I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his scent—pine and wild things and now the medicinal herbs he'd been working with. My mate. My lynx. My feral kitten who'd found his courage in the heart of battle.
"I choose you too," I whispered against his temple. "Always."
He didn't respond verbally—perhaps never would—but his arms tightened fractionally around my waist, and I felt the slight dampness of tears against my neck. Not tears of fear or pain, but of something we were both just beginning to recognize as possibility.
Standing there in my bullet-riddled kitchen, holding this man who'd placed himself between me and death without hesitation, I made a silent vow. I would rebuild not just these walls, but a life where Liam never again had to face the world alone. Where my feral kitten could finally feel safe enough to find his voice—whether in words, in writing, or simply in the language of trust we were creating between us.
The morning light caught in his dirty blonde hair, turning it to burnished gold, and I knew with bone-deep certainty that whatever came next – Victor's interrogation, the inevitable retaliation from his organization, the long process of rebuilding—we would face it together.
Not because fate had decreed it.
Not because tradition demanded it.
But because, against all odds, we had chosen each other.
Chapter Sixteen
~ Liam ~
I stood outside Butch's office, my fingers tracing nervous patterns against my thigh. The hallway felt too narrow, the air too thin. Just yesterday, I'd been nothing but a shadow on the edge of their lives—a feral creature they tolerated because of Rooster. Now Butch himself had summoned me, wanting everything I knew about Victor Markus and his operation.
Fifteen years of watching from the darkness had taught me much, but nothing had prepared me for this—stepping into the light, being asked to share rather than hide.
Rooster's hand settled gently on my shoulder, his touch no longer making me flinch as it once had. "He just wants information, baby boy. Nothing to be afraid of."
Easy for him to say. He hadn't spent most of his life learning that attention from powerful men usually ended in pain.
I took a deep breath and nodded once, reaching up to adjust my hood. Though I no longer pulled it tight around my face as I once had, the familiar fabric still provided comfort against my scarred skin. The weight of Percy's notebook pressed against my chest from its place in my inner pocket, a tangible reminder of why I was doing this.
I choose you.The words I'd written to Rooster just hours ago. And by extension, I'd chosen this—his family, his world.
Rooster knocked on the heavy wooden door, then squeezed my shoulder once more before stepping back. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're done."
The door swung open before I could panic about facing Butch alone. The MC president stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from inside his office. His eyes flickered briefly between Rooster and me before he stepped aside.
"Come in," he said, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question.
I slipped past him, immediately cataloguing the room as I'd done with every new space for fifteen years. Exits—there was one door and one window. Threats—none immediate. Hiding spots—behind the filing cabinet and under the desk.
The office was all dark wood and leather, motorcycle memorabilia covering the walls alongside framed photographs of men in club cuts. Trophy weapons hung on display—knives with ornate handles, a Civil War era revolver, brass knuckles mounted in a shadow box.
Butch's desk dominated the center of the room, massive and scarred with history. Papers were spread across its surface, some bearing official-looking letterhead, others covered in handwritten notes. A laptop sat open to one side, its screen displaying what looked like security camera feeds.
"Sit," Butch said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
I perched on the edge of the seat, my body tense and ready for flight. Butch moved around the desk and settled into his own chair with the unhurried confidence of a predator in his territory. He studied me openly, his gaze neither hostile nor particularly warm—just assessing.
"Victor's talking," he said finally, leaning back. "But I need to know if what he's saying matches what you know."
My fingers started tapping against my thigh again—a nervous habit I'd never managed to break. How could I possibly explain years of observation, patterns recognized across state lines, the systematic destruction of shifter communities?
My throat tightened at the very idea of speaking, the familiar panic rising as it always did when faced with verbal communication.
"What exactly was Victor Markus doing tracking our compound? And how long has his organization been hunting shifters?"
The direct questions made my mind race too fast for coherent thought. Images flashed before my eyes—the wolf pack in Wyoming, the fox shifter family in Nevada, the bear community in northern California. All gone. All taken. All while I watched from the shadows, documenting, but never intervening. Until now.
Butch must have recognized my rising panic, because his expression softened slightly. He reached for a notepad and pencil on his desk, sliding them toward me.
