Roman doesn’t remove his hands from me. “Yes?”
“If you hurt her,” Dmitri says flatly, “I will forget we are family.”
Roman’s expression doesn’t shift. “You won’t need to,” he replies.
Dmitri studies him for one long second. Then nods. The door closes behind them and the room goes quiet. I look up at Roman slowly. “Well,” I say, breathless and suddenly very aware of how close he is, “that went better than expected.”
His thumb traces a slow line along my waist. “You chose me,” he says, like he’s still processing it.
“I did.”
He leans closer, his forehead finally brushing mine. “Good,” he murmurs again.
FIFTEEN
ANYA
We rideto Perdition in one of the SUVs because his bike is still in the shop. Bullet damage. Twisted metal. A reminder neither of us wants to dwell on. It’s parked near the side entrance, stripped down to its frame like a wounded animal waiting to heal. I slow when I see it. Roman doesn’t comment. He walks over and rests his hand along the handlebar like he’s checking on something wounded.
“She’ll be ready soon,” he says.
“She?” I ask quietly.
He glances back at me. “Don’t start.”
Despite everything, I smile.
There’s another bike parked nearby. One of the club’s. Clean. Solid. Functional. He turns toward me then, and something in his expression shifts. Serious. Intent. “I was going to wait,” he says.
“For what?”
He steps closer instead of answering, stopping right in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes. “In the MC world,” he says carefully, “a man doesn’t just put a woman on the back of his bike.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because it means something.” The wind lifts a strand of my hair across my cheek. He brushes it back absently. “When a woman rides behind you,” he continues, “it means she’s your old lady.”
I frown. “I’m not old.”
A low laugh slips out of him, the sound rumbling warm in his chest. He cups my face gently. “No. You are not old.”
“Then why would you call me that?”
“I wouldn’t.” His thumb rests along my jaw, steady. “I’d call you my woman.” My breath catches. “My forever,” he adds, quieter now. The parking lot feels smaller somehow. “It means you’re mine and I’m yours,” he says. “Not ownership the way people twist it. It means no other man gets you. No one touches you. No one stands where I stand.”
His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “And I don’t stand with anyone else.” My pulse is loud in my ears. “This isn’t about a ride,” he says. “It’s about what that ride says to everyone who sees it.”
I swallow. “And what does it say?”
“That you belong with me.”
The words don’t feel controlling. They feel claimed. Mutual. His thumb brushes lightly beneath my eye. “Is that okay, ptichka?” he asks softly.
I don’t hesitate. “As long as you are only mine, medved.”
Something shifts in him. “Only yours,” he says without pause.
We stand there for a long second, the world quiet around us. Then he drops his hand slowly. “Now,” he says, nodding toward the bike. “If you get on the back, it means you’re choosing that.”
