What happens next isn't something I'd ever want Wynter to see. The darkness in me, the violence I've contained and channeled for years, unleashes fully. When I'm finished, what's left of him will indeed send a message—one that will ensure no rival club dares threaten what's mine again.
The fighting continues for another twenty minutes, but the heart goes out of the Nighthawks' assault when their leader's body appears, displayed prominently at the front gate. They retreat in disarray, leaving their wounded and dead behind.
We've lost three brothers, with another five injured. The compound bears the scars of battle—bullet holes in walls, broken windows, bloodstains on concrete. But we're standing. We've held.
My first thought once the all-clear sounds is Wynter. I sprint back to our quarters, taking the steps two at a time. The rooms are untouched—no one made it this far into the compound. I approach the hidden door in the closet, tapping the code that disengages the lock.
"Wynter?" I call, keeping my voice gentle despite the adrenaline still surging through my veins. "It's me, baby doll. It's over."
The door opens slowly, revealing her pale face. For a moment she just stares at me, taking in the blood splattered across my shirt, the wild look I know must be in my eyes. Then she launches herself into my arms with a sob of relief.
"You're okay," she gasps against my neck, arms wrapped tight around me. "You came back."
"Told you I would." I hold her close, breathing in her scent, letting it center me, pull me back from the dark place I've been.
She pulls back slightly, eyes scanning my body. "Is that…is that your blood?"
"No." I don't elaborate. Some things she doesn't need to know.
Her hands move over me anyway, checking for wounds, reassuring herself I'm whole. The touch ignites something primal in me—the battle high, the triumph of victory, the relief of having protected what's mine. My cock hardens instantly, pressing against her stomach.
"Vance?" She feels it too, eyes widening slightly.
"Need you," I growl, beyond words, beyond gentleness. "Now."
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't question the wildness in me. Just nods, understanding something fundamental about men like me—that violence and desire run on the same track, that survival and possession are linked in ways that defy explanation.
I lift her, carrying her not to the bed but outside, to where my bike sits in its usual spot, unscathed by the morning's chaos. The symbolism isn't lost on me—my two most prized possessions, both intact, both mine to claim.
I set her on her feet beside the bike, turn her to face it. "Hands on the seat," I command, voice rough with need.
She complies, bending forward, presenting herself to me. I push her nightgown up around her waist, revealing she's bare beneath. The sight of her like this—vulnerable, trusting, mine—nearly breaks me.
I free myself from my jeans, already rock hard and leaking. The need to claim her, to mark her as mine after defending her, is overwhelming.
"Mine to hold, baby doll," I growl as I position myself at her entrance. "Mine to protect."
I push inside in one powerful thrust, making her gasp and clutch the seat for balance. The feel of her—tight and wet and perfect—centers me in the chaos, reminds me what I'm fighting for.
"Feel Daddy breeding you," I pant, setting a punishing pace, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "No one else gets this. No one touches what's mine."
"Yours," she gasps, pushing back to meet each thrust. "Only yours, Daddy."
The combination of her submission and the battle adrenaline still coursing through me drives me to the edge quickly. I reach around to circle her clit, determined to take her with me.
"Come for me," I demand, feeling my release building. "Come on Daddy's cock while he fills you up."
She obeys, her body clenching around mine in rhythmic pulses, her cry of pleasure the sweetest sound I've ever heard. It triggers my own orgasm, a release so intense it borders on painful. I empty myself inside her with a roar, claiming her in the most primitive way possible.
Afterward, I gather her against my chest, suddenly gentle now that the feral need has been satisfied. She's trembling slightly, from the intensity or the aftermath of fear, I'm not sure.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her hair. "If I was too rough?—"
"Don't apologize," she cuts me off, turning in my arms to face me. "I needed that too. Needed to feel you. To know we're both alive."
I study her face, searching for signs of fear or regret. Find none. Just the clear-eyed gaze of a woman who has seen the darkness in me and still chooses to stay.
"I killed a man today," I say, needing her to understand the reality of what happened. "More than one."
