“And nobody will ever find your body,” Ghost said, cold as the biting winter air.
She looked up at the line of men closing in around Landry.
River. Boone. Bear. Jax. Ghost. X. Jonah. Walker.
These men, who lived on the fringes of society with their violent pasts and broken pieces—they had become her family. Because she was Anson’s, she was now theirs. And they would do anything to protect their own.
Landry glared at her, hatred burning in his bloodshot eyes. But beneath the hatred, she saw something else—fear.
“You’re nothing without me,” he spat, but the words held a desperate edge.
“No, you got that backwards. I’m the one with a million-dollar contract on the table.Youare nothing withoutme.” She turned away, burying her face against Anson’s chest. He held her tighter, his heartbeat strong and steady under her ear.
She was finally, truly free.
Landry couldn’t touch her anymore. Not her career. Not her body. Not her heart. Not her future. She’d found something real here—a place where people showed up for each other, where love wasn’t just words or ratings or control.
“I’ve got you,” Anson murmured, his breath warm against her hair as he carried her toward the bunkhouse. Bramble padded faithfully alongside them, refusing to leave her side. “You’re safe now.”
And for the first time in years, she believed it.
thirty-nine
The bunkhouse hummed with life beyond Anson’s door—River’s laughter, X’s rapid Spanish, metal clanging against the stove. Sounds that usually grated against his nerves like sandpaper and sent him fleeing to his forge.
Today, they sounded like home.
Maggie stirred against him, her nose wrinkling as she fought consciousness. Her throat bore the mottled evidence of Landry’s attack—fingerprint bruises in sickening purple—but her breathing came easy, untroubled. No nightmares for her either, despite everything.
“Morning,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.
She blinked up at him. “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“The forge. You usually...” She waved her hand vaguely, not needing to finish. They both knew his patterns by now—his tendency to retreat, to hide among his tools and projects where people couldn’t reach him.
“Not today,” he said, sitting up slowly to avoid disturbing Bramble. The wolfhound raised his head anyway and regarded them both with sleepy interest. “Hungry?”
This earned him another surprised look. “You want to eat here? With everyone?”
He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Unless you’d rather not. We could grab something and head to the forge.”
“No,” she said quickly, sitting up beside him. “Breakfast with everyone sounds perfect.”
She slid from the bed, grimacing slightly as her feet hit the cold floor. The shirt he’d given her to sleep in hung loosely on her frame. Her hair stuck up at odd angles, and a faint trace of gold paint still shimmered along her collarbone.
“Can I borrow one of your flannels?” She nodded toward his closet. “This T-shirt isn’t warm enough.”
“Whatever you need.” He got up, crossed to the closet, and pulled out his warmest flannel—soft red with faded black checks. “This one’s good.”
She shrugged it on over the T-shirt and rolled up the too-long sleeves. The flannel swallowed her, making her look smaller and somehow fiercer at the same time.
She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He didn’t bother hiding his appreciation. “I love how you look in my clothes.”
“I love how I feel in your clothes.” She padded across the room and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. “Safe.”
