The Torpedo Ink bar was packed with civilians as well as bikers. Most of the bikers were simply men and women who liked to ride. They weren’t clubs that were going to give anyone trouble, but they liked to party. Drink a lot. Dance. As a rule, that was a good thing, but with the members of Venomous and Headed for Hell possibly looking for trouble, Savage thought the night could turn ugly really fast.
The door opened, allowing the cool air to shoot through the room, and Seychelle walked in. His heart nearly stopped beating. For a moment, he could only stare, frozen. Unbelieving. He never really thought she would come. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but there she was, looking so beautiful she took his breath. She looked young and so damn innocent his body reacted. Or maybe it was because her body belonged to him. Those curves. That face. Her mouth.
She wore her favorite pair of jeans. Vintage. Faded blue with two frayed holes he knew intimately. One on her back pocket and one on her left thigh. Those jeans clung to her sweet ass, cupping the perfect curves of her cheeks, giving him instant fantasies. Her simple tank top was a dark navy blue. It shouldn’t have been sexy. There was no plunging neckline, no bra showing, but her tits were hard to contain. Round, firm and high, pushing against that thin material, straining to be free. She wore a little thin sweater, open, that didn’t cover much of anything and only made a man want to see more. Just looking at her, his every nerve ending came to life, was acutely aware of her.
He studied her face, that gorgeous, flawless face. She was very pale. To anyone who didn’t know her, she looked composed, but he knew every little nuance, every tiny tell she had, and she was scared out of her mind. This wasn’t an easy decision, and she probably had it in her head she would run like hell if she saw him. That wasn’t happening. She’d come because, like him, she needed. They needed each other.
Those nightly visits he couldn’t stop had been just as much a compulsion for her as they had been for him. That open window. He could hear her crying some nights. She wasn’t in bed when he walked up to the window; she was sitting on the floor under the window, waiting for him so she could breathe him in the way he was breathing her in. They belonged—however fucked up that was.
He knew he would have to bring her into his world as fast as possible. Already, nearly a month had passed, and he could feel the familiar violence beginning to build in him. He had time, but it was a limited amount. Seychelle would have to be entirely on board. Bog, but she was beautiful to him, and so courageous. She would need that courage to be his partner—to love him, and he wanted her to love him.
Savage stared at Seychelle as she took her first steps into the very pressing crowd, his mind trying to fully comprehend that she’d come, his lungs trying to draw in air when he couldn’t really breathe. He did manage to get his arm into the air, and he sent a high-pitched whistle into the room that reverberated over the music and the crowd for less than a second. That would be enough of a signal to alert his fellow Torpedo Ink members that his woman had just walked in.
Reaper, his older brother, sat with him, as he had these last Thursday nights when Savage had come to the bar. Savage knew Reaper was concerned about his state of mind, afraid he might pick a fight and “accidentally” kill someone.
“You’ve got your mouth hangin’ open, and your woman is goin’ to get assaulted in this crowd lookin’ like that,” Reaper said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a trace of amusement in his voice, but not on his face. Maybe in his eyes. “Does she sing as good as she looks?”
Seychelle looked out of place in the bar. Too young. Too sweet. She didn’t look around for him, and that pissed him off when he couldn’t take his eyes off her. When he was practically devouring her.
“Sings like a fuckin’ angel. Her voice, Reaper. It’s something else.”
Reaper’s woman, Anya, was the bartender, along with Preacher, another member of Torpedo Ink. Anya glanced around the bar as she shook something ridiculous for three women who had come to shake their tits at the band members. She caught sight of Seychelle and flashed her a smile. She’d recognized that signal, the one they’d all been hoping for. She was Savage’s sister-in-law, and she was extremely worried about him.
“Hey, girl. We’ve been waiting for you. Give her some room, guys, and keep your hands to yourself,” Anya called out.
No one messed with or made a play for Anya unless they were new to the bar. Most everyone knew she belonged to Reaper and he wasn’t pleasant if anyone got out of line. Savage felt equally possessive of Seychelle. The trait ran deep in the family. It hadn’t occurred to him someone might decide to touch her. The place was crowded, and it was easy enough for a man to slide his hand over a woman’s ass or tits as she walked by. Depending on what club they were in, some felt like it was their just due.