"Had a conversation." I turn my hand over, lace our fingers together. "He tried to play stupid. Said he didn't know what I was talking about. I told him we got the receipts. Burner number. Messages. Timestamps. He knows now."
Her eyes search mine. "Did you...?"
"Beat his ass. Yeah. He said shit about you. Nasty shit. Tried to make me snap so he could say I'm no better than him. I didn't kill him. But he won't forget tonight."
She swallows hard. Then she slides off the couch, right into my lap on the floor, arms locking around my neck. I hold her tight, one hand splayed on her back, the other cradling her head.
"I was so scared," she whispers against my throat. "Not just of him. Of what you might do if he pushed too far. Of losing you to a charge or worse."
"You're not losing me." I kiss her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Not ever. He's done. For good."
She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for protecting what's mine." I brush my thumb under her eye. "That's the job."
She kisses me then—soft at first, then hungry. Hands sliding under my cut, tugging at my shirt like she needs skin. I kiss her back the same way, tasting salt and relief and her.
"Bed," she breathes.
I stand with her wrapped around me, legs locked at my waist, and carry her down the hall. We don't make it far. I press her against the wall outside the bedroom, hoodie shoved up, mouth on her throat while she yanks at my belt.
When I slide inside her it's slow and deep. We both groan at the same time.
"Mine," I rasp, thrusting up into her. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders. "Always yours."
We move like that, desperate, grounding, reminding each other we're still here, until her legs shake and she comes with myname on her lips. I follow right after, burying deep, whispering promises against her skin.
After, I carry her the rest of the way to bed. We collapse tangled, my cut half-on, her hoodie bunched around her waist. She traces the scar on my chest with one finger, ring glinting in the low light.
"He won't come back?" she asks quietly.
"No." I catch her hand, kiss the ring. "Because if he does, next time I won't leave him breathing."
She smiles—small, tired, real. "My big bad biker."
"Damn right."
I pull the blanket over us. Tuck her against my chest. Listen to her breathing even out. The house stays quiet. Cats curl at the foot of the bed. My phone stays dark on the nightstand.
Brian Cross just learned what happens when you fuck with an Iron Reaper's old lady.
And Savannah is finally sleeping without one eye open.
TWENTY-FIVE
SAVANNAH
The compound gateclangs shut behind us and the world shrinks to just this, firelight flickering on leather cuts, bass thumping through the dirt, the sharp smell of burning pine and spilled whiskey. Perdition's dark and locked up, no outsiders tonight. Just Reapers and their women. No prospects on gate duty either; even they're inside drinking.
Lucky parks the bike near the row of Harleys, kills the engine, and swings his leg over. He reaches back for me like always, big hands steady on my hips as I slide off. His thumbs brush the bare skin above my jeans and I feel that low pull in my belly even before he looks at me.
"You ready for this?" he asks, voice rough from the ride.
I tip my head toward the bonfire. Flames are already licking high, sparks popping like gunshots. "Looks like they're ready to burn the whole damn place down. Yeah, I'm ready."
He smirks, slings an arm around my shoulders, and we walk in. His hand stays possessive on the back of my neck the wholeway, thumb rubbing slow circles like he's reminding me, and everyone else, who I belong to.
