I went to the clubhouse looking for him, a stupid sunflower tucked behind my back—his favorite.

The door was open.

Atlas was shirtless, jeans low on his hips, his tattooed back slick with sweat. A woman was beneath him on the rumpled bed—dark hair, black lace, legs wrapped around his waist. He drove into her with a punishing rhythm, a low groan tearing from his throat.

“You’ll do,” he growled.

I stood frozen in the doorway. The sunflower slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

Atlas turned. His eyes met mine. For one endless second, raw horror replacing the lust. But the woman just smiled, pressing closer to him, her fingers splaying across his chest like she owned him.

He opened his mouth—“Flower—”

I ran. I didn’t look back. I already knew what I’d see: him, half-dressed, chasing me with the same hands that had just been tangled in her hair.

I made it to my car, hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the key, he was standing in the doorway, chest heaving, her lipstick still on his neck.

I drove away with his voice—“Saskia! Please!”—shattering in the rearview mirror, taking every piece of me with it.

———————

The air in "Bloom & Bliss" was thick with the perfume of a thousand dreams.

It was a scent Saskia had built herself: the sweet headiness of gardenias, the crisp green of eucalyptus, the romantic whisper of tea roses.

Sunshine, clean and golden, poured through the large storefront window, illuminating dust motes that danced like fairies above her workbench.

Saskia hummed, a soft, absent minded sound that blended with the gentle acoustic music floating from the speakers.

Her hands, delicate yet capable, were a blur of motion.

She was putting the final touches on the Henderson wedding bouquet, a sprawling, elegant cascade of white roses, peonies, and delicate sprigs of lavender.

Each stem was placed with intention, each bloom a promise of joy.

A contented sigh escaped her. This was her peace.

This tiny, vibrant shop with its exposed brick walls and overflowing buckets of flowers was her sanctuary.

And tonight, her happiness would be complete.

Her phone buzzed, skittering on the wooden bench beside a pile of clippings.

Her heart did its familiar, giddy somersault even before she looked. It was him.

>> Atlas: Running late, little flower. Club mess. See you tonight.

A smile, wide and unreserved, spread across her face.

She could picture him, his massive frame folded over his bike, those intense, stormy eyes hidden behind aviator shades, the faint grumble in his voice that only she seemed to find endearing.

He was a force of nature, a tempest, and he'd chosen her.

Her.

Saskia, the florist who lived in a world of pastels and pollen.

She typed back, her thumbs flying.

<< Saskia: No worries! I'll be here. Finishing up the Henderson wedding order. It's so beautiful it almost makes me want to... well, you know �� Can't wait to see you. xoxo

She added a flurry of flower emojis for good measure before setting the phone down.

Her gaze drifted to the small cooler behind her counter.

Nestled inside was a single, perfect sunflower, its bold yellow face turned toward the imagined sun.

His favorite. Her surprise.

A silly little gesture to celebrate six months since he had first walked into her shop, all leather and intimidating silence, and bought every crimson rose she had.

"For my mother," he'd grunted, looking utterly uncomfortable.

She had later found out he'd given them to an old widow who lived next to the clubhouse.

That was the man she knew. The one hidden under the rough exterior and the intimidating MC patch that read President.

He was loyal and fiercely protective. He made her feel safe. Cherished.

She tied a silver ribbon around the stem of the wedding bouquet, her movements sure and final.

The shop was quiet, peaceful. She had no idea that forty five minutes away, in a loud, smoke filled clubhouse, her Atlas was already moving on to the evening's "club business." She had no idea what an "audition" entailed.

She simply tucked a stray strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear, smiled at her flowers, and waited for her storm to come home.

The Iron Titans' clubhouse, "The Titan's Forge," was a temple of noise and vice.

The air was a thick blend of stale beer, cigar smoke, and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil.

The thunder of classic rock vibrated through the concrete floors, a relentless beat under the rough laughter and the clatter of pool balls.

Atlas sat entrenched in his kingdom, the president's leather chair groaning under his weight as he presided over the meeting.

The business was heavy, talk of a territory dispute with the Devils' Brigade, a logistics issue with an upcoming shipment.

The pressure was a familiar weight on his shoulders, a constant, grinding tension that lived deep in his muscles.

As the meeting adjourned, the mood shifted. The door to the common room swung open.

Raze, his VP, entered with a woman in tow. She moved with a predator's grace, her eyes scanning the room with a calculated coolness before locking onto him.

She was the perfect club girl archetype: curves poured into tight black jeans, a worn leather vest over a tight tank top that left little to the imagination, and dark hair that promised a wildness his brothers craved.

"Prez," Raze's voice cut through the din. "This is Jade. She's looking to join us. Wants to be a club girl."

Jade didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped forward, her gaze bold and appraising. "I've heard stories about the Titan's President," she said, her voice a low, smoky thing. "I wanted to see if they were true."

This was routine. A transaction. Part of the unspoken job description.

Atlas gave her a slow, once over, not with desire, but with cold assessment.

He was evaluating a product for his brothers. "You know what being a club girl means? You belong to the club. To all the patched members. No drama. No expectations."

"I know how to belong," she purred, a challenge in her eyes.

Raze grinned, clapping Atlas on the shoulder. "Gotta make sure she's up to standard, brother. Gotta audition her for the patch."

The words were a formality. The outcome was predetermined.

Atlas stood, his large frame unfolding from the chair. He gave a single, curt nod. "My room. Now."

He led her down a dim, narrow hallway, away from the noise.

His private room was a Spartan space, a king sized bed with a dark, rumpled comforter, a heavy oak dresser, walls adorned with club colors and a few framed photos of brothers long gone.

It smelled intensely of him. Leather, clean sweat, and the faint, sharp scent of whiskey.

He closed the door, and the world outside muted to a dull throb. He turned, his expression impassive. "This isn't a negotiation. You do as you're told. You please me, you get to be a club girl. You don't, you're out. Understood?"

A slow, confident smile spread across her lips. "I always please."

He didn't move, simply watched as she closed the distance between them. Her fingers went to the buckle of his belt, her eyes never leaving his.

The leather slid free with a soft hiss.

Her hands were practiced, efficient as she worked the button of his jeans, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room.

She dropped to her knees before him, her hands sliding up the hard muscle of his thighs.

She looked up at him from under her lashes, a picture of submission and sin.

Then she took him into her mouth.

Her mouth was hot, wet, and expertly skilled. She used her tongue with a knowing pressure, her hands cupping and stroking what her mouth couldn't take.

Atlas let his head fall back against the door with a soft thud, his eyes closing.

This was the release he needed.

The physical sensation was a sharp, welcome distraction from the constant pressure in his skull.

He fisted a hand in her dark hair, not guiding her, just holding on, anchoring himself in the feeling.

His mind, however, drifted.

It flickered to the text on his phone. Saskia's sweet "xoxo".

His sweet, innocent Saskia who smelled of sunshine and flowers. The thought of her was a balm, a promise of something soft and real after this gritty duty was done.

He compartmentalized it effortlessly.

This, with Jade, was for the club. What he had with Saskia was for him. They existed in separate, airtight boxes in his mind.

He groaned, a low, rough sound deep in his throat, as the tension coiled tight in his gut. His grip on her hair tightened. "Enough," he growled, his voice thick.

He pulled her up, turning her roughly to face the bed.

He pushed her forward, her hands splaying on the rumpled comforter. He ripped a protection packet open and slid it down on his shaft.

He yanked her jeans down over the curve of her hips, and she arched her back in immediate invitation, a wanton noise escaping her.

There was no preamble, no tenderness.

He drove into her from behind, a single, powerful thrust that made her cry out, a sound that was swallowed by the music pounding through the walls.

He set a punishing rhythm, each movement a physical exorcism of the day's stress.

The bedframe knocked a steady, rhythmic beat against the wall, a counterpoint to their harsh, ragged breathing.

He focused on the sensation, the friction, the base animality of it.

It was a means to an end. A necessary release valve on the pressure cooker of his life.

He screwed her with a detached intensity, his mind already moving to the next thing, checking the inventory logs, seeing Saskia.

It was over quickly, efficiently. A final, deep thrust and a guttural groan ripped from his chest as he found his release.

He stayed buried inside her for a moment, catching his breath, the sweat cooling on his skin.

He pulled away, threw away the protection, zipped his jeans without a word.

He tossed a towel from a stack on the dresser onto the bed near her. "You'll do. Talk to Raze. He'll get you set up."

Jade rolled over, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. "Told you I'd please."

Atlas didn't acknowledge her. He splashed water on his face from the basin in the corner, running a hand through his hair.

The transaction was complete. The audition was over.

He felt the familiar, post release calm settling over him, the sharp edges of his stress dulled.

He walked out, leaving her on the bed.

Raze was leaning against the wall opposite the door, a fresh beer in his hand.

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

Atlas took the beer, downed half of it in one long pull. "She's fine. Pass her around. Make sure she knows the rules."

"Will do, Prez," Raze grinned. "Go on, get out of here. Go see your woman. You've done your duty."

Atlas almost smiled. He pulled out his phone.

A text from Saskia glowed on the screen.

<< Saskia: I'll be here. Finishing up the Henderson wedding order. It's so beautiful it almost makes me want to... well, you know. Can't wait to see you. xoxo

The last of the club's grit seemed to wash away. He was already moving, mentally and physically, from the dark, loud forge toward the light and quiet of Bloom & Bliss.

Toward his flower. He felt no guilt, no conflict. Only anticipation.

The two worlds were separate, and he was the master of both.