I pull her closer, tucking her against my chest as I breathe her in—vanilla and something uniquely her. "No regrets?"
"Not one." She tilts her head back to look up at me with those bright blue eyes that saw past every wall I'd built. "You?"
"Only that I didn't find you sooner." The words come out rougher than I intend, weighted with all the years I spent alone.
She smiles, and I feel it settle deep in my chest, warming places I thought had gone cold and dark years ago, long before Marcus died.
"We found each other when we needed to," she says softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm. "That's what matters."
She's right. She usually is, though I'll never admit it out loud.
I kiss her one more time, slow and deliberate, not caring who's watching or what they think, and make a silent promise to myself and to her.
I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she never regrets choosing me over the gilded cage she left behind. I'll protect her, cherish her, love her with everything I have left to give.
She's my family now, tied to me in ways that go deeper than any blood relation. And anyone who touches her touches the whole club—every patched member, every friend, every ally.
That's not a threat or a warning.
That's just the unvarnished truth.
9
SPARROW
ONE YEAR LATER
The bar is packed on a Friday night, the jukebox blasting classic rock while bikers and regulars crowd the dance floor. I weave through the tables with a tray of drinks balanced on my palm, calling out orders to the kitchen, checking on tabs, keeping the whole operation running like a well-oiled machine.
I'm good at this now. Better than good. I run the books, manage the schedule, handle the suppliers who try to overcharge and the vendors who think they can slack on quality. The Iron Saints bar has never been more profitable, and I take a quiet pride in knowing I'm part of the reason why.
A year ago, I walked through that door with nothing but a broken car and a shattered soul. Now I walk through it every day as the president's old lady, with a ring on my finger and a family at my back.
Life is strange that way. Sometimes your worst nightmare leads you straight to your happily ever after.
"Hey, Mrs. Maddox!" Whiskey waves me over to his booth, where he's holding court with a group of prospects. "Tell these kids the story about how the boss proposed."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "For the hundredth time? Don't you have better things to do?"
"Never gets old." He grins up at me, that charming smile that used to make me nervous and now just makes me laugh. "Come on. The part about the shower is my favorite."
"You're impossible." I set down my tray and slide into the booth beside him, ignoring the eager faces of the prospects. "Fine. But the short version."
I give them the short version. The censored version, anyway. The one where Jett came home after "handling a problem" and asked me to marry him while we were both still dripping wet from the shower. I leave out the blood, the fear, the way he broke down in my arms before he broke through every last wall between us.
Some stories are just for us.
The prospects are suitably impressed. Whiskey pretends he's hearing it for the first time, gasping and cheering at all the right moments. I'm laughing by the end, swatting his shoulder, feeling lighter than I ever thought I could.
This is my life now. This chaos, this family, this love that wraps around me like armor.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.
My parents visited last month.
It was awkward at first. My mother couldn't stop staring at the tattoos on Jett's arms, and my father kept eyeing the motorcycles in the lot like he expected them to attack. But by the end of the weekend, Mom was teaching Mama Rosa her famous apple pie recipe, and Dad was sharing a beer with Gears while they argued about football.
Before they left, my mother pulled me aside in the clubhouse's dimly lit hallway, her fingers gentle on my arm.
