She lifts her face, resting her chin on my chest.
“Fucking love you.”
Her eyes widen, instantly filling with tears as she scrambles to her knees, trying to create distance. “What?”
My hand snakes out, wrapping around her throat to command her attention. I pull her back down until her face is hovering inches over mine. “Fucking love you.”
“No,” she croaks, and I can see the raw, unadulterated fear building in her eyes. The trauma of her past is telling her that love is a death sentence.
“Yes. Scary as fuck, but it’s my truth. Needed you to know.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit. You can’t love me,” she stammers, her breathing hitching. “Only I can love you. It won’t work this way. We both can’t love each other. Bad things happen then.”
Her panic is a physical thing now, digging under my skin. I know if I don’t anchor her right now, she’s going to bolt, and I’ll have to hunt her down all over again.
“Stop,” I bark.
The muscles in her throat convulse under my hand as she swallows hard. Her body finally stills.
“Good girl,” I croon, my thumb caressing the soft skin of her neck. “You and me, little shadow. Nothing bad is going to happen to us. This shit—me and you—is for life. You go, I follow. I fucking love you. Have for a long time. You’re my family. My home. You're my light in the darkness. I know it’s scary. We’ve both had shit luck with big emotions. But, baby... it’s us. We got this. We got each other.”
She searches my face, looking for the lie and finding nothing but solid, terrifying truth. “Promise?”
“Fucking yeah, I do.”
Chapter Seventeen
Thepasttwomonthswith Marigold have been intense, blending her own brand of chaos with the storm of club life. Living in her whirlwind has taught me the difference between knowing someone and truly experiencing them.
Damn, she’s so fucking incredible I keep questioning what cosmic accident landed her in my orbit. She fits into the rough edges of my soul like she was carved for them, matching me in ways I’m only starting to unravel.
And the sex… man, it’s out of this fucking world.
I always felt the chemistry, simmering for years, but this is something deeper. What we have now feels like I’m finally breathing real air for the first time. We’re discovering each other in ways she never allowed before. I expected her to run, to let the fear of Damon drive her back into her shell. That’s been her move for four years. But she surprised the hell out of me by jumping into this with both feet, no hesitation, just raw, honest need.
We both still keep our own spaces, but we’re together more often than not. Manic asked if we’re moving too fast. Maybe. To outsiders, sure. Truth is, it’s not fast enough for me. I’d claim her in front of the whole club and slap my ink on her neck tomorrow if I knew she’d go for it.
The club's been running hot for two months. Between rebuilding the ports and cleaning up the blackened, skeletal mess the fire left behind at the complex, none of us has had much sleep. Cypher's been buried in the security situation since the fire. He never pulled a clean ID from the feeds. He's built Keres, a facial recognition system, to cross-reference everyone who appeared in footage from both the fire and the marina. In any future incidents, it'll start eliminating matches automatically.
It's a solid start.
We’re finished sitting back and waiting.
The complex is gone, burned to nothing. The loss gutted Snow, and Marigold felt it just as hard. She got what it meant for Snow to be trusted with a piece of the club’s future.
Butcher, stubborn as ever, refused to hand Snow the keys to the new oceanfront cottage himself. He wants her in the dark about his part in it, which is bullshit. I keep the records. I know he bought that place long before we even considered the complex. If I had to guess, he was thinking of her from the start. Now the deed’s in Snow’s name, another secret he’s hoarding.
I don’t know what Butcher’s endgame is, but when Snow broke down crying as we handed her the keys, it was clear he’s staking his claim, whether he’ll say it or not. She walked in, saw the pro-grade kitchen ready for her bakery, and blindsided us all. She skipped the club and went straight for Butcher. I’ve never seen a giant like him panic so hard, eyes wide, hands shaking as she wrapped him up in a hug. The man looked like he might come apart.
The Wicked Whiskofficially opens its doors next week. I don't know who’s more excited about it, Marigold or Snow. It’s a win we desperately needed.
But tonight, it’s back to the business that keeps the flour and frosting flowing. The ports are rebuilt, money’s coming in again. Tonight’s our first big run with Ghost, and the officers are taking the transports themselves.
Joker taps the map laid out on the chapel table, the overhead light catching the scarred wood. “This is where we’ll be meeting Ghost and his men,” he says. His finger drags along a path he’s marked in red Sharpie. “This is our route until the first hand-off. Butcher, Cyanide, Gavel, and D-Bag, you’ll carry on through here with Ghost’s crew until the final drop.” He points to a secondary location further inland. “This is as far as Ghost goes. Basilisk, Manic, Hannibal, Vortex, and Giblet, you’re the final leg back to the clubhouse.” Joker uncaps the marker and draws a series of jagged lines, his expression grim. “This is the route. By the time the product hits you, we’ll have scouts littered throughout the run to watch for shadows. I don’t expect trouble, but with the shit that’s been going down lately, we can’t be too careful. Any questions?”
No one speaks. The chapel air is heavy with silent understanding. We sync comms, check mags, and load up before rolling out to the bikes.
Leaving Marigold alone makes me uneasy, especially with a lingering threat and no face to pin it on. Munch volunteered to stay at her house while we’re gone, which gave me some peace of mind. Going into a run like this with a distraction is a fast track to a pine box, and for the first time in my life, I actually give a shit about the finish line. Before her, I didn’t give a damn if I went out in a hail of bullets. Now? I want to grow old with her. Kids or no kids, we haven’t decided, and I’m good either way. There are enough little ones tearing through the club that I’vegotten solid at the uncle game. Hand them back when they get loud, keep the fun parts.
