My phone buzzes one more time.
Bad Decision:Next time, you won't be able to send me away.
There can't be a next time.
Bad Decision:There's always a next time with us.
I clean the blood from my van, pretending not to notice the shadow shifting behind the back doors.
Knowing he didn’t actually leave.
Knowing Miguel's about to arrive and interrogate me about my safety while I'm systematically destroying it.
While the danger I can’t resist is hiding three feet away.
Great. Just great.
Chapter twenty-two
Claiming Rights
Zane
I was going to make her come until she admitted the truth—she was mine.
The van is quiet now, the Viper long gone, Tommy standing guard outside like the loyal soldier he is. Miguel's left, but his presence lingers like a threat in the air. And Lena? Lena's pressed against the medical cabinet, trying to pretend she doesn't want this as much as I do.
"We need to lock the doors," she says, her voice breathless.
"Already did," I tell her, having secured them the moment Miguel's bike faded into the distance. "Privacy protocol."
"That's not a real medical term."
"It is now."
She's still in those purple nitrile gloves that are more red than they should be—blood has a way of staining everything, including whatever's between us. Her scrubs are rumpled, her hair escaping from the ponytail she'd yanked it into, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"This can't happen," she says, but she's not moving away.
"It's already happening," I counter, caging her against the cabinet with my arms. "Has been happening since that first text."
"I treat your enemies," she reminds me, like I haven't spent weeks watching her patch up every rival MC member, every civilian, every person the system forgot about.
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Probably," I agree, leaning closer. "But here's the thing, Angel—I stopped caring about 'should' the moment you called yourself a disaster in that first message."
Her breath hitches. "That was supposed to be to Ray."
"Best mistake you ever made."
"Worst," she corrects, but her hands are fisting in my cut, pulling me closer even as she protests. "This is the worst mistake."
"Then let's make it worth it."
The kiss is violent, desperate—weeks of texts and tension exploding into something that feels more like claiming than kissing. She tastes like coffee and chaos, like salvation and damnation mixed into something addictive.
