Amy and the other four were caught in the crossfire between a biker gang and the police. Four were dead, and one survived. One of his friends, Michael, got shot in the knees, and fell down before more bullets could kill him.

Amy had been shot through the heart, and died minutes later in Harrison’s arms.

It was biker bullets that killed Amy and Harrison’s friends. With little regard for the lives of others, they’d shot at the cops who’d recognized them.

Harrison wanted to die. Said he should have been there with Amy. That if he had his arm around her, she may still have been alive. I shuddered at the thought—it would’ve meant my brother would be dead.

If it weren’t for me, both Harrison and I would’ve been with the group, but we may have been further along, avoiding the crossfire altogether. All it took was a few seconds to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was ALL my fault.

I should’ve been dead.

And Harrison wished he was.

Even now, after all these years.

The images had faded somewhat over time, but my heart was still breaking for the loss of those innocent young lives. I rubbed at my heart, trying to lessen the physical pain. Life would’ve been so different if that hadn’t happened.

From that day on, Harrison had hated bikers. He’d made it his life’s mission to stamp out biker clubs and crimes associated with them. Cleaning up the streets and banning groups of bikers from public places was what he dreamed about, because he never wanted an incident like that to repeat itself on innocent victims.

I got that.

Hell, I was on his side. We both recognized the gangster type immediately and had a strong aversion to anyone who was a biker in a MC. They were the scum of the earth.

Until Ryder.

Until I met a man who outwardly portrayed every one of those traits. I should hate him and his kind for what they did to Amy and the others. For what they did to me, and to Harrison.

Yet I couldn’t hate Ryder. Underneath that hardened exterior was just a man, one who had his own burdens weighing him down. Who the hell was I to judge him and his kind? I knew nothing of their pain or their reasons for being what they were.

But how could I explain that to Harrison? He wouldn’t even listen. For as stubborn as I was, Harrison was tenfold more so.

My head hurt from all the thinking. I had to get through to Ryder that we could never see one another again. That what had happened on the back of his bike and in the kitchen were a moment-of-madness mistake we couldn’t allow to be repeated.

My heart ached. It was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done—to deny myself the feelings that flooded my being when I thought about Ryder Knox.

He felt them too—I didn't need a crystal ball to know that. Ryder never apologized for telling me blatantly just how much he wanted me, in every carnal and lustful way. There was a magnetism we couldn’t deny, a pull stronger than logic permitted. We were so different, yet we fitted so well together. It was beyond reasoning. Beyond anything I’d ever imagined. Not even the romance novels I consumed could have prepared me for this.

But I had to sacrifice my feelings of lust for Ryder because there no good could come of it. We were doomed from the start.

I. Had. To. Choose. My. Family.

Why had Ryder chosen Clarke and Sons Agency that day?

And why in hell could he not just let go? Move on?

And why, oh why was I so drawn to him, so weak when it came to resisting him?

Why?

Still bewildered by my emotions, I became aware of a strange noise. It reminded me of when I was a teenager and boys threw pebbles against my window. Then it dawned on me—that was exactly what it was. I scooted off the bed to the window as another pebble hit it smack in the middle of the glass. What little delinquent was pranking me at this time of the night?

I pushed the window open and gasped. Ryder was standing there in the darkness, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. Fuck. This was worse than when I was a teenager. Back then I was too innocent to know better. A boy beneath my window sent my heart aflutter. Now other parts of me were fluttering, way down south from my heart.

“Let me in,” he demanded, his arms folded over his chest.

“Shhh,” I gestured, then shook my head.

“Fine,” he muttered and walked away. What? Was he giving up that easily? He disappeared out of sight around the corner, without any further protest. I was pretty disappointed, but it was better this way. I didn't want him to see that I’d been crying. I wiped my nose with my sleeve and crawled back in to bed.

I closed my eyes, confused even more. Why had Ryder come here? Why had he left without even trying? Was he finally listening to me? And did I really want him to?

“Fuck, Princess. You’re killing me.” Ryder stood in my doorway, his silhouette in the dark visible by the light of the moon. Was I dreaming?

“Ryder! W . . . what? H . . . how?” I switched on the bedside lamp.

“If you won’t let me in, I’ll let myself in.” He grinned, his gaze raking appreciatively up my semi-naked body. I was wearing only a tee and panties.

“But . . . but the doors are locked . . . and we have alarms . . .” Had Daddy forgotten to lock up?

Ryder chuckled softly. “Babe, nothing will stop me if I want to get in somewhere. Breaking in is an undervalued skill, and definitely one of my many talents.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

“Yeah? And did you poison the Rottweiler?” Mom had insisted on having a trained guard dog. It made her feel safer. Bruno was alert and fierce, yet I hadn’t heard him growl or bark as he usually did when strangers came to the house.

“The pup and I are friends. I’m definitely not going to be his breakfast.” He sat on the bed, watching me.

My eyes widened. Bruno was a muscled brute of a dog; he hadn’t been a puppy in five years. How had Ryder gotten past Bruno? He didn't take kindly to strangers.

“Princess. You’ve been crying—tell me why.” His voice was hoarse, yet soft.

My throat was still thick, and tears sat just behind my eyelids, ready to spring forth again. I couldn’t speak. I wanted Ryder here more than anything, but I also wanted him to leave, for his own sake. I was so confused.

“Baby,” he said softly as he pulled me to his chest.

God it felt good. And the way he said the word baby, with the slightest dip in his voice as if he were affected too, made it sound sexy and comforting at the same time. My breath hitched—he’d called me baby—not babe, not bitch, not Princess. Just baby. And I loved it.

I let him hold me, let him stroke my back, soothing me while he hummed. This was a side of the tough, badass biker I doubted anyone had ever seen. Was he even aware he was doing it?

“Why did you come?” I whispered, my breath catching as I spoke.

“I’ll tell you . . . if you tell me why you’re crying,” he countered.

I fell silent for a long time, organizing my thoughts. Ryder kept rubbing my back, placing no pressure on me but waiting patiently for me to reply.

At last I spoke. It was as if the floodgates opened. I told him the whole story. Everything.

Ryder listened, only grunting occasionally, his fingers making small circular motions up and down my spine. I inhaled deeply, drawing his scent into my nostrils and basking in his warm embrace. He’d comforted me and lulled me into a relaxed state.

“Um, Ryder?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Now I’ve told you the whole story—why did you come?”

He was quiet for the longest time, but never resting his fingers. “Because I needed to be near you. Because I can never get enough of you. That’s why.”

He shifted down the bed, holding me in his arms. My head rested on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart.