I can hear his heartbeat easing. Mine syncs to match it. We stay there. His hand strokes paths up my spine.
"We should probably get dressed," I say eventually.
"Probably." Doesn't let go.
I smile against his chest. "Knox."
"Five more minutes."
I don't argue.
We get dressed. He helps me into my clothes with the same careful attention he uses for everything, lingering on bare skin.
He starts a fresh pot while I set out mugs. We end up at the table with our knees touching underneath, steam curling between us. The quiet between us is warm, but thin, the first ice over a lake. The weight of the day pressing underneath.
"We need to tell them," I say at last, small but clear.
He doesn't pretend not to know who them is. "We do." Mug down, full attention on me. "Because they'll stand with you. Because whatever your father and Alice are planning, you shouldn't be staring it down with just me between you and them. You deserve the whole damn room pointed in your direction when the hit comes. Say the word. I'll text Malachi. We'll do it today. Before you can talk yourself into hiding again."
His voice has shifted, tighter. The register he uses when something at the club goes sideways, the one that means his body has already started running calculations his mouth hasn't caught up to. Exits, angles, who stands where. A briefing. And the mission is me.
The fear rises fast, familiar ice in my veins, but thinner than last night, stretched over the space his body and his words carved open. It tightens my lungs but doesn't clamp them shut.
"I'll text him," I whisper, because if I let Knox do it, some stubborn, frightened part of me will decide this is happening to me instead of with me. Because he said I love you an hour ago, and I said it back. If those words mean anything, if they're not just sounds I made while he was inside me, then they mean I can walk into a room and say the rest out loud.
His face softens. Pride, maybe, or that infuriating, devastating tenderness he keeps aiming at me as though I've done something to deserve it.
"Then do it. I'm right here."
My fingers shake as I pull my phone off the table. I open Malachi's thread.
Need a meeting, I type, the letters blurring before they sharpen. Today. Everyone.
My thumb hovers over send for half a breath. Knox's grip tightens once. A silent push. I hit send. The read receipt pops up almost immediately.
Done.
No questions. No delay. Just that.
Knox's thumb is still moving over my skin, a heartbeat outside my body.
I stare at Malachi's one-word answer until the letters stop looking like a threat and start looking like what they are: a door.
I set the phone face down. Knox doesn't let go of my hand.
Light through the window has shifted, gray bleeding toward gold. Dust motes spin lazily in the beam cutting across the table, floating over our joined hands. I focus on that. On the tiny flecks drifting, the warmth of his palm, the solid heat of his knee against mine. And hold on.
Whatever comes next, however bad it gets, I have this. His fingers are tangled with mine; the hummingbird-fast beat of my heart gradually syncs to the steady drum of his.
Chapter 31
Sloane
Bythetimewehit the main road, the wind has my eyes watering and my fingers numb, but I don't loosen my grip on Knox's waist. I press closer, cheek against the warm leather of his cut, knees hugging the bike. The engine thrums under us, a low, constant vibration that climbs my spine and settles between my ribs. Cold air slices along my exposed skin. The rest of me is bracketed in heat from his back and heavy hand on my thigh while his body takes the brunt of the wind. His thumb strokes once over the denim, the way he always does when we ride. A wordless check. My fingers tighten in the leather of his cut, and he must feel it because his hand squeezes my thigh once before returning to the handlebars for the turn.
Every street feels louder than it should. Tires on asphalt, a distant siren, someone's dog barking from a fenced yard. Normal sounds layered over the knowledge of what I'm about to say out loud in a room full of people who have every right to send me back out the door.
The clubhouse comes into view, all brick, metal, and muscle; the hand-painted sign catches weak afternoon light. Bikes are lined up out front, chrome and black and matte gray. A row of sleeping beasts. The air smells of exhaust, cold air, and old oil soaked into concrete. Home, if your idea of home involves a war council and too many guns.
