And so they began… something. Morena didn't question it. She didn't ask or make any demands of him. She realised that whatever they had was all that he was able to give. And if she wanted more, she would have to allow whatever it was between them to take root and grow. Strangely, she didn't want to change him. There was something vital and primal about him. If this didn't work, it would be because she didn't want a part of it.

She went on with work and school. They had their first argument when she wanted to continue cleaning his apartment. He didn't want her to. But she still needed the money and she wasn't interested in taking handouts from him.

"Jesus Morena, you're not my fucking maid!"

"I was before! You had no problem with it."

He growled out, "you weren't sleeping in my god damn bed then."

"Well, we can always stop that and then there won't be any problem!"

The threat put an end to it and they sealed the deal by making love on his kitchen counter.

At least now she didn't have to carry her textbooks back and forth or hide them from him. After cleaning up, she would sit and study in peace until he got home or she had to leave for a shift at the hospital.

Tig did whatever it was that he did. While he didn't talk openly about his activities, he dropped little hints here and there. He used Club Business often though, but mostly didn't elaborate. She was curious and knew it was a conversation they were going to have to have. For the most part, they never saw each other during the day. He didn't call her to check in on her. She didn't text him to find out how his day was going or whether they would make plans. They never made plans.

But every night for the last month, he came to her. His apartment or hers, it didn't matter. Sometimes after 10pm, sometimes as late as 4am. In the beginning she would lie awake and wait for him. Or he would shower and she would wake up. Soon enough the beats and rhythms became defined. More often than not, she only woke when he pulled her into his arms, or when his hands roamed over her body.

They made love, often. And every time was different. Sometimes it was hot and hard, an urgency driving them both. Other times it was slow, nipping and tasting each other, savouring their coupling, prolonging their intimate connection. And sometimes they would just kiss for what felt like hours, simply laying side by side, their arms and legs entwined. But while she whispered of lovemaking, she wasn't sure if it was just about sex for him. She spoke of love. He still spoke of sex.

They didn't talk about his past relationships. And he never asked about hers. But she wondered about whether he had ever shared this kind of intimacy with anyone. She certainly hadn't. She was able to admit that it pained her to think that it might not be forever. She packed those kinds of thoughts away. They weren't productive and usually tended to affect her mood. She had him for now. It was all that mattered.

When he didn't come to her for the first time in four weeks, she as worried. He didn't call or leave a message and when she called him, the call went directly to voicemail. She didn't leave a message.

She slept fitfully that night, strangely used to having a heavy arm around her waist, a leg across hers, or waking up to his hand cupping her breast while he slept. Before going to work that morning, she dropped by his place. His bike was outside, so she knew he was home.

She knocked twice to no answer. So she used her key and let herself in.

"Tig?"

The space was dim, the shutters all drawn. She opened them, flooding the little lounge and some of the bedroom with light. He was sprawled naked and face down on the bed.

She put her bag and keys down and took off her shoes, wading softly over to his side of the bed. She sat down beside him. She was about to brush a hand through his hair when she spotted his discarded clothes on the floor.

Sighing, she let him sleep and thought to straighten the place a little. Picking up his jeans and shirt, she noticed they were damp. Looking at her hands, they came back red. Most of the blood had dried, but she knew what it was immediately.

Looking him over quickly, it was obvious he wasn't injured. So it wasn't his blood. Whose was it then? Horrified, the clothes fell from her hands and she stared at her fingers, sticky and crimson.

"Morena?"

She looked up startled. He had woken up and was looking at her, realisation of her find hitting him in stages.

"Where were you last night?"

He sat up and wiped his eyes, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. "Club business. I got in an hour ago. I didn't want to disturb you."

"You mean you didn't want to come home bloodied?" He shrugged. She realised she had used the word home. "Whose blood is it?"

He got up off the bed and shrugged into a pair of shorts lying next to the bed. "Drop it."

"Drop it?" her voice held a slightly hysterical edge. "My hands have blood on it and you expect me just to drop it?"

His patience seemed to be as thin as hers. "What do you think I do Morena? I belong to an outlaw motorcycle club. You've seen the guns. Did you think I spent my days driving fucking old ladies to bingo night?"

She swallowed and licked her lips. "We've never really talked about what you do. You won't tell me anything."

"Christ, it's for good reason. Let it go."

"And if I can't?" She struggled to ask the next question, not sure if she wanted to know the answer. "Did you kill someone last night?"

His silence screamed the answer.

"How many?" She hated herself for the tremor in her voice.

His eyes went cold, flat. She saw a little of what his enemies might see. She shivered.

All he said was, "I'm the sergeant at arms. It's what I do."

"And what do I do? Just wait? When you're not home you're off…" She stared back at her hands, whispering "I can't do this. I must have been crazy."

He just stood there, his jaw locked, the pulse at the base of his throat practically leaping like a frog. She knew the stance. It was the one he'd presented her with in all the months she'd worked for him. Cold. Closed off. Her chest hurt.

"Who was it?"

He just shook his head.

She walked right up to him and pushed at his shoulders. He didn't even budge. "Who was it?"

Her fist hit his shoulder. "Tell me!" Another punch. "Tell me dammit!"

She had started crying and hadn't even realised.

When his arms came around her, she fought him but he wouldn't let go.

"Shhh… it's okay."

She shook her head, wanting to say it wasn't okay, but the words stuck in her throat. And then she clung to him. He held her like that, stroking her hair until she calmed. Sitting her down on the edge of the bed, he came back with a warm soapy cloth and wiped her hands clean, all traces of the blood gone.

She didn't know what to think. It was like her brain was racing miles ahead and she kept having to remember to stay in the present.

She looked at him. His expression was blank, the only sign he felt something was the fact that he couldn't meet her eyes. He's ashamed.

"I need you to tell me the truth." He started to protest. "I know we don't know each other very long. And perhaps my request is premature. But I need you to be honest with me. Or whatever this is between us is never going to work." Or be more than just sex.

"You don't want to know this shit."

"I have to."

He sighed heavily and sat down next to her. She was sure he deliberately ensured they didn't touch.

"I grew up with this shit…" he began. He looked straight ahead, sometimes looking at her. But he didn't really see her. She guessed he didn't want to see her reaction. His voice was flat, almost matter of fact.

"…so Opie was suspected of snitching on the club. Things were fucked up and there was no time to take a club vote. Clay and I decided what needed to be done."

For the first time, he paused and swallowed.

"Opie needed to be plugged before the club was compromised." She forced herself to remain calm when all she wanted to do was tell him to stop. She didn't want to know. But she couldn't say the words.

"I volunteered to do it."

Her palms broke out in a cold sweat.