Chapter Eleven
Brick hadn’t slept, not really.He lay on his back with Tessa tucked into his side, her head resting over his heart, her breathing slow and even as exhaustion finally claimed her.
Every now and then she shuddered in her sleep, caught in some echo of what had been done to her.Each time it happened his body went rigid, every instinct screaming to wake her.He wanted to shield her, to tear apart any threat that dared exist in the same world as her.In the end Brick decided not to wake her.
He stayed still and vigilant, a sentry in the dark.Every creak of the clubhouse made his nerves snap tight.Every distant engine, every door opening too loudly down the hall had made him curl his fingers around the knife on the nightstand.A reflexive instinct before his mind even caught up.
He counted footsteps that weren’t his, memorized voices through walls and measured silence like it was a threat.Tessa was here, she was safe and sound.Still, it didn’t feel real.Not yet.
Brick stared at the ceiling long after dawn crept through the thin curtains, watching pale light crawl across the room inch by inch.The world looked the same as it always had.The familiar bare walls, scarred furniture, the faint scent of oil and gunpowder clinging to everything, but nothing felt the same anymore.
Tessa shifted in her sleep, her forehead tucking instinctively into the hollow of his chest like she belonged there.Like she’d done it a thousand times before.The movement hit him straight through the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs in a way no fist ever had.
Christ.Less than twenty-four hours ago, He’d carried her out of hell.She’d been shaking, bruised, chains biting into her skin.Terror still burning in her eyes even after she was free.Still, she’d lifted her face to him and trusted him to hold her together.
She was broken, terrified, and brave as hell.Now she was here, in his bed and in her arms.Tessa was his.The word settled heavy and irrevocable in his chest.It wasn’t possession or control, but responsibility and devotion.A promise carved into bone.
Careful not to wake her, Brick slipped out from beneath her and stood.The sheets were still warm where her body had been pressed to his.He pulled on his jeans and cut, the familiar weight grounding him, reminding him who he was outside of this room, outside of her.
He paused at the edge of the bed and just watched her.Her lashes were still clumped faintly from dried tears.A shadowed bruise stained the delicate skin of her throat where hands had touched her that never should have.
The sight of it sent a fresh surge of rage ripping through him, violent and uncontrollable, the kind that begged for blood.Brick clenched his jaw until it hurt.Slowly, carefully, he bent and pressed a soft kiss into her hair.It was the gentlest thing he’d ever done.
Then he turned and left the room before the need to go back and curl around her again became too strong.The clubhouse was already alive.Low voices drifted through the hall.
Boots thudded against concrete.Coffee brewed somewhere, bitter and strong.The familiar smells of oil, smoke, and gunmetal hung thick in the air.Heads turned as Brick moved down the corridor.Conversations died.Eyes followed him.
No one said a word, they didn’t have to.They all knew what he was here to do.King’s office door was closed.Brick didn’t slow.He knocked once, sharp and final, and entered without waiting.
King stood behind his desk, maps still spread out from the night before, red marks and grease-smudged fingerprints still haunting the paper.He glanced up as Brick shut the door behind him.
“I’m claiming her as mine,” Brick said without hesitation.
The words landed like a hammer strike.
King studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp, measuring.Maybe he was searching Brick for any hint of doubt.
“You sure?”King asked quietly.
