FATED TO YOU 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ VERY SPICY VERSION (A SONS OF ASH MC SAGA — BOOK 6- SYDNEY X NATASHA)

SYDNEY

Azure Tide had been transformed into something that shouldn’t exist outside a fever dream

Tara’s Venetian gala had turned her coastal Mediterranean restaurant into a floating city. The reflecting pool that normally mirrored the ocean had been extended into a shallow canal system winding between the tables. Gondolas served as private dining nooks, each one piloted by a server in a striped shirt who navigated the six-inch-deep water with a single oar. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Somewhere a string quartet was playing Vivaldi, but the music was secondary to the hum of money and power that filled the room.

Sydney Cole leaned back in his gondola and watched the chaos unfold around him.

Hound was on his third bowl of lobster bisque, the fourth breadstick already halfway to his mouth. “Your woman did this,” Sydney said, gesturing at the water. “She’s insane.”

“She’s a genius,” Hound corrected, beaming. “A hot genius. Who fucks me.”

Tara, passing behind him with a clipboard, swatted the back of his head without breaking stride. “Stop telling people that.”

“It’s a compliment!”

“It’s a security briefing.” But she was smiling.

Tank had his son Alexander balanced on one knee—the kid was built like a tiny linebacker, all chonk and fury, grabbing at everything within reach. Rose was trying to feed him mashed potatoes. He was wearing most of them.

“He’s going to be a heartbreaker,” Hound declared, gesturing with his breadstick.

“Not on my watch,” Tank said.

“What?” Grimm asked.

“My son ain’t breaking any woman’s heart. Or I’ll break his neck.”

The gondola went quiet. Even the string quartet seemed to falter.

“What?” Tank looked around at the staring faces. “It’s bare fucking minimum. Since when do we allow boys to be assholes? Remember one of those upraised boys tries to break Luna’s heart—I’ll break his and Xander’s neck. Any boy tries to break my little girl’s heart, he’s done.”

Rose looked at her husband. Something passed between them—approval, heat, the kind of silent communication that made Sydney’s chest ache. She squeezed Tank’s hand under the table.

“Luna would probably break his neck herself,” Scarlett said, and everyone laughed because it was true. Luna was in Switzerland at some gifted facility, being tested and doing “fucking amazing,” according to Cray. Apparently Cray had told her something before she left, some truth-bomb that had obliterated the tantrum everyone expected. When Rose asked what she’d said, Cray had shrugged. “Children are just small humans. We need to treat them like ones sometimes. I told her the truth.”

Nobody knew what that truth was. Nobody asked. Cray’s truths were like Voss’s spreadsheets—terrifying and best left unexamined.

Sydney watched Cray lean over and whisper something into Voss’s ear. The treasurer’s ears went crimson. His jaw tightened. Cray pulled back with the smirk of a woman who’d just won a private war.

Sydney scanned the room. The brothers had their women pressed against them—Axle and Scarlett, Grimm and Rain, Hound and Tara, Voss and Cray. Even Tank, stoic and silent, had Rose tucked under his arm like she’d always been there. Raze, Doc, and Knuckles were single. The three new prospects—Dex, Jax, Milo, all of them still pimpled and terrified—huddled at the end of the table like they were waiting for execution.

And then there was him.

The funny one. The fry-thrower. The chaos engine. The one who made everyone laugh and no one look twice.

He was so fucking tired of being funny.

He saw her across the water.

She was standing at the bar, one hand resting on the marble, her body canted at an angle that made his brain short-circuit. The gown was dark blood red, tight as a second skin, silk that clung to her like it had a grudge against him personally. Bronze skin that glowed under the chandeliers like molten amber. Hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail, straight and glossy, the kind of hair that took hours in a salon chair and cost more than his bike. Cheekbones dusted with something dewy and rose-gold. Eyes like two dark chalices of amber and chocolate. Lips painted the same red as the gown.

Her ass was a religious experience.

Don’t be disrespectful,he told himself.She’s a person. A human woman. Not a—

She turned slightly, and the silk shifted, and his internal monologue died a quiet death.

His brain served him an image without permission: her on that marble bar, the red silk bunched around her waist, his hands on those hips, her head thrown back. The sound she’d make when he—

Stop.

He’d been single too long. That was all. A man could only throw so many fries before the loneliness started manifesting as public indecency fantasies.

“Dude.” Hound’s voice cut through the fog. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re drooling.”

“I’m not—” Sydney wiped his mouth. Fuck. “Okay. I’m staring.”

“She’s out of your league,” Raze said without looking up from his drink.

“Everyone’s out of my league. That’s never stopped me.”

“Look,” Hound said, gesturing with his breadstick. “She has a ring on her finger.”

Sydney’s eyes dropped to her left hand. The diamond was enormous—at least three carats, princess cut, set in a platinum band that screamed money. His stomach dropped.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Hound agreed.

“Fuck fuck.”

“Three fucks. That’s serious.”

Sydney dragged his eyes away. It took physical effort. It felt like leaving a limb behind. He turned back to the table, grabbed his whiskey, and downed it in one swallow.

“Forget it,” he said. “She’s taken. End of story.”

Scarlett was watching him with those knowing grey eyes. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m fine-adjacent. Close enough.”

She didn’t push. That was the thing about Scarlett—she knew when to push and when to let the wound breathe. She squeezed his arm and turned back to Axle.

Sydney lasted twelve minutes before he looked for her again.

She was gone.

Not just from the bar—from the entire establishment. Her purse was missing, her wine glass empty, her stool already occupied by some tech bro in a blazer. She’d vanished like smoke.

He excused himself. “Need air.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Grimm said.

“I’m literally going to breathe oxygen.”

“That’s what you said before you tried to fight that bouncer.”

“That bouncer was an asshole.”

“He was four hundred pounds.”

“He was an asshole and four hundred pounds. I contain multitudes.”

Sydney made his way through the restaurant, past the gondolas and the string quartet and the servers with their single oars. He didn’t know where he was going until he was there—the rooftop. The stairs were hidden behind a velvet rope, but he’d been to enough of Tara’s events to know the layout. Staff entrance. Fire escape. Roof access.

He needed quiet. Even the chaos prince needed his me time. And his chest was full of a woman who’d just slipped through his fingers like water.

He pushed open the rooftop door and his heart stopped.

She was there.

Standing at the edge, facing the skyline. Her palm was flat against the stone wall, her ponytail whipping in the wind. The city glittered below them, a carpet of diamonds and neon, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking at nothing.

She turned.

Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks, cutting through the dewy highlighter. Her eyes met his—embarrassment, fear, and something else. Something that flickered and held.

“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, already backing toward the door. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I can leave.”

“No.” Her voice was low, a little hoarse. “It’s—it’s okay. This isn’t private property.”

He stopped. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

“Are you sure? I can give you space. I’m good at leaving. It’s one of my top five skills, right after throwing fries at people and making bad decisions.”

A sound escaped her—small, startled, surprised out of her chest. Her shoulders dropped. “Throwing fries?”

“Long story. Involves a bouncer in Reno.”

“That’s... not clarifying anything.”

“That’s the point.” He pulled out his cigarettes, offered her one. She shook her head. He lit his own, blowing smoke into the night air. “I’m Sydney. Syd. Whatever you want to call me. Most people call me asshole.”

“Are you?” She was watching him now, really watching, and it felt like being pinned to the wall. “An asshole?”

“Depends who you ask.” He took another drag. “You okay?”

She turned back to the skyline. The wind caught her hair, and she shivered. “I... think so.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no, either.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “What are you exactly? Should I be concerned?”

He laughed. “Not really. Although I am concerning. Generally. As a concept. Just... not for you. Not tonight.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Something broke open in her face—a decision, a surrender, a door swinging on its hinges. “I was... thinking about my ex-husband. He died seven years ago.”

Sydney didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, smoking, letting the silence do the work.

“He was the love of my life. We were—” She stopped, swallowed. “I was pregnant when he died. Gave birth four months later. I have a son. He’s seven now. Practically a little man.”

“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, and meant it.

“His best friend was a rock. He was there for everything. As much as he could be. And now...” She looked down at her hand, at the diamond glinting on her finger. “We’re engaged. He’s my fiancé.”

The word hit Sydney’s chest like a fist.

Her dead husband’s best friend.A man who’d stepped in. Played hero. Positioned himself right where the money and the widow and the kid were waiting.

Sydney’s jaw tightened. He kept his voice level. “But?”

“But. It feels like something’s missing. Like I’m settling for safety because I don’t know how to ask for what I want. And I want to give my son stability. I want him to have a father. But I—” She broke off, her throat working. “God, I’m sorry. I’m ranting. You came up here for quiet and I’m dumping my entire emotional baggage on you.”

“It’s okay,” Sydney said. “I don’t get bothered by pretty girls.”

A real laugh tore out of her—loud, unguarded, a door flying open. “God, you remind me of my ex. He used to say corny things like that.”

“Your fiancé doesn’t?”

“My fiancé is... a different kind of man. Polished. Adept. Measured.”

“And the sex?”

Her head whipped toward him. “You’re very direct.”

He gestured at himself—the leather cut, the tattoos, the dimple in his cheek. “Look at me. Do I scream diplomatic?”

The laugh came again, and this time it stayed on her face, softening the grief lines around her mouth. “Sex is... vanilla.”

“And that’s not something you like?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just...” She hesitated. “My ex and I... it was...”

“Explosive?”

“Yeah.” The word came out on a breath. “Explosive.”

“Then you need to talk to him. Bad sex is a deal breaker in any relationship.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I tried once. Things got... weird.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You’re going to marry him. You need to have conversations like this. He’s not a little boy—he probably watches porn on his phone. He knows what kinks are.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I don’t have kinks?”

Sydney turned to her. His eyes were bright. His smile was slow. “I don’t. And that’s kind of hot.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Are you always like this?”

“Charming? Yes. Inappropriately honest? Also yes. It’s a package deal. I come with a dimple and zero filter.” He shrugged. “Go talk to your man. You have the right. Try new things. Ropes and shit. I know couples who are disgustingly in love and they spank each other on a daily basis.”

She was shaking her head, still smiling, but her eyes were different now. Less hollow. More alive. The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving faint tracks through the highlighter.

“You remind me of him,” she said quietly. “My ex. He was like this. Charming and inappropriate and—he made me laugh. All the time.”

“He was a lucky man.” Sydney’s voice went softer. “I’m sorry he had to leave.”

She looked up at the stars. The city hummed below them. “It doesn’t feel like it’s been seven years. It feels like yesterday.”

“You deserve to be happy. He wants you to be happy. He’s probably up there right now, looking down, pissed off that you’re crying on a rooftop with a stranger instead of getting what you need.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I’d want. If I were him. If I had to leave someone like you behind.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “You want to hear some dirty jokes? Distract yourself?”

“Are they terrible?”

“Offensively. I’m no organ donor, but I’d be happy to give you my heart. And a couple other organs.”

She burst out laughing—full-throated, unrestrained, the sound echoing off the stone. “You’re awful.”

“Awful and charming. It’s my brand.”

They stood there, the laughter fading into the wind, and the silence that followed was different. Thicker. Charged with something neither of them named.

“I saw you downstairs,” Sydney said. “In the restaurant. You were standing at the bar.”

She went still. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You were wearing this dress. And I was staring so hard my family told me to stop being a creep and pointed out the ring on your finger.”

She looked down at her hand. The diamond glinted. “What would you have done? If I didn’t have the ring?”

“I would have inappropriately flirted with you. Asked you out. Planned a whole date. Made you laugh.” He stepped closer. “Then planned another date. Taken you on my bike. Tried to hold your hand.”

“That’s all?” She was smirking now. The tears were gone. The grief was still there—he could see it, tucked behind her eyes—but something else was burning beside it.

He met her gaze. “You’re engaged. I don’t want to cross lines.”

The silence stretched. A whole conversation passed between them without a single word.

Then she reached down. Pulled the ring off her finger. Dropped it into her purse.

“Sorry,” she said. “It just feels too heavy tonight.”

His mouth went dry. His eyes dropped to her bare finger—the faint indentation where the platinum had sat, the naked skin, the absence of another man’s claim. His hand tightened at his side.

“I’m not judging you,” he managed.

He covered her hand with his. Palm to palm. Her skin was warm, soft, shaking faintly. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t ask him to stop. She just looked up at him with those enormous dark eyes, and the world went silent.

She kissed him first.

It was barely a movement—a tilt of her chin, a parting of her lips, a question asked without words. He answered.

His mouth claimed hers. She was stiff for half a second—and then she melted. Her lips parted. Her body pressed against his, the red silk crushing against his kutte. She fit against him like she’d been made for it. His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. Her fingers gripped the leather of his cut.

He took control. Her breath hitched. He swallowed the sound. His lips trailed down her jaw to her neck, tasting the salt of her tears and something sweeter underneath. Gardenia. Amber. Money. Her. She shivered against him, and he felt it everywhere.

His hand dropped to her lower back, pressing her closer. Her breasts crushed against his chest. The curve of her hip fit his palm like it had been designed for him. She made a sound—a small, desperate thing—and he almost lost his mind right there on the rooftop.

“Syd...” Her voice was ragged. “We shouldn’t.”

“No.” He pulled back, breathing hard. “We shouldn’t.”

The separation felt like limbs breaking. He was hard—painfully, obviously hard—and he turned toward the door before she could see what she’d done to him. The jeans didn’t lie, and he was already the asshole who kissed crying women on rooftops. No need to add indecent exposure to the charges.

“If I see you again,” he said, his voice rough, “I’m coming for you. No ring. No fiancé. No excuses.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead—gentle, reverent, the opposite of the heat still crackling between them—and walked away.

She stood there on the rooftop, her fingers pressed to her lips, her ring in her purse, her heart pounding.

He never asked her name.