The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 182

Chapter 98-1

Morning light comes in through the floor-to-ceiling glass not as a harsh glare, but as a soft, pale wash of pewter and silver. The storm has passed, leaving the air outside crisp, clear, and scrubbed clean.

When I stretch my hand out across the king-sized bed, my fingers encounter only cool, empty Egyptian

cotton.

I open my eyes, blinking against the light, finding the space beside me smooth and vacant. The subtle scent of leather, and rain still clings to Locke’s pillow, but the sheets are long cold. A sharp spike of instinctual dread flares in my belly – Did he go out somewhere? Did I somehow sleep through the officers’ meeting? until I hear it.

It’s faint, muffled by the long hallway, but unmistakably present.

A heavy, synthesized bassline. A pounding 80s drum beat.

I roll over, sitting up and pushing a tumble of messy hair out of my eyes. I pull on my silk robe, looping the belt tight around my waist, and slip out of the bedroom in bare feet.

The closer I get to the kitchen, the clearer the song becomes. It’s Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

I pause at the foyer archway, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe, completely mesmerized by the sight before me.

Locke six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty pounds of lethal, tattooed MC bad boy – is standing in front of the stove wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, faded gray sweatpants.

No shirt. No shoes. Just a broad expanse of corded back muscles, the heavy ink stretching across his shoulder blades, and a white dish towel tucked casually into his waistband.

He’s holding a silver wire whisk in one hand like a microphone, his massive shoulders rhythmically swaying to the beat as he flips a golden-brown pancake in a heavy cast-iron skillet with the other.

The kitchen island is completely overrun with a sprawling, domestic war zone: a huge bowl of glass-smoothed batter, a mound of sliced strawberries, two sizzling pans of thick-cut maple bacon, a steaming pot of dark roast coffee, and a pitcher of fresh orange juice.

“You’re off-key,” I call out over the screaming guitars.

Locke spins around on his heel, not a single drop of pancake batter out of place. He doesn’t look remotely abashed at being caught in the middle of a solo karaoke act in his kitchen. In fact, a dangerous, slow-burning smirk spreads across his stubbled jaw as his dark gray eyes lock onto mine.

“Off-key?” he echoes, setting the skillet down on the burner and stepping toward the speaker on the counter to lower the volume just a notch. “I’ll have you know that the legendary Steve Perry himself would be deeply moved by my skills.”

“Deeply moved to file a cease-and-desist order, maybe,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “Like stipulating that you never sing his song again.”

He saunters toward me, his bare feet silent against the floor. The tension from Route 9 – the cold, calculating shadow of the tactical gear, the mud, the grim talk of labs – has been completely stripped

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Chapter 98+

away, leaving only the fierce, golden heat of the man I care about.

Claim

When he reaches me, he doesn’t pause. He wraps his large, warm hand around my waist, tugging me flush against his bare chest, and uses his other hand to pull my arm into a high, theatrical ballroom frame.

“Hey!” I laugh as he spins me out into the center of the kitchen, my silk robe fluttering around my calves, before snapping me right back into his chest with zero effort.

“You’re criticizing the chef?” Locke rumbles, his voice thick with dark amusement as he twirls me again, effortlessly matching the tempo of the song. “Bold strategy for a woman who woke up barely an hour before noon.”

“I was exhausted! I was up all night worrying about a man who apparently uses his free time to choreograph dance routines.”

“It’s not a routine, baby,” he murmurs into my hair, guiding us through a remarkably smooth, rhythmically perfect side-step around the marble island. “It’s art. You’re looking at pure talent.”

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LUCK DR