Embersofthebonfireglow in the dark, casting long, flickering shadows that dance across the yard. Laughter from the cookout has dwindled to silence, replaced by the rhythmic hum of crickets and a low murmur from brothers still lingering by the fire. The party is over. The truce is over. It’s time for war.
I’m standing with Darla at the edge of the light, her hand in mine, watching the last of the embers pulse. The warmth and chaos of the night have settled into a quiet, shared understanding. I feel her lean her head on my shoulder, a simple, trusting gesture that makes my chest tighten.
I see Malachi detach himself from a conversation with Nash. He walks over to us, his expression no longer the relaxed man at a party, but the President of the club. His gaze is heavy.
“It’s time,” he says in a low rumble. He looks from me to Darla, then back to me. “Core team. War room. Now.” He pauses, his eyes landing on Darla again, his gaze assessing, not unkind.“And bring her,” he says, tipping his chin toward her. “She’s not a guest for this one. She’s the mission.”
My hand tightens on hers. He’s bringing her inside. All the way in. It’s a sign of ultimate trust, but the protective instinct in my gut roars at the idea of pulling her deeper into this. Still, he’s right. She’s not just an asset; she’s the key.
“Okay,” I say. I give her hand a squeeze. “You ready?” She just nods, her face pale but resolute.
We walk into the clubhouse. Nash and Knox are already heading for the back hallway, their own expressions grim. The four of us—Malachi, me, Nash, and Knox—fall into step, with Darla held firmly at my side.
When we reach the war room, Malachi pushes the door open and holds it, waiting for me to guide Darla inside first. The gesture is clear. She’s under his protection, and she’s essential.
The atmosphere inside is different—less shocked, more focused and lethal. Malachi gestures to the chair right next to me at the table. “Sit down, Darla. You’ve earned your seat.”
No longer hovering in the background, she’s seated at the table, a legal pad spread out before her, her expression a mask of grim determination. Her outsider status has been shed; she’s now our primary asset.
“Okay,” I say steadily. “The objective is the key. We get in, we get the key, we get out. Darla, walk me through the layout. Your father’s security.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She’s all business, her voice crisp and precise. “The main system is a standard perimeter alarm. The code is my mother’s birthday. He never changed it.” A brief flicker of pain crosses her features, but she quickly suppresses it. “But there are pressure plates. One under the rug in the main foyer and another in the hallway leading to his office. My old bedroom is on the second floor, at the back of the house. The window overlooks the garden. The trellis is still there.”
With swift strokes, she sketches a surprisingly detailed map of the second floor, marking her room, her father’s, and the location of a motion-sensor light in the hallway. She’s sharp, ruthless in her assessment. Watching her take control, dismantling her old prison piece by piece, fills me with fierce pride. Even Knox and Nash look at her with newfound respect dawning in their eyes.
When the plan is finalized, the room empties. Malachi, Knox, and Nash file out, each one clapping me on the shoulder as they pass, a new, heavy respect in the way they nod at Darla. Finally, it’s just the two of us, standing under the harsh light of the war room. The silence is heavy, but it’s not the angry silence from the woods.
She’s rolling up her map, her hands not quite steady. She won’t look at me.
“Darla.”
She flinches, her eyes finally, hesitantly, meeting mine. She’s braced for a fight, still expecting the anger from the woods.
I close the small space between us. “I was an asshole,” I say, my voice a low, rough thing. “In the woods. What I said to you... it was bullshit. I was angry, and I was wrong.”
Her eyes widen, searching mine, not daring to believe it.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I continue, my hand coming up to cup her jaw, my thumb stroking her cheek. “About what you did. What you carried. For seven years.” I shake my head, the sheer weight of her sacrifice hitting me all over again. “Nash was right. If the roles were reversed... if I knew a secret that would get you killed... I would have done the same damn thing. I would have lied to anyone, even you, to keep you safe.”
A single tear breaks free and tracks down her cheek. “I just...” Her voice cracks. “I couldn’t lose you, too.”
“You won’t.” I voice a raw vow. I pull her in, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that’s not about passion, but about sealing a newtruth. It’s a kiss of forgiveness. Of understanding. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. “No more secrets. From now on, we carry it together. Okay?”
She gives a small, shuddering nod. “Okay.”
“Good.” I take her hand, my fingers lacing with hers. “Let’s go home.”
The ride back to my house is enveloped in a different quiet. Not angry, not tense. It’s the charged stillness before a storm, thick with a heavy, shared anticipation. We’re no longer just allies, no longer just hiding in the same house. We are together. That new, fragile, terrifying reality thrums in the air between us.
The moment she settles onto the back of my bike, her arms snaking around my waist, the atmosphere shifts. The hesitant grip from earlier morphs into a confident embrace, her body a warm, solid presence pressed against me. After a block, I feel her relax, her cheek resting against the leather of my cut. Then, I feel her hands move. They’re not just holding on anymore; they’re exploring. Her fingers glide along the rugged seams of my leather, then slide around to my front, her palms flattening against my abs, sending sparks racing through my veins.
A jolt of raw, unfiltered desire surges within me, igniting every nerve ending. I grit my teeth, knuckles white as I grip the handlebars tighter. She’s dancing on the edge of danger, and I’m caught in the heat of it. My hand slips from the throttle, covering hers where it rests on my stomach, my thumb brushing over the delicate skin on the back of her hand. A warning, or maybe an invitation. I can’t tell which.
Her other hand grows bolder, gliding up my chest with a confidence that sends my heart racing. I seize her thigh, my fingers digging in with a possessive squeeze that earns a soft gasp from her lips, vibrating against my back like a low hum of electricity. That sound is a signal, a challenge. Her hand slips under the hem of my shirt, cool fingers finding the heated skin ofmy stomach. She traces the contours of my muscles; her touch is a tantalizing torment, each brush igniting a fire deep within me.
Struggling to maintain control, I take her hand and guide it deliberately downward, pressing her palm flat against the hard ridge of my cock through the rough denim. I hold it there, allowing her to feel the effect she has on me, the primal response that surges through my body. She lets out a small, choked sound against my back, her breath hitching as she presses herself even closer, the heat between us palpable. This is a game I know I’m destined to lose.
When we finally step into my house, the silence envelops us like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating. We stand in the living room; the air is charged with the weight of unspoken words and the gravity of what’s about to happen. I can’t help but study her—the way her jaw is set with determination, the fire flickering in her eyes. It hits me hard, like a punch to the gut. “All these years,” I say in a gravelly voice, “I felt like I was betraying him just by looking at you. By wanting you.”
