Page 70 of North’s Claim

“Maybe,” I step inside. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to stop glaring at me like you’re gonna shake me down for answers.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah. But so are you.”

I drop the cut onto her lap. The leather lands with a heavy thud, the scent of it rising between us. She frowns, fingertips brushing over the patch like it’s a trap.

“What is this?”

“It’s yours,” I tell her. “Means you’re family. Means no one breathes in your direction without knowing they’ll answer to me. Means you’re my ol’ lady.”

Her eyes widen. “Your what?”

I take a step closer, slow, crowding her space until there’s nowhere for her to look but up at me. “Ol’ lady. My woman. Mine. And you didn’t become that in the warehouse, you’ve been that since the moment you trusted me enough to walk away from your nightmare. Don’t bother arguing. I don’t change my mind.”

Her fingers curl into the leather. “North…”

“Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Just wear it.”

I lift it from her lap, sliding it over her shoulders. The weight of it seems to sink into her bones, grounding her. It’s a little loose, she’s still too thin, but it looks right. Feels right.

Her hand drifts up to touch the patch, like she’s making sure it’s real. “You didn’t ask me,” she says softly.

“Didn’t have to.”

I kiss her before she can say anything else, slow, deep, a claim and a promise in one. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. “You belong to me, Firefly. And I sure as hell belong to you.”

There’s a muffled noise outside the door. Soul’s voice. “Shit, she’s keeping it.”

“Told you.” Iron grins.

Rook chuckles, “Hand over the fifty.”

I smirk and glance toward the hall. “You hear that? Even my brothers know it’s a done deal.”

She narrows her eyes, but I see it, the way her mouth wants to curve into a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe. But I’m yours. And now you’re wearing the proof.”

Chapter 26

Nyxa

The hospital smells cling to me all the way back to the charter: antiseptic, metal, and too many days under white lights. But when we pull through the gates, the first thing that hits me is sound. Music blaring, laughter rolling over chrome and gravel, engines revving just for the hell of it.

The hood’s lit up like it’s the Fourth of July.

I didn’t think I’d ever miss this noise. But God, it feels like breathing again.

The smell of gasoline, wood smoke, leather, and spilled beer hits next, thick, warm, and familiar.

North’s hand is low on my back as he walks me forward the crowd outside lining like were waiting for a parade. Not pushing. Not dragging. Just there, steady, claiming. Every step pulls us deeper into the noise: boots stomping the beat, rough voices shouting over music, bottles clinking like distant gunfire.

Eva’s on me before I get two steps in. She grabs my shoulders, spins me so fast my cut flares out. “Was about damn time, Prez,” she shouts over the music, shooting North a look that says finally.

Eyes follow the move, respectful but assessing, and for a second I feel the weight of it, like everyone in here knows exactly what this means. The applause erupts hitting the hidden spot deep under my ribs.

When we push through the Clubhouse door, the place is a goddamn warzone of celebration. It takes little for tables to get crowded with bottles, half-empty pitchers, and enough food to feed a small army. The floor is already sticky with spilled beer. Someone’s yelling over a game of pool in the corner, a couple prospects are arm wrestling near the jukebox, and a girl I don’t recognize is trying to keep up with Rook in a shot-for-shot challenge, and she’s losing.