ASHLEY’S POV
He doesn’t say a word to me.
He walks off, and my eyes trail him.
They linger for a few more seconds until he slips into a room and shuts the door.
I don’t know much about him, but something about Ripper draws every eye.
It isn’t just his six-two frame or the ink covering his body.
Certainly not his pinkish lips or the slight tilt of his eyes.
It’s something else in his features,an unplaceable pull I can’t put into words.
He stood up for me when the bikers demanded Warrick’s body to be buried that day.
Adams also confirmed that Ripper lied about knowing of Warrick’s marriage.
That loops me back to one question: why did Ripper lie and cover for me?
He could have been like that asshole Matt.
Or fat, ugly Bobby.
Or any of the other dubious creatures who called me a whore.
Not that I choose to be Warrick’s old lady—who would?
Who would choose to be a widow plunged into a world she doesn’t understand?
I set the mug on the counter and reach for the green tea Nonna makes to calm my nerves after the SOC bikers’ drama.
As my hand closes on the jug, a dark dangerous scent brushes my nose.
When I turn, it is Matt.
My heart drops.
I swallow hard.
It thuds against my ribs as our eyes meet.
We stare for a few seconds before I break contact.
Dammit—I need to leave.
I can’t stay in the same space as him.
I drag the jug closer and adjust my mug to fill it.
The memory of how he nearly choked me to death flashes through my mind, and panic rises in my chest.
He hates me—he’d do anything for revenge.
He thinks I killed his fiancée.
Matt doesn’t speak.
He moves past me and reaches for a cup, then makes his way to the coffee maker.
The big kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air thick with suffocating tension.
I keep my eyes on the tea jug, forcing my hands to steady as I pour.
The liquid sloshes against the mug’s sides—unsteady, just like my breathing.
Steam hissing softly, and the rustle of leather cuts through the room as he shifts.
I hesitate, then steal a glance.
He stands facing the counter, back to me—broad shoulders stretching the black tee, tattoos creeping up the back of his neck and disappearing into his dark hair.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that some traitorous part of me wonders what those hands would feel like on me if he touches me without violence.
Fuck, Ashley.
Stop thinking.
I set the jug down too hard.
The sound echoes through the quiet kitchen, and I freeze, praying he won’t look my way.
Matt’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn.
The silence stretches—thick and suffocating.
I need sugar for the tea.
I hate drinking tea without something sweet.
My eyes dart to the sugar jar, sitting right next to the coffee maker—right next to him.
I can wait.
I should wait.
Let him finish and then get the jar.
But each second with him there feels like an hour.
I move.
Slowly.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I walk closer.
Close enough to smell the bitter coffee mingled with cigarette smoke on his jacket.
I reach for the jar just as he does.
Our hands collide.
His fingers close over mine, and I freeze.
A bolt of electricity shoots up my spine.
I gasp before I can stop myself.
Matt’s hand stays.
He doesn’t pull away right away.
His eyes find mine.
They linger for a few seconds before I pull my hand back.
“S-sorry,” I whisper, barely able to get the word out.
The sitting room doesn’t feel safe—he could come out at any minute, so I slip into the same room Ripper uses earlier.
It feels like the only safe choice.
When the door clicks, I realize my hands are trembling on the knob.
I stare at the mug in my hand and suddenly lose my appetite.
Did our skin just touch?
I can’t believe it.
Not that we touched, but that he lets go of my hand so easily.
Without thinking, I down the tea in one swallow.
I need something to calm me.
I take a steadying breath, trying to slow my breathing.
However, a muffled sob cuts through the silence.
I spin, tracing the sound.
It’s coming from where Warrick’s body laid..
As I draw closer to the room, I realize it’s Ripper.
He’s sobbing—openly, uncontrollably.
He hugs the cold corpse gently, tears slipping down his cheeks as if they have been waiting behind his ribs for permission to fall.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him.
I have never seen a man that big cry like this.
Matt didn’t cry this deeply when Daisy died.
Ripper kneels beside the bed, his forehead pressed against Warrick’s still chest.
His massive shoulders shake with every sob.
He cries like someone who has lost something vital—something irreplaceable.
He must’ve been close to Warrick.
I stand frozen in the doorway, unable to move… unable to look away.
Part of me wants to help, the way he helped me out there.
But I don’t feel the need to interrupt him.
If anything, I just want to watch—discreetly.
He rises slowly, presses a kiss to Warrick’s forehead, then turns to leave.
I don’t wait.
I slip into the hallway and rush into the empty room beside mine.
I watch through the doorway as he walks out, slow and heavy steps.
My chest aches for him.