"It's fine," Savannah says, and I'm surprised to hear genuine warmth in her voice. "They're adorable."
"They're monsters," June corrects, but her tone is fond. "Come on, Havoc's waiting. And he hates when food gets cold."
As we follow her toward the deck, Savannah leans close to my ear. "With a pencil, really?"
"It was a pen, actually," I murmur back, then immediately regret it when her step falters. "That was a joke."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "No, it wasn't. But it's okay." Her fingers tighten around mine. "I'm still here."
The words hit harder than they should.
After everything—the vote, the claiming, the leaked videos, Destiny, Colt, and the baby—she's still here. Walking beside me toward a normal family dinner like we have any right to pretend we're normal too.
Havoc looks up as we approach, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees our joined hands. But he just nods, flipping a rack of ribs with practiced precision.
"Right on time," he says, which from Havoc is practically a warm welcome. "Who wants a beer?"
I guide Savannah up the steps to the deck, feeling the weight of his gaze. Havoc doesn't miss anything—not the way she leans into me, not the fresh ink on her wrist, not the hardness in her eyes that only appeared after the kidnapping.
But he doesn't comment. Just hands me a beer from the cooler at his feet, then offers one to Savannah. She hesitates, then accepts it with a small smile.
"Thank you for having us," she says, sounding for all the world like she's at one of her fancy Ashby functions instead of standing on the deck of an outlaw's family home.
Havoc grunts, turning back to his grill. "June's idea. Said you needed to see your options."
Options.
Most women who end up with bikers—especially outlaw bikers—don't have those.
But Savannah isn't most women.
She's an Ashby.
She's got plenty of fucking options.
And I'm really not sure I want her thinking too hard about them.
CHAPTER 8
Options.
The word hangs in the air between Legion and me. He makes a face I'm not even sure he's aware he's making. Like the word tastes bad. I lean in to him, sliding my hand across his ass and stick it into his back pocket.
He looks at me. Worried, I think. But trying not to show it.
It's easy to read his mind. Not because Legion's a simple person—he's the definition of the word complicated. But I know what people see when they look at me.
Money That’s all they see is money.
Legion’s not all that different. Nobody sees money when they look at him—they see… danger. Outlaw. Prison time. Maybe regrets, but then again, maybe not.
And he’s much more than that. Just like I am much more than the family money I come from.
"Hey, Not Mine?" June says, interrupting my thoughts. The nickname hits, and even Legion laughs. "Why don't you come into the house. I'll show you around and you can help me in the kitchen."
It doesn't land like a question. And when Legion gives my butt a pat, along with a kiss on the cheek, I determine it isn't.
I follow June through the front door and step into a world that looks like it was crafted specifically to make me ache with longing. The farmhouse interior is everything my mother tried to fake—and somehow never quite managed. Weathered wooden floors that have been polished by decades of footsteps. Mismatched furniture that somehow coordinates perfectly. Mason jars filled with wildflowers on every surface. Hand-sewn pillows with embroidered sayings about family.
