"Then let's feed you." He takes my hand, leading me back toward the kitchen. "Welcome home, wife."
And despite everything, despite all logic and reason, a small treacherous part of me whispers that maybe, just maybe, this could be home after all.
six
. . .
Vance
Walkingthrough the compound with Wynter at my side feels right in a way nothing else ever has. I'm a man of violence—my hands have broken bones, drawn blood, ended threats. The other members part for us like water, their eyes showing respect tinged with disbelief. They've never seen me with a woman before, not like this. Not one I'm treating like she's made of something precious. And she is. My little wife is my fucking opposite in every way—soft where I'm hard, light where I'm darkness, innocent where I'm corrupt to the bone. But she's mine now, and watching her take in my world makes my chest swell with a pride I've never felt before.
"This is the main garage," I explain, guiding her with a hand at the small of her back into a cavernous space filled with motorcycles in various states of repair. The smell of oil and metal hangs heavy in the air. "We customize and repair bikes here. Some for us, some for paying customers. Legit business."
She nods, taking it all in with those big eyes that miss nothing. "You're actually mechanics?"
"Some of us. Diesel's the best. Can bring any machine back from the dead." I gesture to where he's bent over a vintageHarley, hands blackened with grease. He looks up and nods at us, giving Wynter a cautious smile.
I'm watching the club brothers like a hawk, noting every glance, every reaction to my wife. So far, they're being respectful—more out of fear of me than anything else, but I'll take it.
"And over there's the armory," I say, pointing to a reinforced door. "Off limits to you."
She raises an eyebrow. "You have an actual armory?"
"Protection is important out here." I don't elaborate. She doesn't need to know the details of club business. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
We continue the tour—the mess hall where most members take their meals, the common areas, the training yard where we spar and keep our skills sharp. With each new area, I find myself oddly anxious for her approval, watching her reactions closely.
"It's like a small town," she observes as we walk across the dusty compound yard.
"That's the idea. Self-sufficient. Protected." I squeeze her waist. "Safe."
The mess hall is filling up for lunch when we enter. Conversations pause as heads turn our way. I straighten to my full height, arm tightening possessively around Wynter.
"Listen up," I announce, voice carrying to every corner. "This is Wynter. My wife." The words still send a surge of satisfaction through me. "She's under my protection. Treat her with respect."
Murmurs ripple through the room, but no one would dare question me openly. Not if they want to keep breathing.
We get food and sit at a table that clears magically as we approach. The power of being the club president. Wynter picks at her plate, clearly still overwhelmed but making an effort.
"They're staring," she whispers, eyes on her food.
"They'll get used to you." I take her hand, thumb stroking her knuckles. "So will you."
To my surprise, she doesn't pull away. Progress.
As lunch continues, I notice her gradually relaxing, even smiling slightly at a joke from across the room. Something in my chest loosens at the sight. She's adaptable, my little wife. Stronger than she knows.
After lunch, I take her to the back of the compound where a small garden struggles against the desert heat. It's Diesel's project—the tough bastard has a soft spot for growing things. The incongruity of it seems to delight Wynter.
"It's beautiful," she says, genuine warmth in her voice for the first time since we arrived.
The sound of her happiness hits me like a physical blow. I realize I've been waiting to hear it—craving it—since I first saw her in that casino.
"I knew," I say suddenly.
She looks up at me, confused. "Knew what?"
"That you were the one." I take her hands in mine, dwarfing them. "From your laugh."
