She nods slowly. "To protect me. To protect your family."
"Yes." There's no point denying it, no way to soften the truth of who I am, what I'm capable of.
Her hands come up to frame my face, a touch so gentle it nearly undoes me after the violence of the day. "Then I'm grateful," she says simply. "Grateful you're the kind of man who can do what needs to be done."
In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that she's the only woman who could ever truly understand me, accept me. The only one meant to be my wife, my partner, my everything.
"I love you," I tell her, the words still new on my tongue but no less true for it.
"I love you too," she responds without hesitation. "All of you. Even the parts that terrify me."
We stand there in the aftermath of battle, holding each other amid the smell of gunpowder and blood and sex, and I know the Nighthawks have lost more than they realize. They thought attacking would expose my weakness.
Instead, they've only proven my strength.
twelve
. . .
Wynter
A week after the attack,the compound bears few visible scars. Bullet holes patched, broken windows replaced, bloodstains power-washed from concrete. If only healing people were as straightforward as fixing buildings. We lost three men that day—Ripper, Snake, and a prospect whose name I never learned. Their absence leaves a palpable hole in the fabric of the club. I didn't know them well, but I mourn them anyway, these men who died protecting me as much as defending their territory. Vance hasn't said much about what happened, about what he did to the Nighthawks' leader, but I see the shadows in his eyes sometimes, glimpses of the darkness he carries so I don't have to. And somehow, impossibly, it only makes me love him more.
The club holds a memorial, a somber affair with too much whiskey and stories I can tell are heavily censored for my benefit. I sit beside Vance, his arm a constant weight around my shoulders, anchoring me to this strange new family I've become part of. Diesel raises a toast to "our president's old lady, worth fighting for," and the others echo it, raising their glasses to mewith newfound respect in their eyes. I've been baptized in fire now, proven worthy of their protection, their sacrifice.
That night, lying beside Vance in our bed, I make my final decision. The one I've been circling since Vegas, since the wedding I don't remember, since waking up to find myself claimed by this dangerous man who loves with the same ferocity he fights.
"I'm staying," I tell him, voice clear in the darkness.
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look down at me. "You were planning to leave?" There's humor in his gaze. And I get it. Like I could ever really get away if he didn’t want me to. But still, I need him to know that Iwantto be here now. That he’s not keeping me here against my will anymore. Because underneath Vance’s gruff exterior is a big teddy bear.Mybig teddy bear.
"I think I was always keeping that option open," I admit. "Some part of me thinking this was temporary. That eventually I'd go back to my real life."
"And now?"
I reach up to trace the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, a mark from some past battle. "Now I know this is my real life. You are. For better or worse."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise breaking over the desert—rare and breathtaking in its beauty.
Two days later, Vance announces he's taking me out for dinner—a celebration of sorts, now that the Nighthawk threat has been eliminated. The peace treaty was signed with blood; no rival club will dare approach Devil's Claim territory for a long time.
"Where are we going?" I ask, sorting through the limited wardrobe I've accumulated since Vegas.
"It's a surprise." He watches from the doorway, eyes darkening as I hold up a simple sundress against my body. "Wear that one. Easy access."
His crude suggestion sends heat flooding through me, but I pretend to be scandalized. "We're going to dinner, not a quickie behind the restaurant."
"Who says we can't do both?" His grin is wolfish, reminding me how quickly this man can shift from dangerous president to playful lover.
The "surprise" turns out to be a small plateau overlooking the desert, accessible only by the rough dirt road we take in his truck. As we crest the rise, I gasp at the sight waiting for us—a table set for two, illuminated by strings of lights powered by a portable generator. The table is draped in actual linen, set with real china and silverware that gleams in the fading daylight. A bottle of champagne chills in an ice bucket.
"Vance," I breathe, genuinely touched by the effort. "This is..."
"Too much?" He looks suddenly uncertain, this man who faces down armed enemies without flinching, worried about a romantic gesture.
"Perfect," I assure him, reaching for his hand. "Absolutely perfect."
Diesel appears from behind the truck, dressed in something approximating waiter attire—black jeans and a clean button-up shirt. He gives Vance a thumbs-up, then retreats to a discreet distance where I can see a small cooking station has been set up.
