Kyle, despite his serious demeanor, catches the bandages with an easy smile. He walks over to her, a hint of a blush on his cheeks, and starts stacking supplies as she bosses him around.
As she laughs at something he says, I see her eyes flick, just for a second, across the room. She’s checking. Making sure her real audience is paying attention.
And he is.
Across the room, Nash is directing two prospects on cleaning up a small, contained mess, his movements efficient and precise. He looks up, and his gaze lands directly on Ruby’s hand, which is now lingering on Kyle’s bicep. He doesn’t move a muscle, but his jaw tightens, and a deep, angry frown settles between his brows.Oh, he’s not happy. Not at all.
Ruby 1, Nash 1. This game is just getting started.
This is them. This is the club. Not just the patched members, but the women, the prospects, the ones connected by blood and by choice. I’m not just being protected. I’m part of the machine. And right now, our purpose is clear: to heal, to protect, and to fight like hell.
Chapter 27
East
Iwakeuptothe unfamiliar feeling of another person’s warmth in my bed.
For a split second, a cold, practiced instinct kicks in—the muscle memory of a man used to waking up alone, on guard. Then the scent hits me. Her scent is a mix of my soap and something uniquely her, like wildflowers after a storm. It makes the tension bleed out of me in a single, quiet exhale.
Darla.
I turn my head on the pillow, my movements slow, careful not to wake her. Early morning light filters through the blinds, painting stripes across her face and the tangled mess of her blonde hair spread across my pillow. She looks peaceful. Young. The harsh lines of trauma have softened in sleep, and the bruise on her cheek is just a faint, violet shadow.
My house is my sanctuary, the one place that is quiet, ordered, and mine. The war found her, and I brought her into my fortress. Waking up to find her here, safe in my bed, feels less like anintrusion and more like the first real peace I’ve felt in seven years.
She stirs, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and her eyes flutter open. They’re hazy with sleep for a moment, then they find mine and clear with a jolt of awareness. I see the flash of memory—the alley, the anger, the raw, desperate sex—and a flicker of uncertainty crosses her face.
I lift a hand, my thumb gently tracing the edge of her jaw. “You okay?” I ask, my voice a low, rough thing in the morning quiet.
She leans into my touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement that makes my chest ache. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Are you?”
The easy banter from before feels wrong now. Too shallow for the depth of what’s passing between us. “No,” I admit, the truth scraping its way out. “I’m terrified.”
Her brow furrows. “Of my father?”
“Of failing you,” I confess, my voice barely audible.
Her eyes soften, and something in them breaks my heart and puts it back together all at once. She closes the small space between us, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that is nothing like the frantic, angry collision in the alley. This is slow. Tender. A question. A rediscovery in the quiet light of day.
When she pulls back, she whispers, “You won’t.”
And that’s it. That’s all it takes. The last thread of my control snaps. I pull her to me, my mouth finding hers again, but this time it’s deeper. It’s a promise. My hand slides from her jaw, down her neck, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone before finding the hem of the T-shirt she’s wearing—my T-shirt. I slide my hand underneath, my palm flat against the soft, warm skin of her stomach. She gasps against my mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.
This isn’t the frantic, desperate claiming from the alley. This is worship. I take my time, peeling the shirt up and over her head,my eyes drinking in the sight of her, all pale skin and soft curves in the morning light. She’s beautiful in a way that makes the air leave my lungs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I growl, my voice thick with lust and awe as I drink her in. My lips trace a path along her jawline, gliding down her neck until I reach the hollow of her throat. I flick my tongue there, savoring her salty sweetness, and she arches her back, a soft gasp escaping her lips. I can’t help but smile against her skin, reveling in the knowledge that she’s mine in this moment.
Continuing my exploration, my mouth wanders over her collarbone, slipping down between her breasts. Her nipples harden under my touch, and a low groan escapes me. I take one pebbled peak into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then more forcefully as her moans fill the air. Moving to her other breast, I give it the same attention, my hands roaming her body, memorizing every curve, every valley.
I make my way down her stomach, my tongue tracing the line of her belly button, dipping inside before venturing lower. She squirms beneath me, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The intoxicating scent of her arousal fills the space between us, and I groan with need.
Settling between her thighs, I watch as her legs fall open for me. Our eyes lock, and in hers, I see a blend of trust, fear, and desire. It’s a potent mix that ignites something deep within me. Slowly, reverently, I slide a finger into her wet heat, and she gasps, her eyelids fluttering shut.
“Look at me, Darla,” I demand, my voice strained, fighting to hold back the intensity building inside me.
Her eyes fly open, revealing the fire burning within. I add another finger, scissoring them inside her, curling them just right to find her G-spot. Her hips buck, and she cries out, her nails digging into the sheets.
I move up her body, my skin slick with sweat, her taste still on my tongue. Her eyes are dazed, unfocused, and utterly wrecked. She’s beautiful. I look down at the woman I just brought to ruin with my mouth, and a fresh wave of possessiveness, so strong it’s a physical ache, rolls through me.
