Page 8 of Bolt's Flame

Even if I didn’t fully understand her and the weakness that kept her with James. She might’ve been small, quiet, the type of woman who would’ve been easy to overlook in a crowd, but therewassomething about her. Something that made me want to know more about the woman inside and had me wanting to figure her out.

And that scared the hell out of me.

The one thing I swore to myself when I left home at seventeen was that I would never be with a woman as weak as my mother. A woman who would let a man beat her down day after day when there was a fucking door she could have walked out of.

A son who would protect her.

Plus, I wasn’t the type to get wrapped up in other people’s problems. Especially not a woman who had complications like Fiona. I’d spent my whole life avoiding attachments, keeping things simple. That’s what women like Jenny were for.

No commitment.

No strings.

No emotional baggage.

Just a release for my cock when I needed it.

Fiona... she was getting under my skin, and I didn’t know how to stop it. How to stop seeing the haunted big blue eyes even in my sleep.

I took another swig of beer, trying to push my thoughts away, but it didn’t help. All I could think about was her sitting there, looking so damn fragile, broken, and the way it made me feel—angry, protective, attracted, and confused as hell.

“What’s going on with you?” I muttered to myself, setting the bottle down a little harder than I intended. I’d never let myself get caught up in something like this before. It wasn’t who I was.

But Fiona...

I leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to look anywhere but at her. I needed to get a grip. I needed to get my head back in the game and stop letting this thing with Fiona mess with me. She wasn’t my responsibility.

She wasn’t my problem.

And yet, as much as I tried to tell myself that, I knew it wasn’t true. Because every time I looked at her, I felt that pull again. That need to protect her. To make sure no one ever laid a hand on her again.

I was in trouble.

I knew it.

The question was, how would I stop it?

THE COMMON ROOMwas the heart of the clubhouse.Its walls lined with club memorabilia—old photographs of the founding members, framed patches from runs across thecountry, and road maps pinned up with routes marked in red ink.

Every inch of the room told a story, from the old leather vests hanging on hooks to the tarnished helmets and rusted road signs that had been collected over the years.

At the center of it all stood the pool table, its felt surface worn from countless games, the edges chipped from years of hard use. Music filled the air, either from the old stereo in the corner or from a playlist that someone always had going. The sound of classic rock and country music blended with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter.

Against one wall was the bar, made of heavy, dark wood, polished smooth from years of elbows leaning against it. Behind the bar, shelves were stocked with bottles of whiskey, bourbon, and beer—everything a club could need to fuel a long night. A neon sign with the club’s logo above flickered faintly, casting a soft, red glow over the room. Scattered around the room were tables, most of them mismatched, with chairs that creaked when you sat down.

Tonight, the rock music was too loud, the laughter too boisterous, the whole atmosphere too overwhelming after being isolated for so long it was overdrive for my senses, draining me. I sat there, wrapped up in my own thoughts, trying to make sense of this new world I’d been thrust into. Dad rarely brought me around the clubhouse, and usually only for club picnics and special family events.

Never the club parties.

I was only pretending to be here, or that’s what it felt like. The crowd, the walls hanging with club memorabilia; the bikes hanging from the ceiling. It was familiar but it wasn’t, having only been here during the day for family gatherings, but at night with the lights dimmed, and this much wilder party going on, it didn’t look the same.

Dad was sitting beside me, his presence both comforting and suffocating. I knew he was trying to protect me, to make sure I felt safe, but all it did was remind me of how out of place I was.

I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve felt relieved to be out of that house, away from James.

And Iwas.

But the fear was still there, lurking beneath the surface, making it hard to breathe, to start living again. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, for him to show up and drag me back into that nightmare. Just like before.