The possessive words send her over the edge, her body clenching around me as she comes with a cry of my name. I grindagainst her, prolonging her pleasure, making sure my seed stays deep where it belongs.
Afterward, I gather her close, suddenly aware of how rough I've been. The hardwood floor must be uncomfortable, her skin marked with evidence of my possession—fingerprints on her hips, a bite on her shoulder I don't even remember leaving.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask, gentler now that the beast is temporarily sated.
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Not in any way I didn't like."
Relief floods me. This perfect woman understands me, accepts even the darkest parts of me. I scoop her up, carrying her to our bedroom where I can take proper care of her.
As I lay her on the bed, I make a silent vow. Nothing will take her from me. Not rival clubs, not her past, not her own doubts. I found her, claimed her, and I will kill anyone who threatens what we're building.
Because now I have something worth protecting. Something worth dying for.
Something worthkillingfor.
nine
. . .
Wynter
Two weeks at the compound,and I'm starting to forget what my old life felt like. The rigid schedule of the library, the quiet apartment with only Fitzgerald the cat for company (Fitzgerald is here now. Vance sent someone to get him.), the polite small talk with townspeople who've known me since birth but never really seen me. Here, everyone sees me. Not just as Vance's wife—though that's certainly part of it—but as someone who matters. Someone worth protecting. It should terrify me how quickly I've adapted to this strange, dangerous world, but there's something intoxicating about belonging somewhere after a lifetime of drifting at the edges.
I've found ways to make myself useful. The compound kitchen is massive but poorly organized, so I've taken to rearranging it, cataloging supplies, creating meal plans. It's not much different from organizing the reference section at the library, just with more sharp objects and protein powder. The club members—who once looked at me like I was an alien species—now nod with something like respect when I serve meals or hand out cold beers after a long day's work.
"You're good at this," Diesel tells me one afternoon as I help bandage a cut on his arm. The older biker has become something of an ally, less intimidating than the others despite his gruff exterior. "Taking care of people."
"I had practice growing up," I say, securing the gauze. "My dad wasn't big on parenting after my mom left."
He grunts in understanding, no pity in his eyes. Just recognition of a shared experience. Many of these men, I'm learning, come from broken homes, broken systems. It's partly why they've formed this twisted family of their own.
The greatest change is in my relationship with Vance. What began as fear mixed with unwilling desire has evolved into something more complex, more genuine. He's still possessive, still dominant, still dangerous to anyone who crosses him. But with me, there's tenderness beneath the strength. Protection rather than threat. When he calls me "baby doll" now, it warms rather than alarms me.
I'm hanging laundry in the desert sun—a surprisingly peaceful task—when his massive shadow falls across me. I don't need to turn to know it's him; my body has attuned itself to his presence like a compass finding north.
"You don't need to do that," he says, voice rumbling from behind me. "We have people for chores."
"I like keeping busy," I reply, continuing to pin one of his shirts to the line. "Gives me purpose."
His arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. "You have purpose," he murmurs into my hair. "Being mine."
Weeks ago, that statement would have sparked outrage. Now it sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. "That can't be my only identity," I argue, but there's no heat in it.
"No?" He turns me in his arms, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "Tell me who you were before, then. Who was Wynter before she became my wife?"
The question catches me off guard. We've shared our bodies intimately, but our pasts remain largely uncharted territory. I consider deflecting but find I want him to know me—the real me, not just the woman who melts under his touch.
"I was…nobody, really," I admit as he leads me to a nearby bench in the shade. We sit, his arm a protective band around my shoulders. "My mother left when I was eight. Just packed a bag one night and disappeared. My father…checked out after that. Physically present but emotionally gone."
Vance listens silently, his expression unreadable but attentive.
"I became the responsible one. Cooking, cleaning, making excuses for why my dad wasn't at school functions." I shrug, old pain dulled by years of acceptance. "The town librarian took me under her wing. Books became my escape. Eventually, her job became mine when she retired."
"No boyfriends? Friends?" he asks.
"A few. Nothing serious. Small towns don't leave much room for privacy, and I was always…different. Too quiet, too bookish." I twist my wedding ring, still strange on my finger. "The Vegas trip was Melanie's idea—my one wild friend. She thought I needed to 'live a little' before I turned into a complete spinster."
A laugh escapes me, hollow with irony. "I don't think this is what she had in mind."
