Page 22 of Claimed By Lock

His face twists. There it is — the anger underneath all that bravado. The wounded pride that's been festering since she walked away.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I'm the guy who's going to make sure you never touch her again." I push off the bike. Stand at my full height. Let himsee exactly how much bigger I am. "You had a year with her and you blew it. Got jealous. Controlling. Turned ugly. She left, and instead of accepting it, you've been stalking her ever since. Showing up where she'll be. Acting like she's still yours."

I take a step forward. Just one. Slow and deliberate.

"And I know that last night, you broke into her apartment. Waited in the dark for her to come home. Grabbed her. Threatened her."

"That's between me and her," Colt says. But his voice is less certain now.

"No." Another step. We're ten feet apart now. Close enough for this to go bad fast. "It stopped being between you and her the second you put your hands on her. Now it's between you and me."

"Or what?" He's trying to rally, get that swagger back. "You're on my turf. Alone. You think you can take me?"

"I think we both know how that would end." I hold his gaze. Let him see what's underneath the calm — the violence I'm perfectly capable of, held in check by nothing but my own choice. "But it doesn't have to go there. You're going to be smart. You're going to realize that this isn't worth dying over. That she was done with you long before I came along. That the only thing keeping this from becoming a real problem is your next decision."

Colt's jaw works. His hands are clenched at his sides. I can see the war happening behind his eyes — pride versus survival, ego versus common sense.

"You think because you've got a Sergeant patch, that means something to me?" His voice rises. "You think I'm scared of you?"

"I think you should be."

"I've got brothers. I've got my whole club behind me. You're one guy."

"One guy who walked onto your turf alone and told you to your face that you're done." I don't blink. Don't look away. "What does that tell you about me?"

The question hangs in the air. I see it land. See the calculation happening — if I'm crazy enough to do this alone, what else am I crazy enough to do?

"You don't want to find out. Trust me on that."

He's working himself up. I can see it happening — the ego overriding whatever survival instinct he has. His hands drift toward his waistband. This is about to tip.

Then the bar door opens.

Rocky steps out. Road Kings Sergeant-at-Arms. My counterpart.

I was there when his daughter Demi chose King over her own club. Watched her walk away from everything she knew — including him. That was six months ago. The set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders say he's still carrying it.

He takes in the scene with a glance. Colt wound up and ready to swing. Me standing alone in the middle of the parking lot, perfectly still.

"The hell is going on out here?"

"This Sons asshole came to?—"

"I wasn't asking you." Rocky's voice cuts through Colt's like a blade. His eyes stay on me. "Lock, right? Sons SAA."

"That's right."

"You're a long way from Tucson."

"Had something that needed saying."

Rocky moves into the parking lot. Slow, deliberate. Putting himself between me and Colt without making it obvious that's what he's doing. The old SAA move — de-escalation through positioning.

"This about the woman?" he asks.

"It's about your boy here not understanding the word no."