Liam didn't write a response this time, just offered the ghost of a smile—an expression so rare I found myself staring, memorizing the slight upturn of his lips. Bear watched him with new respect, nodding his thanks when Liam finished wrapping clean gauze around the treated area.
Around the room, other club members were observing with varying degrees of amazement. The feral kitten they'd barely glimpsed, who'd hidden in shadows and flinched at sudden movements, was now moving among them with purpose, his healing touch somehow more shocking than his fighting skills had been the night before.
"Well, I'll be damned," Gunner muttered beside me, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "He's full of surprises, your mate."
"Yeah," I agreed, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "He is."
"Victor's secured in the basement," Gunner added, his tone shifting to business. "Butch wants to let him stew a bit before questioning."
I nodded, though my attention remained fixed on Liam. He'd moved to Sammy now, the young prospect whose life he'd saved during the attack. The kid was watching Liam with undisguised awe as gentle fingers applied a salve to the knife wound on his neck.
"Kid hasn't stopped talking about how Liam saved him," Gunner continued, following my gaze. "Called him 'a golden blur of fucking badassery' – direct quote."
A chuckle escaped me. "He's not wrong."
Gunner clapped me on the shoulder before moving away. "You got lucky, brother. Real lucky."
I couldn't argue with that assessment. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been worried Liam might flee at the first sign of danger. Now he was voluntarily touching strangers, healing their wounds, making eye contact. The transformation was as remarkable as his shift from human to lynx—less physically dramatic perhaps, but every bit as profound.
After another hour watching Liam work, I found myself needing space to process everything that had happened. I slipped away quietly, retreating to the one place that had always centered me, regardless of the chaos surrounding us—my kitchen.
The damage was immediately apparent as I stepped through the doorway. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls, the window above the sink had been shattered, and dried blood stained the tile floor in rusty patches. A bag of flour had been hit during the crossfire, coating everything in a thin white dust that mixed with plaster from the damaged walls.
It should have felt devastating, this violation of my sanctuary. But as I surveyed the destruction, all I could think was: we're still here. We survived. We'll rebuild.
I found a broom in the pantry and began sweeping, the familiar motion soothing despite the circumstances. Glass tinkled as I pushed it into neat piles, shell casings clinked against tile, plaster dust billowed and settled. The methodical work gave my hands something to do while my mind processed the night's events.
Victor hiding in Gearhead's workshop. The knife flashing toward my chest. Liam's impossible speed as he'd intercepted the attack. I'd been a heartbeat away from death. One second from losing everything before it had truly begun.
My movements became more determined as I swept, each stroke infused with growing resolve. The clubhouse could be repaired. Bullet holes patched, glass replaced, bloodstains scrubbed away. What mattered was that we'd survived to do the rebuilding.
I filled a bucket with soapy water and dropped to my knees, scrubbing at the bloodstains on the tile. My mind returned to that moment in Gearhead's workshop—Victor's knife slicing toward me, Liam's blur of motion as he'd placed himself between me and death. No hesitation. No fear. Just pure, instinctive protection.
For fifteen years, Liam had survived by running. By hiding. By trusting no one but himself.
Until me.
Until us.
The realization hit me with such force that I sat back on my heels, wet cloth still clutched in my hand. He'd chosen me. Not because fate had declared us mates, not because of some primal instinct he couldn't control, but because somewhere in that brilliant, damaged mind of his, he'd decided I was worth the risk.
I attacked the bloodstains with renewed vigor, as if I could scrub away the last barriers between us through sheer determination. Each stroke of the cloth was a promise—to rebuild, to protect, to create something unbreakable from the broken pieces we'd both been given.
I was so absorbed in my task that I didn't hear him approach. Only the soft scuff of boots against tile alerted me to Liam's presence. I looked up to find him standing in the doorway, his golden eyes watching me with an intensity that stole my breath.
He'd put his hood back up—not pulled tight as before, but loosely framing his face, a compromise between old comfort and new courage. In his hands, he held Percy's notebook, open to a fresh page.
I sat back on my heels, wiping my hands on my jeans. "Hey, baby boy. Everyone patched up?"
He nodded, then crossed the room with deliberate steps. When he reached me, he turned the notebook so I could read what he'd written.
Three simple words filled the page:"I choose you."
My throat tightened painfully, emotion rising like a tide I couldn't control. I rose to my feet, the bloody cloth forgotten on the floor. For a long moment, we simply looked at each other, this scarred, silent man and me, standing amid the ruins of my kitchen as morning sunlight streamed through the shattered window.
Then I opened my arms.
He stepped into my embrace without hesitation, his body fitting against mine as if we'd been designed as matching pieces of the same puzzle. My arms closed around him, careful not to hold too tight, still mindful of fifteen years of conditioned fear. But he surprised me again, pressing closer, his face tucking against my neck in an act of trust so profound it made my chest ache.
