Page 59

I nod, thankful we took minimal damage and nobody got in the front door. Hours later, after the wounded are stabilized and the compound’s secured, Switch and I slip away to my room. The door shuts with a heavy click, and the mask drops completely. Corbin pulls me against him immediately, hands roaming with urgent need—mapping every inch like he has to erase the day’s threats from my skin.

“Fuck, Tatum,” he growls against my lips, voice low and wrecked, “watching you out there—knife in hand, fighting like you were born for it. Nearly lost my mind.”

His mouth crashes into mine, deep and claiming, fingers threading into my hair with that tight grip that the strands feel pinched at the scalp, that says everything he holds back in public. He tugs just hard enough to tilt my head, exposing my throat for his teeth. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp, nails already digging into his shoulders.

God, his voice—raw, demanding. It’s unraveling me.

Clothes shed in a frantic trail to the bed. He lifts me effortlessly, body covering mine protectively as he sinks into me—slow at first, inch by inch, stretching me open with a groan that vibrates through his chest. “So fucking tight. Wet for me even after the blood and chaos.”

His hips roll deep, deliberate. Every thrust carrying the weight of the fight, the relief, the obsession. One hand pins my wrist above my head. The other grips my hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring me as he drives harder. “Look at me. No one else gets this. No one touches what’s mine.” I meet him fully, legs locked around his waist, my fingers grasp at the wall for purchase.

Fuck, he feels so good.

“Corbin—harder. Need you to fuck the fear out of me.” My internal walls clench around him as he obliges, pace turning punishing, sweat-slick bodies slapping together. He buries his face in my neck, biting down as he grinds deep, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Scream for me.” His free hand slides between us, thumb circling my clit with ruthless precision. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart.”

The pressure builds, coiling tight—his words, his body, the memory of him shielding me in the fight—all of it crashes over me. I shatter with a cry, pulsing around him, nails drawing fresh lines down his skin. He doesn’t stop.

“Again,” he demands, voice hoarse, flipping me onto my stomach without pulling out. He hauls my hips up, slamming back in from behind, one hand fisted in my hair, the other wrapping around to tease my oversensitive clit. “You fought like hell today. My fierce little Spitfire. But here? You’re mine to wreck.” Each thrust is deeper, possessive, his balls slapping against me as he loses control. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you so deep no one else will ever compare.”

I push back against him, lost in the rhythm. Another orgasm rips through me, and he follows with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes hard, heat flooding me. We collapse, tangled and spent, his arms locking around me like iron bands. Fingers trace my spine idly, possessive even in rest. He presses kisses to my shoulder, murmuring, “We’re good at this. You and me. In the fight. In the dark....”

I press closer, heart still racing. “Together,” I murmur. “No matter what we get thrown into next.”

His hold tightens in response. No declarations needed. The secret stays safe, but what we have burns hotter for it. Redline will pay for today. The club will heal.

And us? We’ll keep fighting side by side—in the open and in the dark—until nothing can touch what’s ours.

CORBIN

The war room feels smaller today, the walls pressing in under the haze of stale coffee and the lingering ghost of yesterday’s smoke. Sunlight cuts through the cracked windows like accusations, highlighting every bullet scar and scorched patch on the maps pinned across the table. I’ve been here for hours with Ledger, trying to make heads or tails of all the bullshit. Sorting damage reports and ammo tallies. One prospect dead. Rook and Ronnie patched up but sidelined.

They torched bikes, broke fences, and gutted our pride. Yesterday was a shit show. Redline’s proxies caught us riding the high from our recent hits. We got too comfortable, and it bit us right in the ass. My jaw clenches hard enough to ache. Years of military training is the only reason I’m keeping the rage contained. If they thought they were getting away with this, they couldn’t be further from the truth. Revenge will be ours.

It’s time to play the long game. No wild swings. Just calculated moves and predetermined executions. Tatum works overtime today, identifying each face the cameras caught on our compound. But it’s not enough. Bloodlust simmers just beneath my skin. I want to paint the ground with their insides. Feel bones crack under my boots. Watch the light fade from eyes that dared target what’s mine. I drag a hand over my face, the graze on my arm pulling tight.

Yesterday’s chaos replays in fragments: gunfire, prospects scattering, that kid’s leg shattering like glass. And Tatum—streaked with sweat and grime, using her knife as if it’s a work of art as she fought at my side. She moved like she was born for the violence, and it took every ounce of restraint not to haul her behind cover every second. She’s not some fragile thing. But the need to shield her, to keep her breathing while I wade through the red…

I shove the thought down. No outward cracks. Not here.

The door slams open. Tatum storms in, new tablet gripped in her hand like a weapon. Her eyes are storm clouds, jaw set firmly. She found something. The sight of her sends a fresh spike of protectiveness through me, tangled with the darker want for payback. They hit us. They could’ve hit her.

“Switch,” she says, voice edged sharp. She kicks the door shut and drops the tablet onto the table over my reports, causing Ledger to jolt. “You’ve been buried in here long enough boys. It better mean the cleanup won’t be some half-assed job.”

I nod once, arms crossing as I meet her gaze. Professional. Controlled. “Tatum. Are you here to insult us or do you have something you want to say?”

She leans over the table, turning the screen on her tablet, fingers flying. “Call officers. It was Iron Vipers mixed with a few patched Redline members. Errand boys got too sloppy after yesterday. I traced them through burner chatter, juvenile cross-refs, and spoofed feeds. They’re holed up in that abandoned industrial shithole off Route 99E. About twenty from yesterday. They’re drunk on beer and our stolen ammo. Laughing about the prospect they dropped and Rook.”

Her words ignite the cold rage. Retribution. I see it clear—knives in the dark, bodies dropping, the satisfying crunch of payback. They thought we were weak. I’ll show them the grave they dug.

“Give me more, Tatum,” I say, voice flat. I step closer to the table, shoulder near hers but never touching. The air between us hums anyway. Last night’s memory flickers—her under me, gasping my name—but I lock it down. Focusing on the map. Tatum lays it out: coordinates, guard rotations, weak fences. Her hacks are gold. She made sure to leave nothing to chance before handing it over. Then it hits me. She left the compound. She pulled all of this in real time without us noticing.

Dammit, Spitfire.

Ledger fires off a text to pull everyone in while she talks. My mind runs through the mission—ins and outs. Infiltration at dusk. Suppressed kills. No mercy. The want for it burns hot in my chest—the image of Viper blood soaking dirt, their screams cut short. For the prospect. For the compound. For every threat that dared reach her.