We stand there for a while, the clubhouse settling into quiet around us. I hear Tank and Ginger’s door close upstairs. Hawkheads toward the chapel to talk to Stone, Steel tagging along behind.
Finally, Bones pulls back enough to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot, exhausted, but underneath all of that, there’s . . . relief.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you back upstairs. That ankle is supposed to be elevated.”
He scoops me up before I can argue, and I don’t bother protesting. Just wrap my arms around his neck and let him carry me.
Once we’re inside the guest suite, he sets me on the edge of the bed carefully, then steps back.
“I need to shower,” he says, and his voice is rough, raw. “Need to . . .”
He doesn’t finish, but I understand. Need to wash it off. Need to scrub away whatever happened tonight until all that’s left is him.
“OK.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s checking to make sure I’m real, that I’m still here. Then he turns and heads into the bathroom.
I hear the water start. Hear the shower door close. And I just sit there on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, at the surgical boot strapped to my ankle, at the reality of what my life is now.
Bones killed a man tonight.
Maybe more than one. I don’t know, don’t want to know.
He killed someone who threatened me, and now he’s in the shower washing the evidence off his skin, and I’m sitting here waiting for him to come back to bed like this is normal.
And the thing is, it is normal. For this life. For the men of Stoneheart MC.
This is what Ginger meant about holding the light. This is what loving an outlaw looks like. Sitting in the dark at 5 AM, waiting for the sound of water to stop, knowing that when he comes out he’ll need me to remind him he’s more than what he just did.
And I’m choosing it. Not because I have to. Not because I’m trapped. But because this is where I belong. In the hard parts as much as the easy ones.
The shower runs for a long time. Longer than necessary. I picture him standing under the spray, palms pressed against the tile, letting the water beat down on his shoulders until his skin turns pink.
Finally, the water shuts off.
I hear movement in the bathroom—the medicine cabinet opening, closing. The sound of a towel. Then the door opens and Bones emerges wearing just his boxer briefs, hair still damp, water droplets on his shoulders.
He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he left part of himself somewhere between here and wherever they went tonight.
He crosses the room slowly and stops in front of me, taking me in. I realize I probably look a mess, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his t-shirt, surgical boot still strapped on, hair probably messy from when I was asleep earlier.
“Come on, swan,” he says softly, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you back in bed.”
I take his hand and instead of letting him help me up, I tug and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “Bones,” I whisper against his skin.
He goes still, then slowly kneels in front of me, eye-level now. His hands come to rest on my thighs, warm and steady.
“I’m OK,” he says, and I know he’s not just talking about physically. He’s telling me he came back whole. That whatever he did tonight didn’t break him.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Because if I open my mouth, I’ll tell him how terrified I was, how every minute felt like an eternity, how I kept imagining worst-case scenarios. And I can’t put that on him. Not when he just risked everything to keep me safe.
But a tear slides down my cheek anyway, betraying me.
His thumb catches it, brushing it away with heartbreaking gentleness. Then he leans up and kisses first one cheek, then the other, his lips soft against my skin.
“It’s OK,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re safe now. He can’t touch you ever again. No one can.”
I nod again, another tear falling, and he catches that one too.
