Page 39 of Property of Booker

The tension reaches a breaking point, an unbearable, electric fever pitch that makes the entire world tilt on its axis. Every nerve ending burns with the intensity of it. I feel the first frantic wave of her release, that intoxicating internal clench that shatters my remaining control and sends me plunging over the edge. With a ragged groan, I bury myself deep inside her, my entire body racking and shuddering with the overwhelming force of the climax. Everything goes blindingly white, the persistent, deafening noise in my head finally going completely silent. We collapse together onto the mattress, completely spent, our hearts hammering wildly against each other as our ragged breathing fills the dark room. We stay tangled like that for a long, quiet time, the cool air chilling the sweat on our skin while the weight and reality of what we just shared slowly sinks in.

I pull her close, wrapping my arm securely draped over her waist, gathering her softness until her back rests flush against my chest. She exhales a long, contented sigh, the warm breeze of her breath fluttering against my forearm, and in that quiet breath, I know we're finally going to be okay. The expansive white farmhouse falls silent again, but it's a vastly different kind of quiet now compared to the heavy, oppressive silence of the clubhouse or the crypts. It's the serene quiet of a foundation being laid, of two fractured souls anchoring themselves in place, of a true life finally starting.

I press a gentle, slow kiss to the nape of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of vanilla and the raw heat we just shared. She shifts her weight, her soft curves molding seamlessly into the hard planes of my chest while the expansive silence of the farmhouse anchors us. I gather the sheets, tucking them around her to shield her from the crisp morning breeze, my own pulse finally slowing to match the tranquil tempo of her breathing.

Propping myself up, I watch as the morning light traces the soft curves of her skin. Everything feels solid here, tangible in a way I never thought possible. We have this expanse of glass to ourselves, acres from the noise and demands of the club. I kiss the slope of her shoulder, and she shifts, turning into me. She watches the green hills roll out toward the horizon, her expression clear and steady as she takes in the vast, open world beyond our walls.

“We need to talk about the move,” I murmur, my voice sounding rough in the quiet.

Kendall lifts her head, propping her chin on her hand. Her eyes are clear, no longer clouded by the persistent, nagging panic that used to govern her every movement. “The move?” she asks. “You mean bringing Kolter here. Right?”

“Yeah,” I reply, shifting to look at her fully. “He's settling in at the school, but this place is move-in ready. I think it’s best to get him out of the clubhouse environment for good. I want him to have his own room. Somewhere he can be a kid without worrying about bikers, security protocols, or club business. I want him to have a yard where he can run until he drops.”

Kendall sits up, pulling the sheet up to her chest. She looks toward the window, toward the rolling green landscape. “He's going to lose his mind,” she says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across her face. “He's already obsessed with the little things. He’s going to think he’s moved into a castle. Do you realize how much space he's going to have?”

I chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. “He’s gonna freak. I've got the supplies ready. The paint for his room, the gear for his art projects. I figure we'll tell him tonight. Over dinner.”

“He's been so resilient,” Kendall whispers, her fingers tracing the ink on my shoulder, finding the spot where my skin is still slightly raised from an old scar. “I worried that dragging him from place to place would break him, but he just keeps adapting. He's stronger than I am. Sometimes I look at him and I see all the things we went through, but then I see the way he looks at the world now, and it’s like the nightmare never touched him at all.”

“He's a chip off the old block,” I tell her, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “He's got your fire, Kendall. He just needs a place where that fire can burn without having to fight for air. He needs to know that his home is a place where he never has to close his eyes and wish for an exit.”

“I think about it sometimes,” she admits, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The way we used to live. Always looking for the doors. Always mapping out the escape route before we even sat down. It’s hard to let go of that, even here.”

I pull her closer, tucking her head under my chin. “You don't have to let go of it all at once. But think about him. Think about him waking up in that room at the end of the hall, with the sun hitting his face, knowing the only thing he has to do that day is learn, paint, or run in the grass. That’s the mission now. That’s the only objective that matters.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

Kendall

I let out a shaky breath, the kind that sheds the last of the tension I’ve been carrying. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“It's not easy,” Booker corrects, his voice gravelly and sincere. “But it's worth it. I've spent my whole life building things for the club, things that eventually get torn down or burned or broken. I want to build something that stays. I want to build a life for us. For him. I want him to grow up knowing his dad is a man who builds, not just a man who breaks.”

I look up at him, my eyes bright. Hearing him call himself Kolter's dad sends a warmth through me that I can't quite name—a sense of belonging I never thought I’d feel. Not just for me, but for my son too. I don't flinch, instead, I lean into him. He’s mine, and I’m his, and the realization feels like something indescribable. “You're already doing that,” I whisper. “Just by being here. Just by being with us.”

“I'm just getting started,” he promises, a fierce look in his eyes. “Tonight, we tell him. We tell him he’s got a kingdom to explore. I bet he’ll be vibrating with excitement.”

I laugh, and the sound feels like pure, unburdened joy. “He’ll probably try to sleep in every corner of this place before he decides on his bedroom. He’s going to love the windows. He’s going to love watching the world go by.”

Booker looks around the room, at the solid beams and the clear glass. “He deserves to watch the world go by,” he declares. “He deserves to know it’s safe.”

“We're doing it,” I murmur, snuggling into his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat against my own. “We're really doing it.”

“Yeah,” he answers, hauling me closer until the last of my doubts evaporate. “We really are.”

Retracing our steps back toward the clubhouse, the path seems to stretch further than it did during our trek to the ridge earlier. The compound is buzzing with activity this afternoon, the air’s thick with the revving of engines and laughter ringing through the air. Booker’s palm remains fused to mine, his rough, familiar callouses grounding me with every step. He stays quiet, but the silence isn't empty, it’s soothing. The way his thumb traces lazy, possessive patterns against my skin tells me everything his rough voice doesn't have to.

We reach the back of the clubhouse where the lawn stretches out toward the tree line. It’s shaded and quiet here, far enough away from the mass of brothers to escape the noise but close enough to hear the heartbeat of the club. Kolter’s sitting on the grass, surrounded by a few of his toy cars and a wooden stick he’s clearly been using as a makeshift plane. He’s imitating the roar of an engine to himself, a soft, sputtering noise that makes my chest tighten with overwhelming affection.

Squeezing Booker’s hand, I give him a look that says this is it. He nods once, his expression softening in a way that only I get to see. He understands the weight of this moment. He knows it’s not just about the house. It’s about us. It’s about the promise for the path we want to pave as a family.

The grass behind the clubhouse feels coarse against my palms as I sink onto the lawn, the ground still holding the heat of the afternoon sun. I shift my weight and tuck my legs beneath me, feeling the rough texture of the earth and the small imperfections that make this place feel undeniably real. A few feet away, Kolter’s absorbed in his own world, his small fingers pushing a battered metal truck through a miniature valley of tall weeds. He’s humming a low, tuneless melody that seems to vibrate through the air, creating a bubble of peace that feels fragile yet entirely necessary.

Booker settles next to me, his presence a steadying force that draws my focus away from the lingering ghosts of the past. He doesn’t speak right away, letting the silence wrap around us like a protective cloak. We watch Kolter. He’s so immersed in his play that he doesn’t even notice us sitting here, his brow furrowed with the intense, singular concentration of a child who’s finally been given permission to focus on nothing more than the path ahead of him. It’s a dichotomy to the life he lived only weeks ago, where every sound was a trigger and every shadow was a potential threat.

“Hey, Kolter,” I murmur, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my chest.