Page 45 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

CHARLOTTE - THREE MONTHS LATER

The sound of waves crashing against the shore has become my alarm clock. Every morning, I wake to their rhythm, constant and cleansing. Sometimes I lie awake just listening, reminding myself that I'm here. I'm safe. I'm free.

He insists I use his real name now. Says Thor belongs to the club, to the road, but Soren belongs to me. Just me. It took weeks before it stopped feeling strange in my mouth, this intimate piece of him so few people are allowed access to.

I roll over, burying my face in his pillow. It smells like him. The sheets are still warm where he slept. He's probably in the kitchen, making coffee strong enough to strip paint because he still hasn't figured out the right proportions.

The first month here was hell. My body healed faster than my mind—bruises fading while the memories remained vivid and raw. I would flinch when he moved too quickly. Panic when he touched me unexpectedly. Wake up fighting invisible hands around my throat.

But Soren never wavered. Never pushed. Never made me feel like I was broken. Even when I screamed that I was. Even when I threw a coffee mug at his head that second week because he accidentally touched my shoulder while I was cooking.

Presley came down from Upland after that incident. I was still shaking when she arrived, certain Soren would finally give up on me. Instead, he'd called in reinforcements—V's wife—a therapist who knew our world without judgment.

“Trauma doesn't heal in a straight line,” she told me during those first sessions at our kitchen table, the ocean a constant backdrop through the windows. “Some days you'll feel stronger, and others you'll feel like you're right back in that room with him.”

She was right. The nightmares come less frequently now, but they still come. Last week, I woke up convinced Terrance was standing at the foot of our bed. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move as the phantom loomed over me. Soren talked me through it, his voice a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Soren steps in with two steaming mugs. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. Morning light glints off the tattoos covering his chest and arms—inked stories I’ve traced again and again, memorizing every line with my fingertips.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, placing my coffee on the nightstand. “Thought you might need this.”

I smile, accepting the mug with both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “You're getting better at this. It's actually drinkable now.”

He chuckles, settling beside me on the edge of the bed. “High praise from the coffee snob.”

“I have standards,” I protest, taking another sip. “Not my fault that you used to drink the sludge the club called coffee.”

These small moments still surprise me—the easy banter, the casual intimacy. Three months ago, I couldn't imagine laughing about anything, let alone something as mundane as coffee. But Soren has this way of making the ordinary feel precious.

I watch him over the rim of my mug, studying the way sunlight plays across his features. The bruises have long since faded, but I still catch him favoring his left leg sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking. The bullet wound healed clean, however, the memory remains etched in both our bodies.

“You're staring,” he says without looking up from his coffee.

“Just appreciating the view.”

His smile is soft, private. This is pure Soren, and I'm still learning all the differences between the man and the road captain.

“What's on your agenda today?” he asks, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my knee.

“Not much,” I reply, setting my mug down. “Maybe a walk on the beach later. I promised Minny I'd call her this afternoon.”

The simplicity of my plans still feels strange sometimes. For years under Terrance's control, every minute was accounted for, every decision scrutinized. Now, freedom stretches before me like the endless horizon outside our window—beautiful but occasionally overwhelming.

A blur of black fur comes crashing through the doorway, leaping onto the bed with enough force to slosh coffee over the rim of my mug. Shadow lands between us with a soft whump , his massive body creating a furry barrier as he settles himself directly in the space where Soren was about to sit.

“Jesus Christ,” Soren mutters, barely saving his coffee from spilling. “Every damn morning.”

I can't help but laugh as he fixes his amber eyes on me, then shifts to Soren with what can only be described as feline possessiveness. He nudges his head under my free hand, demanding attention.

“Someone's jealous,” I say, obliging him to scratch behind his ears.

“Someone's a pain in my ass,” Soren counters. He reaches out to pet Shadow, who tolerates the touch for approximately three seconds before shifting his body to block Soren's access to me.

“He's protective,” I say, defending my furry bodyguard.

“He’s interfering with my plans for you.”

“Plans?” I quirk an eyebrow. “What kind of plans involve cat-blocking our feline overlord?”

Soren's lips curve into a slow smile that sends warmth pooling in my belly. “Bringing you coffee was just the first step in my master plan to keep you in this bed all day.”

My breath catches. “Tell me more about this plan.”

“It involves significantly less clothing,” he murmurs, setting his mug aside. “And absolutely no interruptions.” He gives Shadow a pointed look, which the cat completely ignores.

Something flutters in my chest—anticipation mixed with the lingering tendrils of fear that still surface occasionally.

For weeks after we arrived here, Soren had been so careful with me, keeping a respectful distance, never pushing for more than I could give.

He'd taken intimacy completely off the table, focusing instead on helping me feel safe again.

“You're thinking too hard. I can see those wheels turning.”

“Just remembering how long it took to convince you I wouldn't break,” I reply, leaning forward to brush my lips against his jaw. “I'm not that fragile anymore.”

“Charlotte...”

“I know what I want. And I want you. All of you. No more holding back.”

Shadow chooses that moment to stretch, his claws kneading the comforter as he settles more firmly between us. Soren glares at him.

“Your timing is impeccable,” he mutters to the cat.

I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. “He's just making sure you treat me right.”

“I've been treating you right for three months,” Soren protests. “This furry cockblock is just making things difficult.”

“Shadow, down,” I command gently. The cat gives me a look that clearly says 'absolutely not' before closing his eyes and pretending to sleep.

“Stubborn bastard,” Soren says, but he's smiling now. “Wonder where he gets that from.”

I slide my hand along his forearm, feeling the solid strength beneath his skin. “Maybe we could relocate? The living room? The kitchen?”

“Or I can lock him in the spare bedroom?”

Shadow's eyes snap open at the word “lock,” and he fixes Soren with a glare that could melt steel.

“I was joking,” Soren tells the cat, who somehow manages to look both offended and smug simultaneously. “Mostly. So about relocating?”

“I have an idea…”

“Follow me,” I say, slipping from beneath the covers. Shadow immediately protests with an indignant meow, but I'm already padding across the cool hardwood floors.

I glance over my shoulder to find Soren watching me.

“Where are we going?” Soren asks, rising from the bed. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband.

I don't answer, just crook my finger with a smile.

The deck doors slide open, and the ocean air rushes in to greet us—salt and seaweed. Our private stretch of beach glitters in the morning sun, empty for miles in both directions.

“Out here?” Soren's eyebrows shoot up, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Scared someone will see?” I tease, stepping onto the weathered boards of the deck. The wood is warm beneath my bare feet, already soaking up the California sun.

He follows me out, closing the door firmly in Shadow's indignant face. “More concerned about splinters in places splinters shouldn't be.”

I laugh, the sound carried away by the ocean breeze. “Then I guess you'll have to be careful where you put me.”

Suddenly, the playful banter shifts into something deeper, more urgent. He crosses the deck in two strides, backing me against the railing. The weathered wood presses against my spine as his hands bracket my hips, caging me in.

“You're sure about this?” he asks, still checking. Always checking.

Instead of answering with words, I reach for the hem of my shirt–his shirt–and pull it over my head. The ocean air kisses my skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature. Soren's intake of breath is sharp, reverent.

“Fuck, Charlotte,” he breathes, his hands hovering just above my skin like he's afraid I'll disappear. “You're so goddamn beautiful.”

I take his hands, placing them on my waist. “Touch me. Please.”

His thumbs trace the curve of my ribcage, feather-light at first, then with growing confidence as I arch into his touch.

The scars from Terrance have faded to thin silver lines, but Soren's fingers skip over them with deliberate gentleness.

I press my body against his, needing to feel his warmth.

The sun caresses my bare skin as his lips find my neck, trailing kisses down to my collarbone.

I tilt my head back, exposing more of myself to him, to the sky, to the world.

I push his sweatpants down his hips, and he steps out of them, now as naked as I am. The ocean breeze swirls around us, cool against our heated skin. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden beneath his touch.