Page 41 of Property of Booker

“Everything we need is right here,” Booker states, his voice low and intimate. “We don't have to search anymore. We don't have to fight. We just have to be.”

Anchored by the strength of his frame, I lean into him, finding a steady point in a world that’s finally stopped spinning. He’s right—the fight’s over, replaced by this quiet, burning certainty. Beneath the tattoos and the tough exterior lies the man I see so clearly now. He’s the one who designed this house with us in mind, a man who wants to build, not break. He’s ready to be a dad.

A terrifyingly beautiful realization hits me and I don’t want to hold it in. “I love you,” I confess, the words feeling right and true in the stillness of the house.

He kisses me then, a soft, slow pressure that says everything. “I love you, too, my Vixen. Now and for always.” It’s a vow. It’s a promise. It’s the beginning of the rest of our lives. We stay like that for a long time, held in the quiet, watching the sun finish its slow descent. The house seems to hold us, protecting us, a fortress of light and glass. And as the stars begin to poke through the dusk, I know that this isn't just a house. It’s the start of everything.

We turn away from the view, drifting toward the quiet heart of the farmhouse where our future waits in those empty, sun-drenched rooms. The old panic—that tight, jagged wire that’s been wrapped around my chest for years—has finally snapped, leaving behind nothing but a vast, strange calm. Every ugly memory, every moment of shivering in the dark, feels like ancient history, eroded by the simple, steady reality of being here with him. I lace my fingers through Booker’s, his calloused palm a map of everything I’ve ever needed to find. We aren't rushing, and we don't have to look over our shoulders anymore. We’re just walking forward, two people who’ve finally learned how to stand still.

EPILOGUE

Booker

The gravel driveway groans under the combined weight of three flatbed trucks idling near the house. My brothers from the charter have descended upon this ridge like a localized storm, transforming the quiet afternoon into a whirlwind of purposeful movement. Rip, Icer, Indiana, and a dozen others swarm the property, their boots kicking up dust as they ferry boxes, furniture, and crates from the trucks to the front door. They move with the fluid, coordinated strength of men who understand that this isn’t just manual labor. It’s an act of claiming territory.

Kolter and Elodie are weaving through the forest of denim-clad legs, their high-pitched shrieks of delight ringing out against the deep, guttural laughter of the men. They act as a blur of frantic energy, racing each other from the tailgate to the porch, ducking under thick, grease-stained forearms and dodging steel-toed boots. Every time one of the brothers nearly trips over the kids, he just bellows a laugh, scoops a child into his arms, and tosses them back onto the grass with a grin. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s the exact kind of vibrant chaos this place needs to shift from a structure of cold glass and wood into a true home.

Leaning against a support beam on the wrap-around porch, I sip a cold drink and keep a watchful eye on the scene. “Need a hand with that?” I grunt to Rip, who’s struggling with a massive bookshelf that weighs more than a small engine block.

“I’ve got it, leave it be,” Rip retorts, his muscles corded as he pivots the piece around the doorframe. He shoots me a knowing look over his shoulder. “We’ve got this handled.”

Stepping back, I let the club do what they do best, which is showing up when it counts.

I watch with great interest when, a moment later, SUVs pull in and park, then the old ladies open the doors, laughter spilling out. The procession of the club’s matriarchs march up the front steps and walk into the house. Jersey, Britton, Zoey, and Van glide toward the center of the living room with the purposeful grace that only comes from holding this brotherhood together. They don’t wait for an invitation. They carry armfuls of draped garment bags and boxes that look like they came straight from a high-end boutique. They each wear smug looks as if they’ve just pulled off the heist of the century, their expressions set in a mix of amusement and motherly resolve.

“Get your ass over here, Kendall,” Jersey commands, though her voice rings with deep affection.

Kendall jumps, startled, but she wipes her hands on her jeans and moves toward them. Kolter and Elodie trail behind, sensing a shift in the energy. They crowd around, eager to see what the women have hidden in their stash.

Stepping inside just as the women start tossing items toward Kendall, I get a clear view of the goods. It’s an initiation of sorts, a wardrobe for the woman who’s earned herself a place in their inner circle. They’ve brought her the uniform of an old lady, but they’ve tailored it for the life she’s stepping into—tough, functional, and undeniably ours. There are slim-cut, dark-wash jeans reinforced for the road, fitted ribbed tanks, and Van hands her a supple, vintage-style leather jacket that screams attitude, while Zoey digs through a box to find sturdy silver rings, a wrist cuff etched with our emblem, and a pair of riding boots that are ready to be broken in and have miles put onto the soles.

“We heard you needed a wardrobe overhaul,” Britton remarks, dumping a pile of silk bandanas and a flannel into Kendall’s arms. “You’ve been hiding in those drab hoodies too long. It’s time you start dressing like the woman who owns this road. We’re aiming for lethal, comfortable, and dangerous.”

I kinda take offense to the cut down of the hoodies she’s been lounging in around the clubhouse seeing as they’re mine, but I keep my mouth shut because she’s being given a gift—one that’s more important than clothing, it’s acceptance.

Kendall looks down at the pile of fabric, her fingers trembling as she touches the soft leather of the jacket. She looks like she’s waiting for a punchline, her eyes searching their faces for a sign that this is some kind of twisted game. I want to step in, to explain that they’re just being kind, but I realize this is something she needs to navigate alone. She needs to understand that she’s allowed to have things that don’t come with a price tag of pain.

“I can’t take this,” Kendall whispers.

“You aren’t taking anything,” Zoey asserts, though the heat in her eyes is fading into something softer. “We’ve been planning this since the moment we knew you were staying.”

Kendall slips into the riding jacket. It fits her like armor, hugging her frame and giving her a posture I haven't seen from her. She looks steady and fierce. She looks like she belongs in this room, in this house, and with this club. She turns to me, her eyes searching my face, clearly overwhelmed by the unprompted generosity of it all.

“Do you like it?” she asks, her voice breathless.

Moving across the floor in three long strides, I don’t speak, just lift my hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “You look like you were born to wear it,” I assure her.

Kolter is tugging on Elodie’s hand, pointing at a pair of small, sturdy boots Jersey has set aside. “Look, Elodie! Maybe these will make you faster,” he suggests, his face lit up with the kind of pure, unchecked excitement that only a child possesses.

“I’m already fast,” Elodie counters, sticking her chin out. She’s tiny, but she has the spirit of a lioness. She snatches the boots and starts trying to wiggle into them, ignoring the fact that they’re too big.

“Leave them be, you two,” Britton warns, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “There’s a crate in the back of the truck filled with sidewalk chalk and bubble wands. Go show the brothers how well you can decorate the porch, and then come back here to claim your real prizes.”

The kids squeal and bolt back outside, their tiny feet thundering against the floorboards. The room goes quiet for a moment, just the sound of the men working outside providing a steady background to the intimacy of the moment.

“They really did this for you,” I point out, gesturing to the mountain of clothes.

Kendall looks at the women, then back to the window where the brothers are still unloading. The reality of it hits her again. She’s not hiding. She’s not preparing for the next strike. She’s being celebrated.