Swans mate for life. And she’s my swan. My mate.
Mine.
Has been since the day I swore to protect her.
And when she’s ready—when she’s done proving to herself and everyone else that she can be something other than an MC president’s daughter—she’ll realize that too.
Yeah, I could force it. I could push. I could back her into another screaming match where I throw every truth on the table until she cracks. But my girl is too damn stubborn and too damn brilliant to be cornered.
She has to choose this. Choose me. On her time. On her terms. Not because I demanded it or trapped her or because she felt like she owed me.
So I wait. I watch from a distance. I show up when she calls. And I let her fly every single time because that’s what you do when you love something wild.
You let it go. And you trust it’ll come back.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make this ride last as long as humanly possible. Doesn’t mean I won’t take every second Ican get with her pressed against my back, her arms around my waist, before I have to let her go again.
Her hand shifts against my stomach, and she presses closer to my back. She’s cold—the December air is brutal at highway speeds—and I’m just deciding whether we should stop soon or push on to the next city when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Stone.
Of course it’s Stone.
I’ve been dodging this call since I left Stoneheart at four in the morning, tracking Emma’s movement toward the airport and praying she wouldn’t get on that plane. Not because I wanted to keep her in Stoneheart—though yeah, I’d fucking love that—but because if she did, she’d be alone.
And after everything that happened yesterday, no matter how brave she acts, she’d spend that whole flight scared shitless of getting kidnapped again on the other side. And I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to comfort her.
The phone buzzes again.
I ignore it. Emma doesn’t need to hear this conversation, and I sure as hell don’t need her listening to Stone tear into me while we’re doing seventy-five on I-85.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull off at a rest stop outside Greenville. One of those big travel plazas with multiple food options, surprisingly clean bathrooms, and harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look half-dead.
Emma climbs off the bike stiffly, tugging off her helmet and shaking out her dark hair. She’s got helmet hair and road-weary eyes, and she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“God, yes.”
We head inside, and I’m hyperaware of the looks we’re getting—me in my Stoneheart MC cut, her in jeans and a pink hoodie underneath my massive leather jacket.
I order us coffee and breakfast sandwiches while Emma claims a table in the corner, away from the families and truckers and business travelers. When I bring the food over, she’s staring at her phone—the burner she bought this morning—like it might bite her.
“Kya?” I guess, sliding her coffee across the table.
“Yep. Seven Instagram DMs asking where I am and if I’m OK.” Emma picks up the coffee, wraps both hands around it. “I told her I’m fine and heading back to New York. She’s not buying it.”
“Kya’s smart.”
“Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have downloaded any social media, but I literally don’t have anyone’s number. Figured I should check in before Dad panics.”
“You’ve got my number.”
“Yeah . . .“ She avoids elaborating by taking a sip of her coffee. “This coffee is terrible.”
“Welcome to road trip coffee. It only gets worse from here.”
She almost smiles. Almost.
