I’m moving before I’ve made the choice. My hand comes up, my thumb brushing the tear from her bruised cheek. She leans into my touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement that is a surrender and a demand all at once.
And that’s it. I crash into her.
My mouth claims hers, not with gentleness, but with a desperate, raw hunger. This isn’t a kiss of romance; it’s a kiss of survival. It’s all bruised lips, tangled breath, and the shared, metallic taste of grief and fear. A groan tears from my chest as her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. Her body, small and fierce, presses against mine, and my entire system ignites. I’m instantly hard, my body’s primal, selfish need overriding everything else. One hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other slides down her back, gripping her hip to pull her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
She lets out a soft, broken sound against my lips, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. A part of me—the feral, possessive part—wants to push her against the wall, to hike her legs around my waist and take everything she’s offering. To claim her. To own this moment.
But the ghost of Declan is screaming in my head. Traitor. The promise I made is at war with the man I am right now. I’m holding back, every muscle in my body straining with the effort to not take more than she’s giving, to not become another man who takes from her.
I break the kiss, pulling back with a ragged gasp. I rest my forehead against hers, the world tilting on its axis. We’re both breathing hard, the air thick with a new, unspoken current. The kiss fixed nothing. It just made everything a hell of a lot more real.
Her eyes are wide, her lips swollen. I can feel the tremor running through her body, or maybe it’s my own. “We should… we should probably get some sleep,” I say, the words a lie, my voice a wrecked whisper.
She just nods, unable to speak. I lean in and press a soft, final kiss to her forehead, a promise of something more. It’s a desperate act of restraint. Then I make myself step back, putting a torturous inch of space between us. She turns and walks to her room, and I walk to mine, and every step feels like I’m walking away from the only thing that matters.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my bed feeling too big, too empty. I can still feel her. The soft press of her body, the ghost of her lips on mine. She tasted of salt, fear, and a strength that humbled me. The promise I made to Declan and the man who just kissed his girl are at war inside my skull. For once, I’m not sure which side I want to win. Sleep doesn’t come.
She’s already in the kitchen when I walk in the next morning, clutching a mug of coffee. Her image, so at home in my spaceand wearing my clothes, felt both incredibly natural and deeply unsettling, sending a shockwave through me. A heavy silence sits between us, echoing the lingering night before.
I clear my throat, leaning against the counter. “So,” I start, my voice rough. “On a scale of one to ‘calling my brother to bail me out of a Mexican jail,’ how awkward is this?”
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee before looking at me over the rim of the mug. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips. “I’d say we’re hovering somewhere around ‘accidentally telling your teacher you love them.’ Mortifying, but probably not an international incident.”
Relief washes through me, so strong I almost laugh. Her sense of humor is still in there, sharp as ever. “Ouch. That’s a low blow. I’m definitely at least at ‘waking up with a bad tattoo’ level of regret.”
“You don’t regret it,” she says, her voice quiet, her gaze steady. It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. And the air is suddenly charged again, the memory of the kiss hanging there.
“No,” I admit, my voice low, holding her gaze. “I don’t.”
My phone buzzes on the counter, a harsh intrusion that makes us both jump. A text from Malachi.
War room. One hour. It’s time to plan the hunt.
I look up and meet her eyes across the kitchen island. The soft, fragile moment is gone, replaced by the grim reality of the day. She’s already dressed, her expression resolute.
“So, the girls are meeting us at the club?” I ask, my mind already shifting, calculating.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice firm. “Frankie’s rounding them up. The plan is they’ll take me to get some actual clothes while you guys are in your meeting.”
My jaw tightens. Her being out in public, even with the girls, feels like a risk. “Okay,” I say, my voice tight. “But Rider is going with you. As a shadow. Non-negotiable.”
I expect a fight, but she just gives a single, sharp nod. She’s not just anticipating my protection; she’s accepting it as part of this new life. My warrior. She raises her chin slightly, her gaze steady and clear. “When do we leave?”
I look at the woman standing in my kitchen, a warrior in borrowed clothes, and realize the lines have been irrevocably redrawn. This isn’t just my fight anymore. It’s ours. That makes it a hell of a lot more complicated.
And a hell of a lot more important.
Chapter 21
Darla
Theridebacktothe clubhouse is a blur of tension. I’m on the back of East’s bike, my arms wrapped around his waist, my chest pressed against the solid, warm wall of his back. Every vibration of the engine thrums through my body, a physical reminder of the charged silence that has existed between us since we woke up. The memory of last night—that raw, desperate kiss in his living room—is a live wire. Now, after our morning banter, the air is even thicker, electric with unspoken things.
When we pull into the clubhouse parking lot, the place is already humming with a low, simmering tension. The war has begun. Malachi is on the porch, waiting with his arms crossed, resembling a silent, watchful guardian.
East kills the engine and swings his leg off the bike. He turns to me, his expression unreadable, and holds out his hand. I take it, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine as he helps me dismount.
East walks me into the common room, his hand a warm, steady presence at the small of my back. Inside, the anticipation was palpable. Candace, Ruby, Sloane, and Frankie are already here. They’re scattered on the couches, holding a silent, tense vigil. Malachi summons him with a single, sharp nod toward the war room.
