Their Queenpin (The Ridge MC #6)

Chapter 27Adelina

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Adelina

Rafe slumped on top of me but managed to fall to my side. Still, his leg was slung over me, and his head landed on my chest.

“Tesoro, I’m so?—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” I barked and turned my attention back to him, letting my fingers run idly over his muscular back. “That was... intense.”

I’d only turned away to take a breath and staunch the emotion the insanely powerful orgasm let float to the surface. And hide the resulting tears that prickled at my eyes. It’d been my small attempt to try and mend the fissure that’d formed in my heart when he’d come to me broken and raw.

Seeming reassured, he laid his head over my erratically beating heart, and both our ragged breathing settled toward normal. The warmth of his skin against mine felt like the perfect blanket, the comfort I’d known all my life. Living, breathing, protecting, muscular nostalgia.

I needed this man to know that his place wasn’t in the war. It wasn’t killing and hurting others. It was at my side.

He’d always been my guardian, and I would never let him go.

“It’s okay, Rafe,” I murmured, running my fingers through his hair. “I have you now.”

He moaned like my words were a balm to whatever was so broken in him. And after several long moments, his breathing evened out.

As Rafe slept on my chest, I stared up at the darkened ceiling, thinking about all three of my guys.

Sas would never admit it, but I wondered what shaped him into the hard man he was. Graff appeared well adjusted, but Rafe had crumbled in my arms. On my body.

He grumbled then opened and closed his mouth a few times before turning away from me in his sleep. In a matter of seconds, he was once again letting out soft snores with his face half-buried in pillows.

I draped a blanket across his naked backside when goosebumps broke out across his skin. It offered little protection against the outside world or the war he fought in his mind, but it was what I could do.

Small things to show I cared.

A knock rattled the suite door, and I sat up. I glanced at Rafe, but thankfully, he didn’t stir. He needed sleep to erase the dark bags hanging under his eyes.

Slipping out of bed, I grabbed a robe and tied it around myself. At the door, I rose to my tiptoes to peek out and found Graff on the other side. I blew out a low breath, grateful he was home but unsure about letting him inside.

Rafe needed time.

In my curved view of Graff and the hallway, he looked toward the elevators and then hung his head. When he glanced up and I caught the shadows hanging around his eyes, I let out a small gasp and slipped out the door.

“Graff?” I asked in a low whisper.

The prospect was nowhere to be found. Come to think of it, he’d been gone when I opened the door for Rafe a few hours ago. I shook that off, because Rafe had probably sent him packing when he arrived.

In Rafe’s state, I didn’t want to bring Graff inside, fearing that it would add fuel to Rafe’s fire. Rafe had trusted me with his pain and demons, and I wouldn’t violate that.

This wasn’t a time for us to all be together. But Graff needed me too. He looked... terrible. My heart fractured again. At this rate, someone was going to need a broom and dustpan to sweep up all the shattered pieces.

Tears threatened again, but I swallowed them, making myself strong when Graff so obviously needed me to lean on.

I moved in for a polite hug. He kept his distance too, glancing up at the camera through which Papà certainly watched every time I came or went from my room. Rafe inside was one thing, and I felt pretty sure my father wouldn’t assume we were together. But allowing Graff in would raise flags.

With one arm around his broad shoulders, I whispered in his ear, “Go to your room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Have you seen Rafe?” he asked, his breath like rancid meat. When was the last time he ate or showered or brushed his teeth?

What the fuck had happened out there? And why the fuck was no one telling me?

“Yeah. He’s sleeping.” I rolled my eyes back toward the door.

“Go take a quick shower,” I said, letting my gaze drift down his wrinkled shirt. I needed one too after the mess Rafe and I had made. “Ten minutes. Promise.”

I hated letting him go, but I opened the door and backed up. He lowered his gaze, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked down the hallway.

After my shower, I pulled on yoga pants and a sweatshirt then slipped out of my suite. Eyes were everywhere in this place, but with no prospect on guard, I didn’t have to worry about being followed.

Sas might lose his shit that the prospect was shirking his duty, but he couldn’t do shit about it from a cell. That wasn’t my immediate problem.

I shoved my hands in the front pouch of my hoodie and moved quickly toward Graff’s room.

As I passed the elevator bank, the Prez called out, “Adelina.”

I flinched but managed to plaster a smile on my face before turning to Wilde. Strange that he happened to be walking down the hallway at the exact time as me.

“Prez?” I said, turning on my heel.

Then, I licked my lips. The customs in the MC said that’s what we should call him. It wasn’t that I didn’t respect Wilde, but the whole Prez thing felt sticky coming out of my mouth.

He glanced down the hallway toward my room. “Where’s the prospect?”

“Oh, he went inside,” I lied, knowing that would come back to bite me.

Wilde’s icy blue eyes spoke volumes about how little he believed me. “Doing what?”

“Peeing.” This was getting worse. I cleared my throat, wanting to palm my face for my poor attempt, but I’d committed now. “He needed to use the restroom, so I’m letting him use it.”

Wilde raised his eyebrows, questioning me. “And you’re sneaking off?”

“I’m going to Graff’s room,” I said. “It’s just down the hallway. I think there’s an infection or something up with my tattoo.”

“Sounds like a problem for a doc,” he said.

“I’ll have Graff take a look first,” I said, walking down the hallway, and Wilde fell into step with me. “If he doesn’t have a solution, I’ll stop by Papà’s clinic. It’s probably nothing.”

Wilde jerked a nod. “Sas’ll be up my ass if something happens to you.”

I smiled up at him. “I thought you were the president. Why are you scared of him?”

“Not scared. Keeping an eye on you for him. That’s what we do in the MC, watch each other’s backs.” He left hanging that it was how they differed from La Famiglia.

If it wasn’t for my personal escort to Graff’s room, I would believe it wasn’t anything personal. But then he knocked on Graff’s door for me, so hard that I thought he might wake up the whole damn floor.

With no immediate answer, Wilde called out, “Graff!”

“You coming for a tat checkup too?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” said Wilde. “But you need to make it quick. He needs sleep before heading out tomorrow.”

Panic spiked, but I tried to keep my face neutral. “Where’s he going?”

“Park Ridge. Takin’ a third of the shit back to Bou’s shop,” said Wilde.

“In addition to the other half that already went back to LA?” I quirked an eyebrow.

Wilde eyed me sideways but made no comment.

I considered pushing the topic but thought better of it. If I said too much, it would tip the balance in his favor. And while he might be president of the MC, they were playing in a world I was bred to rule.

Wilde lifted his fist again, ready to pound again, but the door swung inward.

Graff leaned on the handle. “Prez?” His voice sounded thin, groggy.

He had a towel slung around his neck and his wet hair curled on his forehead. His tatted and ripped torso was bare and glistening with water droplets. His jeans were on, but unzipped, revealing his deep V and the happy trail to his thick length.

Wilde glanced down at his form, as did I, but for entirely different reasons. My mouth watered and my core clenched, despite the tenderness from the abuse Rafe inflicted.

Under Wilde’s scrutiny, though, Graff zipped up and dried off.

“Walk her back to her room when you’re done checking her tattoo.” Wilde handed him a set of keys and then stalked down the hallway in the direction he came.

Graff thankfully didn’t ask, allowing me into his room. I closed the door as he moved inside and dropped the keys Wilde had given him on the dresser. I tried to act casually as I neared him and not stumble over anything, because we were covered in darkness.

My eyes took a second to adjust enough to see his shadowy outline, shoulders hunched and head hanging low.

I approached slowly and ran my hand down his shoulder. “What the hell happened out there that has both you and Rafe so off?”

My voice was soft, but the tension in the room might shatter at any moment.

Graff flinched beneath my touch, his shoulders tightening before he released a long, shaky breath. He didn’t turn to face me, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the darkness of the room. The silence dragged on to the unsteady rhythm to his breathing.

Hitching.

He was always my steady one, calm, and even sweet. This wasn’t him.

“Graff?” I whispered, taking a step closer.

His back was a shadowed outline against the dim light filtering through the curtains. The room was so silent I could hear him swallow, but no words came out. Hesitation and torment brewed inside this man I thought unflappable.

I stepped around him, brushing my fingers lightly down his arm. I stripped the towel from his shoulders and rested my other hand against his chest. His heart pounded beneath my fingers, strong under my palm, but frantic.

My own chest tightened. I cupped his cheek, and after a long, agonizing second, he finally locked gazes with mine.

The pain there was raw.

Deep.

Torment untouchable with words.

His eyes filled with emotions that looked ready to strip him of all I adored in him—his creativity, love for music, balance to the other men in my life. And his want for me, for all of us.

I looked up at him, his towering frame a silhouette, but my eyes had adjusted enough to make out the small details in him. The lines of his tattoos and the lines dragging at his once-bright eyes.

He seemed so far away, not only in height but in the way his pain kept him locked in his own world. I needed him to know I was here, that I wasn’t leaving him to deal with this alone. I would give him my all, like I had given to feed Rafe’s needs.

Spotting a nearby chair, I dragged it over and stepped up. It creaked slightly under my weight. Now, we were almost eye to eye.

I leaned in, pressing my forehead against his, my hands resting gently on either side of his neck. “Feel me, Graff.”

I needed him to know that, despite everything, I was here, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shuddering as he let it out. His shoulders sagged with the heavy, unspoken burden.

Slowly, he pulled away from me, his gaze darting to the nightstand. He reached for a worn, dog-eared spiral notebook, the edges curled and frayed. The front cover had scuff marks and smudges. He handed it to me wordlessly, his fingers lingering on the edge for a moment before letting it go.

I looked down at it, confused.

He chuckled once—a joyless sound—and refused to meet my gaze. “I got that on the ride back from Savannah.”

“It looks like it’s been through a war.”

“Might as well have been,” he said. “Go on.”

Opening the front cover, I found a mess of lines making no sense. It was dark, so I turned, moving to the bathroom where a dim stream of light spilled out from a cracked door. The smell of minty hotel soap on warm air filtered out, and I opened the door wider, stepping into the soft glow.

The pages were filled with dark pencil scratches, the lines jagged and aggressive. Some pages were filled entirely, each stroke more violent and chaotic than the last, forming abstract shapes that twisted and turned in every direction. It was like staring into his trauma—seeing the storm, the confusion, the rage.

This was something I would’ve expected from Rafe, not my sweet Graff.

His pain pierced my heart and lodged in my throat. None of this experience could’ve been seen on the surveillance equipment.

There were no coherent images in the fragments of emotions spilled out in graphite—a mess that captured everything he would likely never say aloud. The intensity of his pain and frustration bled through the pages.

Dark, chaotic, and yet vulnerable.

I closed the notebook gently, careful not to bend the fragile pages. Leaving it on the dresser, I returned to where Graff stood, still little more than a shadow. He looked up at me, eyes wide and unsure and glistening in the dim light. Something told me he was bracing for judgment, for rejection.

I stepped closer, taking his face between my hands.

“Graff,” I whispered, my voice catching. “You don’t have to carry all this alone.”

His eyes closed, a pained sound between a sigh and sob escaping his lips. He sank onto the bed, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me to him. As I stood between his spread thighs, he clung to me like I was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“I killed him,” he rasped, the words almost lost in the space between us. “I—I shot him. And part of me wanted to do it.” His voice cracked, and his body trembled against mine.

I didn’t pull back, didn’t recoil from the confession.

Instead, I lifted his head and brushed my lips against his, a shadow of a touch. He hesitated, then surged forward, capturing my mouth with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

He wasn’t soft; he was rough, needy, like he was desperate to have something inside other than pain and guilt. I let him take what he needed, my hands sliding up to cradle his face, my fingers threading into his hair.

He broke the kiss, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “I don’t want this in me, Adelina,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “This darkness... I don’t want it.”

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into me as tightly as possible, like my arms were enough to hold the pieces of him in place.

“Then let me take it,” I murmured against his ear. “Let me help you carry it. You don’t have to do this alone, Graff.”

He lifted his head, his eyes searching mine until the angst in his gaze broke free.

Slowly, he kissed me again, this time with trembling gentleness. Every stroke of his tongue said he needed to be seen for who he was before he’d killed, to be held, to be more than the monster he feared he would become.

I kissed him back, letting my touch communicate what I couldn’t say in words— you’re not alone; whatever it takes, I’ll be here with you.

Our kiss deepened, and his hands moved up my back and over my shoulders, pulling me closer. Then he reached for the band of my sweatshirt.

I helped him pull it over my head, baring my breasts to him.

Reverently, he cupped them and then suckled one before moving to the other. My head fell back on my shoulders as I relished in the sensations traveling between my nipples and my core.

With Rafe, there hadn’t been much, or any foreplay, but this... this would be slower, more deliberate.