She meets my eyes, searching, like she’s checking tosee if I’m serious.
I am.
I kiss her.
Not a quick, shy thing. Not something half-hearted. I kiss her like we were a second away from never getting the chance to, and everyone here knows it.
The room reacts like we just sunk the final ball on a ridiculous table shot.
Cheers. Whoops. A couple of catcalls. Someone yells, “Finally!” again. Definitely Tanya.
Valkyrie smiles against my mouth and kisses me back just as hard.
When we break, she’s a little breathless, eyes bright.
Blackjack raises his glass higher.
“We’d be idiots if we didn’t take nights like this when we get them,” he said. “Take the little wins. Count the ones still standing. Remember we’re still human, not just weapons on legs. To the Devils. To the Shore Vipers. To everyone who walked out of that building tonight. To bad odds, good fucking aim, and to whatever the fuck comes next.”
“Here, here,” Liberty said. She raised her own shot. “From the Vipers. We bleed with you, we drink with you, and if anyone tries to fuck with the shore again, we will stand beside you and happily reload.”
Glasses clinked. Shots went down. Someone started another song.
The party surged back up.
For a few hours, the clubhouse belonged to something that almost looked like joy.
It wouldn’t last. We all knew that.
But for now, it was real.
Eventually, the noise started to feel too loud. The pressure in my chest that had been easing since the beach shifted again and wanted something smaller.
I ducked my head toward Valkyrie’s ear.
“Come with me,” I murmured as I tugged her hand.
She arched a brow. “Demanding.”
“Requesting,” I corrected. “Politely. Before I go deaf.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
We slipped through the crowd, past Miami and Quinn—who were deeply involved in an argument about whether their future hypothetical children would be allowed on motorcycles—and out the side door that led to the little patch of concrete that passed for a back porch.
The door swung shut behind us.
The sound of the party muffled instantly. You could still hear it—bass, laughter, the clink of glass—but it was like it was happening behind a wall instead of in my bones.
Out here, the night was cooler. The moon hung lower than it had at the beach, fat and pale above the rooftops. The air tasted like salt and distant ocean instead of blood and death.
We leaned against the low metal rail that separated the back lot from the narrow alley, shoulders brushing.
For a minute, neither ofus said anything.
I looked at her instead.
The light back here was mostly all moon. It caught in her hair, turning a few strands silver. It hit her eyes and did something I wasn’t prepared for—turning that familiar blue into something almost translucent.
