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THIRTEEN

CAMbrIA

My world has been flipped upside down since the day I was born … it might finally be right.

The minute Little Foot rides into the driveway, I feel like I can finally breathe.

For a whole week, I’ve lived with this ache in my chest, something like hope, but sharper, meaner. Every day I’ve pretended to go about my business—folding laundry, wiping down counters, sketching in the sun—but the truth is, I’ve been holding my breath.

Waiting.

Hoping the world wouldn’t fall apart again. That I wouldn’t lose him to the violence that always seems to catch up to people like us.

But now, the rumble of his bike drowns out every doubt. I see him before he even kills the engine, his face streaked with dirt, blood crusting along his collar, his cut torn on one side. There’s a wild, raw exhaustion about him, but also something new. His eyes meet mine and I see it there, finality. The sense of something ended, for real this time. Closure I never thought I’d get.

He’s here.

Alive.

And something in his eyes tells me it’s over.

I don’t wait for him to come to me. I bolt from the porch, the screen door banging behind me, my bare feet slapping the cracked pavement of the drive. There’s a wild freedom in that movement—no caution, no shame. Just a reckless need to reach him, to touch him, to make sure he’s real and not just another trick my frightened mind is playing on me.

He’s barely off the bike when I reach him. I launch myself into his arms, every bit of weight and fear and relief crashing into his solid chest. He catches me, as always, without hesitation. His arms come around me, strong and steady. He smells like gun oil and sweat and something familiar I don’t have a word for—safety, maybe. Home.

He buries his face in my hair, breathing deep, his whole body shuddering once like he’s letting something go.

“It’s done,” he whispers against my ear, voice rough with exhaustion and something close to awe. “Frankie’s gone.”

Gone.

Just like that.

The man who haunted my nightmares, the one I never thought I’d outrun. It doesn’t feel real. The world feels too quiet. I want to collapse or scream or laugh but all I do is hold him tighter, as if letting go would unravel everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, memorizing the way his heart beats beneath my palm.

We move inside his trailer, side by side, his hand tight around mine. I check him over, I see he is scratched up, but not injured. Relief crashes through me, leaving my knees weak.

His knuckles are split and raw, blood caked into the creases. I grab a clean washcloth, run it under warm water, and press it gently to his hand. He doesn’t wince. Just watches me with an intensity that’s almost frightening. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but I see something deeper there—deeper than lust, deeper than relief. It’s devotion. The kind of devotion that demands to be believed.

“You didn’t have to do it,” I say softly, wiping the blood away, careful not to hurt him. “You didn’t owe me that.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re wrong. I owe you everything. For a lifetime. You made me see what kind of man I want to be.”

I pause, cloth stilled on his skin. “I’m no one’s redemption plan.”

He leans closer, the air between us electric. “You’re mine.”

My chest tightens, hope and fear tangling together. I look up at him, this man who walked into my wreckage brazen with a plan and made my fight his fight.

For a long time, I thought I was broken beyond repair. That no one could touch me without falling into my ruin. But Drew, he just waded in, stubborn and gentle, and made a home for both of us in the wreckage.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. No pretending,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter. “I do. Every word.”

When he kisses me, it isn’t rushed or desperate. It’s slow. Intentional. Like he’s memorizing me, cataloguing every sigh and shiver, tracing each scar with the reverence it deserves. I let him. I want him to. Because for once, I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to pretend I don’t care.

The trailer is quiet except for the gentle rustle of the wind through the gauzy curtains. Moonlight spills across the hardwood, turning the room silver. I think maybe the world is trying to tell me something—maybe it’s okay to rest. Maybe it’s okay to believe this is real.

After his shower, Drew stands by the window, shirtless, hair damp and messy. He’s looking out, but I can tell his mind is a million miles away. His hands are trembling slightly. So are mine.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” he says softly, not turning around. His voice is so vulnerable it nearly breaks me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets warm beneath my thighs. I twist the hem of my camisole in my hands, grounding myself in the sensation. “You’re not dreaming,” I promise.

He finally turns to look at me. There’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before—not just wonder or sadness for my past, but hunger. Passion, raw and unshielded. Like he’s seeing me, truly seeing me, for the first time.

“This feels like—” he starts, words failing.

“Everything,” I finish for him, the word barely a breath.

He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and careful, as if afraid one wrong step will break the spell. But he stops just short of touching me, eyes searching mine for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that he should pull back. I don’t give him any. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to his, softly, no rush. No fire. Just a lingering promise that I’m here, that I’m not running.

His hands find my waist, tentative at first. When I sigh into his mouth, he exhales against my cheek, like he’s been holding that breath for years. Maybe he has. Maybe we both have.

I let him undress me slowly. Every inch of fabric sliding down my skin feels important like he’s memorizing me with his hands, like he’s trying to etch me into memory in case the morning steals me away. When his fingers graze the edge of my panties, he pauses, looking up into my eyes for permission.

“Yes,” I say simply, no fear, no shame.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. That’s part of why I fell for him without meaning to. Every touch is deliberate, every motion meant. He treats me like I’m something sacred. Even now, when everything inside me aches for him, he slows it down, determined to make me feel every moment, to make every second matter.

I pull him onto the bed with me, guiding him with my hands, threading my fingers into his hair as I press kisses along his jaw, down his throat. His skin tastes like salt and warmth and something I can’t name.

“Cambria...” he breathes, and hearing my name in a pant makes my heart stutter in my chest.

“I’m here,” I murmur. “Always will be.”

“Always,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little. There’s a promise in that word, one that feels heavy with truth.

I nod, swallowing hard against the sudden ache in my throat. “We were playing house,” I whisper. “Now we’re living it.”

His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time. Hungrier, but still careful. Still patient. His weight settles over me, grounding me, wrapping me in warmth and something bigger than either of us.

When we come together, it’s not frantic. It’s not rushed. It’s slow, like the tide rolling in. Soft kisses between every movement, whispers that fall like petals against skin. I feel like I’m unraveling and becoming something new, all at once.

He presses his forehead to mine, eyes locked on my own as our bodies move together, and I see everything in that look. Every guarded laugh. Every moment he let me in when he didn’t have to. Every time I reached for his hand in public and he laced our fingers like he meant it—even when we said we didn’t.

I cup his face as we move, holding his gaze, not letting him look away. “I love you,” I say, the words breaking free before I can stop them.

He stills for a second, breath catching. Then he smiles—soft, real, like sunlight after a storm. “I’ve been loving you since before I watched you bend over to pick up a coin and I thought, damn that is a lucky penny.”

His lips brush my shoulder, then my collarbone. Everything building inside me again. I can’t get enough of him. He’s shaking slightly, but not from fear. From the intensity of it. Of us. From letting go of the act, the lie, the distance we kept like armor.

“I used to tell myself it was just convenient,” I murmur against his skin. “That I didn’t need it to be real.”

“Me too,” he replies, breath warm against my chest. “But you made it real anyway.”

I wrap my arms around him tighter, anchoring him to me. “Don’t let it go. Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t,” he vows, and I feel it in the way his hands cradle me, in the way our bodies sync like they’ve always known how. “Not ever.”

The rhythm between us builds slowly, as if the world has quieted just to let us have this. I feel every heartbeat, every inhale, every soft gasp like it’s part of a song only we can hear. It’s not just making love—it’s becoming one. Like every wall we built has finally crumbled, and what’s left is only truth. Only us.

He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, and I hold him like I never want to let go.

When the orgasm comes, it’s quiet, intense, a wave that overtakes us both with a trembling tenderness. I cry out his name, not from pain or pleasure alone, but from something deeper. Something I can’t put into words.

He follows with a whisper of my name against my lips, and in that moment, I swear the world shifts.

We collapse into each other, tangled and breathless. My skin hums. My heart is wide open. For a while, we just lay together. No words. Just the sound of our breathing slowing, syncing again like the rhythm hasn’t left us. His fingers trace circles on my back, grounding me. Loving me.

“Is it strange,” he murmurs, “that I feel more married to you than the moment I muttered it to my family even though I had fully committed to the claim?”

I smile into his neck. “No. It makes perfect sense.”

He kisses the top of my head, then pulls the blankets over us, wrapping us in warmth. “Cambria,” he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“I want to make the lie a truth.”

“You don’t have to,” I promise, worried that he feels pressured to marry me all of a sudden. “I’m with you no matter how it’s defined.”

He exhales slowly, like the last of his fears just slipped out with that breath. I rest my hand over his heart, feeling it beat strong and steady beneath my palm.

“You’re mine,” I say, not possessively, but with awe. With gratitude.

“And you’re mine,” he answers, pulling me closer. “For real this time.”

The moonlight fades a little, replaced by the softer glow of dawn sneaking in through the window. The beginning of something new. And for the first time, our story isn’t one we’re performing. It’s one we’re living and keeping forever.

Afterward, we lie there tangled in the sheets. He traces lazy lines across my spine, and I listen to the steady beat of his heart. I can feel my world shifting, piece by piece, and for once I’m not fighting it. I'm letting it happen.

“You think they’ll ever see me the way you do?” I ask quietly.

“The club?”

I nod against him.

He exhales. “They already do. You’re family.”

“Do you feel like part of the club? The family?”

He laughs, low and gravelly. “Me? I was angry for a long time about something I couldn’t understand until now. Always trying to prove I was more than Shooter’s son. More than Axel’s little brother. You gave me somethin’ worth fightin’ for beyond a name, beyond the club. I don’t care about their acceptance and in finding that peace for myself, I found I’ve had the acceptance all along.”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the honesty in his voice.

The next morning, I wake wrapped in his arms, my head on his chest. Sunlight filters through the slats in the blinds. There’s a peace in the air I’ve never known.

Still, a weight presses down on me. Not fear, guilt.

I don’t deserve this. This man, this club, this life. I’m just a girl from a rundown Arkansas motel with nothing but trauma to her name.

I slip out of bed, pad to the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, and stand at the window. I hear his footsteps behind me, feel his warmth as he steps in close.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, automatically knowing I’m lost in my own head.

“I don’t belong here.”

“You do.”

“I’ve lied. I’ve put people in danger. My mom’s a junkie and a whore, and I ran with monsters for most of my life.”

He turns me to face him. “And you escaped it. That makes you stronger than any of ’em.”

I want to believe him.

He lifts my chin. “This isn’t pretend anymore, Cambria. I want this. All of it. You. Me. The life we’re buildin’. You saved me from bein’ a bitter bastard with a chip on my shoulder. You showed me what it looks like to fight for someone. What it is to have something of my own.”

I’m not sure when the tears start, but they don’t stop. He pulls me into his chest and lets me cry. I don’t have to hide anymore.

When I pull back, I search his face. “You serious?”

“Dead.”

I laugh, watery and raw. “Then what now?”

He grins. “We live. We heal. We figure out what the hell comes next.”

And for the first time in forever, I think I’m ready for that.

Ready for real life, love, and a future that belongs to both of us.