“Bones—”
“We’ve got tonight,” he says, his voice dropping. “Before you have to decide anything. Before the real world comes crashing back in. Right now, it’s just us. Here. This.”
It’s not a solution. It’s not even really an answer. But it’s a reprieve, and maybe that’s all either of us can offer right now.
“OK,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I let myself fall into it. Let myself stop thinking about the morning, about the questions I’m not ready to answer, about all the ways this could hurt.
His hands slide down my body, pushing the sheet away, and I arch into his touch.
“Swan,” he murmurs against my mouth. “My beautiful swan.”
He kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, lower. His hands spread my thighs apart as he settles between them, and when he looks up at me, his eyes are dark with intent.
“Let me worship you,” he says, his breath hot against my skin.
And I?—
I let him.
6
BONES
Six Months Later
Devil’s Bar looks better than it did before Summit burned it to the ground.
That’s the thing about trying to destroy something—sometimes you just give people a reason to rebuild it stronger. The main room is twice the size it was before, with a proper stage for live music and enough space that we’re not licking other people’s armpits every Friday night.
We even have a back patio now. With proper seating and string lights and everything.
It’s almost civilized.
I’m standing near the bar, watching the grand reopening party hit full swing, and trying to remember the last time I felt this . . . normal. The place is packed—brothers, old ladies, locals who’ve supported us through everything, even some of the businessowners from downtown who stood with us when Summit tried to squeeze them out.
“Looking good, brother.” Tank appears at my elbow, two beers in hand. He passes me one. “All that manual labor paid off.”
“Fuck off,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.
He’s not wrong, though. Six months of construction work—framing, drywall, electrical, plumbing, all of it—has left me with calluses on top of calluses and a lot less time to brood over shit I can’t change.
Like the fact that I haven’t seen Emma in person since I dropped her off in Brooklyn Heights and walked away.
“You think Stone’s gonna give you your old job back?” Tank asks, taking a pull from his beer.
“Nope.”
“You gonna ask for it?”
“Nope.”
Tank studies me for a moment. “You good with that?”
Am I? Six months ago, getting stripped of my intelligence officer position felt like getting my guts ripped out. That role was everything—it’s how I contributed, how I proved my worth, how I kept people safe. Losing it was Stone’s way of saying I’d fucked up so badly that trust had to be earned back from scratch.
But working construction, rebuilding this place with my own hands alongside the brothers? It’s shown me something I’d forgotten. The club isn’t just about positions and patches. It’s about showing up. Doing the work. Being there when it matters.
