“Low but true,” I argue. “You can’t do that to us then saunter in here like nothing happened. It’s… it’s wrong! You brought them here because they needed safety, Slayer, but you’re the one who made them feel the most unsafe by not staying in touch, you can’t just turn your protection on and off like a light switch when the club demands it.”
I watch him wince as he tries to shift his weight in the recliner, his hand flying to his ribs as a low groan escapes him. My heart pinches, a traitorous urge to comfort him warring with the anger coursing through me. “I’m not a club girl, Slayer,” I whisper, my tone dropping to a lethal octave. “I’m the woman who’s holding your family together while you’re out bleeding for your brothers. If you want me to keep doing that, you have to start treating me like I actually matter.”
“You matter,” he grumbles, his voice rough and laced with a defensive edge. He avoids my gaze, staring instead at the far wall as if the answer is written on them. “And we don’t have club girls, Jersey, too much drama. That’s not what this is and you damn well know it.”
“I’m making a point here, Slayer. I’m using biker lingo to bridge the gap between your world and mine because my regular words don’t seem to be getting through to you.”
“Biker lingo,” he repeats, the tension in his jaw finally easing as a flicker of humor begins dancing in his hazel eyes. It’s a reluctant spark, one that acknowledges the absurdity of our argument.
“Yeah, I’m using words that are easier for you to understand how I’ve been feeling. Since ‘loyalty’ and ‘communication’ seem to be club secrets, I figured I’d try speaking your language.”
“Then I guess biker lingo works,” he muses, letting out a heavy, shallow breath. He reaches out, his large, scarred hand hovering in the space between us as if waiting for permission to bridge the distance. “I hear you, Jersey girl. Loud and clear.”
“Good,” I say, nodding my head.
“Good,” he repeats, his voice lower than mine. “Come sit next to me, baby.”
I hesitate, my gaze flickering to the bruised mapping of his ribs beneath his thin shirt. So thin that I can see everything through the fabric. The physical cost of his silence is laid bare before me, a tapestry of purple and sickly yellow that makes my own chest ache in sympathy.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“The only hurt I’m feeling is the distance between you and me,” he counters. “Come help me with that.”
I move toward him with measured, cautious steps, hyper-aware of the proximity and the heavy, static charge between us. When I finally lower myself onto the edge of the recliner beside him, the heat radiating from his body grounds my frantic nerves.
“Better?” I ask, patting him on the shoulder. He smirks at me then eases me closer to him, placing my head on his shoulder as his fingers start combing their way through my hair.
“Is now,” he remarks.
“You’re staying here, with me, so I can keep an eye on you,” I announce.
“Is that right?” he questions, the amusement in his voice clear.
“Yes. It’s clear you need someone watching over you and taking care of you until you fully heal,” I state, looking up at him with a conviction that surprises even me.
“And you’re the best person for the job, Jersey girl?” His blue-green eyes are searching mine, looking for the hesitation that usually defines me.
“You bet I am,” I adamantly declare.
“Then here’s where I’m gonna stay,” he maintains, his voice dropping to that gravelly range that makes my toes curl. Again. “With you, in your bed with you sleeping beside me.”
“I’m what now?” I squeak out the question, my heart hammering against my ribs at the sheer audacity of his demand. The idea of sharing such an intimate space is… staggering.
“Beside me, Jersey,” he reiterates, his gaze unyielding. He knows exactly what he’s asking, and he’s not offering a compromise. “Anything else, and I’ll go back to the clubhouse and stay in my room.”
“I’ve never slept beside a man before,” I admit.
“Then I’m happy to be your first,” he says, satisfaction laced in his tone. There is a possessive, grounding quality to his voice that makes my pulse skip. He isn’t just talking about a bed, he’s claiming a place in my life that I’ve never allowed anyone else to occupy. For a man who usually communicates in grunts and sharp commands, this level of intimacy is a revelation.
“I bet you are,” I harrumph, trying to keep my voice from trembling. I want to sound annoyed, but the truth is that I’m vibrating with a mixture of terror and a desperate, burgeoning heat. My hands are still tucked into my armpits, a physical barrier against the magnetic pull he exerts on me even while he’s battered and bruised.
“Don’t be surly about it, Jersey. You and I both know where this has been heading for a long time now.” He reaches out, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path over my jawline. The touch is light, mindful of his own physical limits, but it carries the weight of every shared glance and near-miss we’ve had since I arrived at the compound. He’s calling me out on the walls I’ve built, seeing right through the sass to the woman who is finally ready to stop hiding.
“If you say so,” I counter, pouting, though the fight is draining out of me. The anger that sustained me through his week-long absence is being replaced by a profound need for the safety he represents. I look at the dark bruises on his face, even as minimal as they are, and realize that I’d rather be in that bed with him, watching over him, than anywhere else.
“I say so,” he announces. “Show me your room, baby girl.” It isn’t a request, it’s a directive, delivered with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what he needs to heal. He uses the arm of the recliner to help push himself up, his face tightening with a pain he tries to hide from me. I step in close, my shoulder providing the stability he needs as he finds his footing.
I swallow past the fear and say, “Alright.” The word is a bridge, a final crossing over the threshold of the solitary life I’ve lived. Purposefully. As I lead him down the narrow hallway toward the one space I’ve always kept entirely for myself, I realize that I’m not just showing him a room—I’m inviting him into my heart.
