“I love you too,” I whisper back.
He pulls me closer, arms tightening around me as if he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. But I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight.
Not ever, if I have any say in it. And in that same instant, the reality slams into me: If I stay here, I’m not just choosing him. I’m choosing roots. A home. A life.
In the same town where the man hunting me still walks somewhere in the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Riley
When I wake, it’s heat that pulls me out of the black. Not the stifling, breathless kind I used to wake to, all fear and adrenaline, but a living warmth that seeps into my bones, a small sun just for me. I’m cradled against Breaker, the mattress sunken under his weight, his arm heavy over my stomach, and his mouth slack against the back of my neck. My first breath is shallow, cautious as always—then a second, a third, and the world holds. No shouts, no fists. Only the soft snuffle of his exhale, the slow, protective squeeze of his biceps, and the quiet confidence that I survived another night.
This heat isn’t just around me, emanating from Breaker’s body, from the touch of his skin to mine, but there’s something else, too. Something deeper. A warmth inside me. This warmth in my heart gives me not only a feeling of love, but of something that I haven’t imagined I’d ever feel again: safety.
Breaker stirs, his hand trailing up to rest on my ribcage, one thumb idly stroking an absentminded circle just below my breast. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like my name and nuzzles closer. Even half-asleep, he’s aware of me. The faintest hint of a smile tugs at his lips. I want to remember that smile forever, so I breathe him in — leather, smoke, heat — and let it settle in my chest.
Then he stirs again, shifting, and I stretch beneath the sheets and slowly lift my head. Breaker’s lying on his stomach now, onearm thrown over my waist, breathing softly. There’s the faintest smile on his lips, like whatever dream he’s having is a good one.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
I whisper it before I can stop myself, before fear can get in the way, before doubt can steal the moment. “I love you, Breaker.”
His breathing doesn’t hitch. He doesn’t jolt or flinch. The smile just lingers, stretching a millimeter wider, and I know — somehow I know — that he hears me.
I slip out of bed and head to the shower, letting the hot water ease the ache in my muscles. I close my eyes and soak in the memory of last night. His hands. His voice. The way he dominated me. The way he held me as if I were something precious. Someone worth protecting.
Someone worth loving.
By the time I’m dressed and stepping out of Breaker’s apartment, my heart feels too big for my chest.
The main room smells of cheap coffee, frying bacon, and the lingering musk of last night’s cigarette smoke. It’s loud — someone’s arguing with the TV, a handful of Devils are bickering over a deck of cards, and from the kitchen, a string of creative curses echoes as Molly fends off some disaster. I feel their eyes on me as I enter the room, but it’s nothing like the predatory stares I learned to fear. This is curiosity. Maybe even approval. Smiling, I step into the normal morning chaos of the Twisted Devils.
And for the first time, I feel like I’m part of it to my core. A member of a family.
Tank is the first to notice me. He raises a massive hand and grunts.
“Coffee?” He says before I can even sit down.
“Yes, please,” I laugh, taking the steaming mug he hands me.
Diesel appears a moment later with a blanket draped over one tattooed arm. “Are you cold?” he asks. Before I can answer, heflicks the blanket around my shoulders, tucking it in at the collar like he’s swaddling a baby bird. It smells like detergent and clean air. “There. Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”
I grin. “Thank you. What’s all this about?”
“You don’t just work here, Riley. You’re family, now. We take care of our own,” Tank says.
The words cling to me. Our own. For years I’d been no one’s, except as a cautionary tale or a possession. Now I’ve been claimed, not as property but as kin. The thought is dizzying.
A commotion at the card table draws my attention. Havoc and Mayhem, the club’s resident twins — and by “twins,” I mean two chaos goblins who share a single brain cell — are whispering feverishly, heads bent together in an obvious plot.
They approach me in formation, Havoc in front with Mayhem at his heels, a practiced choreography of menace and mischief. Havoc wears a solemn, almost priestly expression, while Mayhem has a childish grin plastered across his face.
“Gift for you,” Havoc says solemnly.
Mayhem presents two small, meticulously hand-drawn cards. The paper is creased at the corners, the ink smudged, but the effort is obvious.
I take them carefully. “Violence coupons?”
