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She shatters with a cry of my name, walls pulsing tight around my cock as the orgasm rips through her. The sight and feel of her coming pushes me over the edge right behind her. I spill deep inside her with a guttural groan, hips jerking as she milks every last drop. We stay locked together for long moments, breathing ragged, skin slick. She stays on top, looking down at me with satisfaction and lingering fire in her eyes.

Slowly, she releases my wrists and collapses onto my chest. I wrap my arms around her immediately, holding her close and tight. Aftercare flows naturally now—something I’m getting better at for her. I stroke her back with gentle hands, fingers tracing her spine, kissing her temple, the crown of her head, her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur again, voice soft against her skin. “No more distance. No more coward shit. You’re mine to protect, but you’re also my equal. My partner in everything.”

She traces a scar on my chest, that sassy smirk returning as she catches her breath. “Damn right. Prove it tomorrow by actually answering my texts, asshole. And don’t you dare shut me out again.”

I chuckle, the sound rumbling through both of us. “I will.” I lift her gently despite her half-hearted protest, carrying her to the bed. I clean us both with a warm cloth from the bathroom, tender and thorough, then tuck her against my chest under the covers, holding her like she’s the most precious thing in my dark world. The guilt still lingers at the edges of my mind, but with her warm, sated, and safe in my arms, it feels manageable for the first time all day. Her breath is slow and even against my chest, each exhale grounds me.

I tighten my hold just enough to feel her curves mold perfectly into me—soft where I’m hard, fragile in ways that make my teeth clench with the need to shield her from the whole fucking world. My fingers trace idle patterns along the dip of her spine, mapping every inch like I’m committing her to memory all over again. The scent of her—sex and that faint vanilla from her soap—clings to my skin, mixing with the lingering smoke and leather from the day’s chaos.

Club shit. The betrayals mixed with the blood on my knuckles that I scrubbed raw before joining her in bed. It all fades here, in this bed, with her thigh slung over mine and her hand fisted loosely in the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go. I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in deeper. She stirs just a fraction, a sleepy murmur that hits me square in the gut. She sees through every wall I’ve ever built and still chooses to stay tangled up in my mess. All for the club. For us. But she knows. She’s seen the worst of me and hasn’t bolted. Not yet.

I won’t give her a reason to. Not anymore.

Tomorrow, I’ll handle the fallout. Whatever that means with Lennox and everyone else. But for tonight, she’s safe, marked by my hands and my mouth, her body humming with the aftershocks I put there. I shift slightly, pulling the sheet higher over her bare shoulder, my palm settling possessively over the curve of her ass. Mine to ruin in all the right ways.

The weight of the past few days drags at me now, eyelids heavy as the steady rhythm of her heartbeat lulls the storm in my head. No more ghosts chasing me through the dark. No more distance. Just this—her warmth bleeding into my bones, chasing out the cold I’ve carried for too long. I let my eyes close, the edges of consciousness blurring soft and dark.

She’s mine. I’m hers. And I’ll grovel, crawl, kill, and burn whatever it takes to keep it that way.

TATUM

The glow of multiple monitors fills the office with cold blue light, casting sharp shadows across the cluttered desks. I lean forward in my chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as I cross-reference the overnight chatter my scripts flagged. The data streams in relentless waves—chatter, patterns, ghosts in the machine.

Ledger sits to my right, muttering curses at the screen I dubbed as his, energy drink cans scattered like casualties around his station. Switch stands behind us like a solid wall of controlled tension, arms crossed over his broad chest. His presence is a constant pressure at my back, impossible to ignore.

To anyone walking by, it’s just another ops meeting. No one sees the way his boot rests lightly against mine under the desk, or how his gaze lingers a second too long when I push my hair back from my face. The secret between us hums like live wire. No public touches. No words that could paint a bigger target on my back. But I feel it in every subtle shift—his body angled to keep me in his line of sight, the faint brush of his fingers along the back of my chair when Fuse isn’t looking. Possessive without a single word spoken.

God, it’s infuriating how much I crave it. This man could break me with one wrong move, but instead, he’s one of the only things keeping me steady in this storm of club bullshit.

“Still fragmented,” I say, voice crisp. “Redline’s hurting after those warehouse hits, but they’re regrouping. Some encrypted mentions of retaliation, but nothing solid on timing.”

Ledger nods, eyes bloodshot. “Your perimeter algorithms are catching ghosts again. Keep pushing those filters. We can’t afford blind spots.”

Corbin shifts closer, his thigh pressing briefly against my shoulder as he leans in to study the main screen. Heat flares through me instantly as memories of last night crashing in: him on his knees in my room after everyone cleared out, surrendering control for once, then holding me like I was the only damn thing anchoring him in the dark.

“Switch,” I mutter low, glancing up at him, “you seeing this east sector spike? Could be nothing, but my gut says we double the patrols after dark.”

He finally speaks after reviewing what I see, voice low, that military precision cutting through. “Agreed. Ledger, loop in Pres on the radio—tell him to pull two prospects for extra eyes on the treeline. Judge needs to know if this chatter escalates.”

His hand grazes the back of my chair again, fingers pressing just enough to ground me. “Tatum, run another cross-ref on their known associates from the second set of raids, too. I want names.”

“Yes, sir,” I quip, but inside, my pulse kicks up.

It shouldn’t turn me on this much during ops to hear him issuing commands, but fuck, it does.

We’re deep in it when the screens erupt into chaos, alarms blaring nonstop. Red dots bloom across the perimeter grid like bloodstains. Multiple vehicles—blacked-out SUVs tearing through the treeline, bikes roaring in formation behind them. Armed figures spilling out, weapons hot.

“Fuck—hostiles!” I snap, zooming cameras frantically, heart slamming against my ribs.

Not now. Now when Nicholas could be out there. Is that bastard finally making his move? Push it down, Tatum. Focus!

“East gate breach, heavy numbers. Twenty plus, closing fast. We’ve got maybe ninety seconds!”

Adrenaline surges, sharp and electric. Ledger curses loudly, slamming keys to trigger full-compound alerts. Switch is already moving, snatching the radio with military precision.

“All patches and prospects—hostiles at east gate! Weapons up, lock it down! Lennox, take the south flank with your crew. Judge, secure the clubhouse and get the wounded inside. Move!” His voice cuts through clear and commanding, no panic. He sets the radio down, eyes locking with mine for a heartbeat—dark, intense, a silent vow in the chaos that says stay alive or I’ll drag you back myself.