the chaos he represented. She looked down at her coffee, then back at the shattered screen of her phone in her bag. No cab app. A long, exposed walk to the subway.
A choice.
She tipped the remains of the bitter coffee into a storm drain. The paper cup followed with a soft, final crinkle. She straightened her shoulders, pulled her bag strap higher, and stepped off the curb.
She didn’t look for a break in the traffic. She just walked, her eyes locked on him. Horns blared. A taxi swerved, the driver yelling something she didn’t hear. She was a needle stitching through the chaos, drawn to the one fixed, dangerous point.
Dex watched her come, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. He didn’t kill the engine. The bike throbbed beneath him, a restless animal.
She stopped a foot from the curb, right beside his boot. The smell of gasoline and hot metal mixed with the damp city air. Up close, she could see fresh grazes on his other knuckles, twin to the ones from her door. A different fight. A different lock.
“You’re blocking the bike lane,” he said, his voice flat above the engine’s rumble.
“You’re stalking me,” she replied, matching his tone.
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Observant.”
She took a breath, the request feeling like swallowing glass. “I need a ride to work.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “My phone’s dead. And I… don’t want to walk.”
He said nothing. He just looked at her, through her, his jaw working silently.
“You can say no,” she added, her voice hardening defensively. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s not fine.” He cut her off, his voice low. He finally killed the engine. The sudden silence was a vacuum, sucking in the city’s sounds. “But I’m not saying no.”
She nodded once, a tight jerk of her chin. “Okay.”
He swung his leg over the bike, standing tall in front of her. The space between them crackled with everything unsaid. The shattered door. Cole’s teeth on her skin. His forehead against hers.
“You should know,” she said, the words rushing out before she lost her nerve. “This doesn’t mean… anything. It’s just a ride. It doesn’t mean we’re together, or… whatever you think is happening.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a spare helmet. It was simple, black, scuffed from use.
“I know what it means,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. He held the helmet out. “It means you’re out of options. And you’d rather risk me than risk him.”
The accuracy of it was a slap. She flinched.
He saw it. His hand holding the helmet didn’t waver. “Get on.”
She took the helmet. It was still warm. She fumbled with the clasp, her fingers clumsy. He watched, not offering help. Finally, she secured it under her chin, the world narrowing to the view through the visor.
He mounted the bike in one fluid motion, kicking the stand up. He settled into the seat and glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You know how to hold on?”
“Yes,” she lied.
He nodded toward the space behind him. “Then do it.”
She swung her leg over, settling onto the seat. The leather was warm from his body. There was no sissy bar, no backrest. Just him, solid and broad in front of her. She hesitated, her hands hovering near his hips.
“I won’t break, Jade.” The words were barely audible over the sounds of the street. “But you might fall off.”
She closed the distance. Her chest pressed against his back. Her arms circled his waist. She felt him tense, a minute tightening of every muscle under her touch. He was all hard planes and latent power. She held on, her fingers linking together over the soft, worn leather of his jacket. She could feel the heat of him seep through her clothes.
He started the bike. The vibration travelled up from the engine, through the frame, into her own bones. It was a deep, constant tremor that felt like the world was humming.
“Where?” he asked, his head tilted back slightly.
She gave him the address of the design firm, her voice muffled by the helmet.
He nodded and twisted the throttle.
The city peeled away. The sensation was nothing like a car. There were no walls, no barriers. The wind battered them, the sounds were immediate and raw, and the world tilted with every lean into a turn. She was forced to move with him, her body instinctively following his lead. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder blade, her eyes squeezed shut at first.
Then she opened them.
They were a part of the traffic, yet utterly separate from it. Dex wove through the cars with an unconscious, predatory grace. He was reading the flow three moves ahead. Her fear melted into a strange, thrilling focus. The only points of reality were the solid wall of his back and the tight circle of her arms.
He stopped at a red light. The engine thrummed between her thighs. A man in a suit in a sedan next to them glanced over, his gaze lingering on her arms locked around Dex. She saw the assessment, the quick categorization. She didn’t look away.
“You okay?” Dex’s voice came back to her, carried by the vibration.
“Yes,” she said, and this time it wasn’t a lie.
He accelerated as the light changed, the force pushing her tighter against him. She was holding on to a controlled explosion. Her mind, which had been a swirling panic since last night, went perfectly, peacefully quiet. There was no room for anything else but the next curve, the next shift of his weight, the next roar of the engine.
They pulled up to a sleek, modern building in the arts district. He eased the bike to the curb and put his boots down, steadying them.
The world rushed back in. The hum of the engine faded to an idle. The solidity of him became just a man, on a bike, on a curb. She felt unsteady, as if her equilibrium had been reset.
She unwound her arms, the muscles stiff. She swung her leg off and stood on the sidewalk, pulling the helmet off. Her hair tumbled out, a wild mess. She handed the helmet back to him, their fingers brushing.
“Thanks,” she said. The word was inadequate.
He took the helmet, hanging it on the handlebar. He looked up at her, finally pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head. His eyes were the same intense, guarded grey she remembered. But there was a new tautness there. He was studying her again, cataloging the aftereffects of the ride. And of the morning.
“The door,” he said. “I’ll have it replaced by tonight.”
She nodded, clutching her bag to her stomach like a shield. “Okay.”
He didn’t leave. He just sat there, one hand resting on the throttle. “Cole.” He said the name like it was a dirty word. “He touch you?”
She touched the spot on her neck reflexively. The mark was there, a faint red crescent. She saw his eyes track the movement, darkening.
“He made his point,” she said, evading the direct answer.
Dex’s knuckles whitened on the grip. He looked away, down the street, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping. The bike’s engine gave a low growl. “Okay,” he finally said, the word sounding like it was ripped from him.
He was a storm contained in leather and steel, idling at her curb. She had a day of vector graphics and client meetings ahead. The dissonance was ludicrous.
“I should go,” she said, taking a step back.
“Jade.” His voice stopped her. She turned. He had put his sunglasses back on, his face unreadable once more. “Tonight. Lock the new door.” A pause. “Even from me.”
Then he gunned the engine, the roar silencing any reply. He didn’t look back as he pulled into traffic and was swallowed by the city’s flow. She stood on the curb, the smell of exhaust and his leather lingering in the air, her body still thrumming with the memory of the ride, her skin still buzzing where it had pressed against his.