“Does it get easier?” I ask.
“No. But you get stronger.” She sips from her mug and carefully sets it back down. “You want to know what the hardest part is?It’s not the waiting. It’s not the not-knowing. It’s trusting that when they come back, they’re still the men we fell in love with. That whatever they did out there doesn’t change who they are in here.” She taps her chest.
“What if it does change them?”
“Then we help them find their way back.” Ginger looks at me directly. “But Bones? He’s not going to change. He’s going to do what needs to be done, and then he’s going to come home to you. That’s who he is. That’s who he’s always been.”
I think about that—about Bones at sixteen, watching over me in the woods. Bones at twenty, waiting for me to come home from New York. Bones only months ago, emptying a clip into the men who took me. Bones tonight, kissing me goodbye before he left to do it again.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.
“Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Keeps you from getting complacent.” Ginger stands, stretches. “But don’t let it eat you alive. He’s coming back, Emma. They always do.”
The door to the kitchen opens and Maggie emerges, looking just as tired as Ginger. She spots us at the bar and makes her way over.
“Steel?” Ginger asks.
“Left with them.” Maggie settles onto a stool. “They’ve got Mouse on the gate. Duck’s on the door. Reckon they’re all in place by now.”
My heart lurches. “Did someone call you?”
“No, honey.” Maggie looks at me. “No one calls. I’m just good at figuring out the clues.” Her eyes move down to my boot. “You should be sleeping. Your ankle?—”
“I can’t sleep.” I stare into my tea. “Not until he’s back.”
Maggie and Ginger exchange a knowing look.
“Then we wait together,” Maggie says simply.
She makes a fresh pot of tea and the three of us sit in silence, watching the clock creep toward three AM, then four. The clubhouse stays quiet.
Right after five, the rumble of engines returns. A blast of headlights through the picture window, the crunch of bikes settling on gravel. I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth, a knot cinching tight in my chest.
Ginger barely glances out the window. “That’s them.”
She stands, brushes invisible lint from her shirt, and faces the front door, eyes hopeful. When it opens, Tank is first—massive, tired, his usual calm more rigid, somehow. Hawk right behind him, then Steel, who walks quietly to the kitchen without a word. My heart’s pounding so hard I almost miss the way Bones comes in last, moving a little slower than usual, his hands slack at his sides.
He looks at me and for a second I see everything—the exhaustion, the anger, the relief. I’m not sure what to say. Is“Did you get him?” too crass? “Are you OK?” too naïve? Instead, I just watch as Bones stops halfway into the room, hesitates, and then moves straight to me.
His arms go around my shoulders before I can decide what to say, and I feel his forehead press to the crown of my head.He’s shivering a little. Not from cold, but from the aftermath of adrenaline where you can’t shake the day off your skin.
I slip my arms around his waist and just hold on, squeezing tighter. I feel everyone looking, but let them. This is what I needed. The reassurance of heartbeat, of breath and bone and muscle. He’s safe and he’s here.
Tank is already at the bar, pouring himself a whiskey one-handed because the other arm is hooked around Ginger tight. He kisses the top of her head and says, “Go rest.”
“Only if you’re coming with me,” she says, pulling Tank toward the staircase. The others ghost off to corners of the main room, slumping into old recliners or heading for their rooms upstairs.
Bones is still holding me. “You want to talk?” I ask, voice quiet. “Or just . . .”
He shakes his head, just barely, but I feel the movement. “Just this. For a while.”
“OK,” I whisper, and let myself sway into him, my face pressed against his chest. He smells like cold wind and gunpowder.
“I thought I lost you.” The words just slip out, and instantly I’m pissed at myself for sounding needy.
“You could never lose me, swan,” he says. “Not in a million fucking years.”
I want to ask what happened, but it’s enough just to feel him breathing, just to know he’s alive and the world hasn’t yanked the rug out from under me.
