“Damn right, I fucking am.”
Lee grins. “About time, old man.”
I cuff him on the back of the head, but I’m smiling.
She’s alive. She’s safe. And as soon as this is over, I’m never letting her out of my sight again.
23
JOSIE
The clubhouse is quiet when we get back.
It’s nearly 3am by the time we’re done with the FBI—my statement, Stone’s statement, the endless paperwork that accompanies any federal operation. Alex wanted me to go to the hospital, but after the paramedics confirmed nothing was broken, I refused. I just wanted to go home.
Home. When did the clubhouse become home?
Isabel’s waiting in the hallway when we come through the door. She’s in pajamas, hair mussed. Her gaze sweeps over me—the bruises blooming on my face, the raw skin at my wrists, the way I’m holding myself like everything hurts.
Because it does.
“Jesus,” she breathes. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. Way to make a girl feel good.”
We exchange a grin.
“I hope you gave the other guy worse.”
A surprised laugh escapes me—rough and painful against my bruised ribs. “Something like that.”
We’re two women who’ve faced violence. Two women who found refuge in the same place. She surprises me by reaching out and squeezing my hand. It’s brief and fierce, then she drops it and steps back.
“You better go. Your man is about to vibrate out of his skin.”
I glance at Stone, who’s been standing rigid beside me, barely holding it together. She’s right.
“We’ll talk tomorrow?” I ask.
“Tomorrow.” Isabel nods. “Get some rest, Josie.”
Word has spread—I can tell by the way brothers nod at us as we pass, the relief in their eyes, the careful distance they keep. They know what happened. They know what Stone did to get me back.
And they know we need to be alone.
Stone doesn’t speak as he leads me upstairs. Doesn’t speak as he locks the bedroom door behind us. Doesn’t speak as he turns to face me, his expression raw and open in a way I’ve never seen.
“Boone—”
“I almost lost you.” His voice cracks. “Josie, I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
“I know.” I cross to him, taking his face in my hands. My wrist aches where the zip ties dug in. My cheek throbs where Ivan hit me. But none of that matters. “I know. But I’m here. I’m okay. You found me.”
His fingers trace my swollen lip, the bruise darkening around my eye. His jaw tightens with barely contained rage.
“Who did this to you?”
“Ivan. He’s?—”
