I laugh, still breathless and floating. "Is that an order?"
"It's a promise."
He holds me for a while longer, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. Eventually, he carries me to the shower and washes my hair like I'm something precious. Back in bed, wrapped in his arms, I feel something I thought Garrett had killed forever.
Hope. Peace. The bone-deep certainty that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"I'm not running anymore," I say.
"No," he agrees. "You're home."
I fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear and his arms around me, safe and warm and finally, finally free.
When I wake, the bed is empty.
Panic flares for a moment before I see it: a leather jacket draped over the chair by the window. His spare cut, I realize as I sit up. The one he wears when his everyday cut is being cleaned.
But there's something different about it. A patch on the back that wasn't there before.
I climb out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me, and cross to the chair.
Property of Iron Saints MC
And beneath it, in smaller letters:
Riot's Old Lady
Tears spill down my cheeks. Happy tears, for the first time in longer than I can remember.
I came here running from a monster. I found a home. I found love. I found a man who looks at me like I'm worth fighting for.
I put on the cut over my bare skin and look at myself in the mirror. It's too big, hanging off my shoulders, swallowing me up. It's perfect. I'm home.
6
JETT
She wears the cut to breakfast.
The bar goes silent when she walks in, her sunshine hair tumbling over the leather, the Property patch visible on her back. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Whiskey lets out a whoop, and the room explodes.
Cheers. Whistles. Mama Rosa crying into her apron while Tessa hugs her so hard she lifts her off the ground. Even the prospects are grinning, slapping each other on the back like they had something to do with it.
I watch from the doorway, something fierce and satisfied settling in my chest. She's mine. Everyone can see it now. Every person in this room knows that touching her means dealing with me.
She catches my eye across the crowd, and her smile could power the sun.
I cross the room, ignoring the catcalls and the knowing looks. When I reach her, I tilt her chin up with one finger and kiss her in front of everyone. Not a quick peck. A real kiss, the kind that makes it crystal clear what we are to each other.
"Looks good on you," I say when I pull back.
"Feels good on me." She's flushed, breathless, beautiful.
I force myself to let her go. There's work to do. Problems to solve. The biggest one being Garrett Ashworth, who's escalating faster than I expected.
The call comes in around noon.
My contact in Ohio—a guy who owes me enough favors to stay quiet about why I'm asking, and more importantly, won't ask questions—delivers news that makes my jaw clench. The news isn't good.
