Page 6 of Goose’s Wren (Wolfsbane Ridge MC #10)

Wren

Back in my room, I shut the door gently behind me and lean against it for a long moment. My heart is pounding so loud I swear it echoes in the walls.

Goose finally knows the truth.

The words circle through my head like a storm: “I know the letters Sparrow used to give me weren’t hers.”

Took you long enough.

I said it like I was cool, like it didn’t mean anything. But the second I got behind this door, the second I was out of his line of sight, I’m ready to crumble.

I press my fingertips to my lips, trying to hold something in. A laugh. A sob.

I don’t even know which.

My eyes fall to my bag sitting under the window. The same worn-out canvas one I’ve carried with me through every shitty apartment, every bus ride, every escape.

The notebooks are in there, tucked safe between ratty sweaters and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. The words he’s been carrying around all these years. The words that were always mine.

I used to dream of this moment. Back when I was younger and still na?ve. I imagined it happening so many times.

Him looking at me with that fire in his eyes, realizing he’d been in love with me all along. The way he’d rush over, gather me in his arms, tilt my chin up and kiss me like he’d been waiting for years. Like I was worth it.

And now...

Goose is here. He’s in the same house. He’s seen me. Not just with his eyes, but really seeing me.

Not as Sparrow’s little sister. Not as the kid who scribbled in the margins of her notebook and never said what she felt out loud.

But me. The woman. The survivor.

And I can’t stop the way my body responds just thinking about him.

The way his voice sounded in the dark. Deep and low, like he was finally speaking from a place he’d kept locked away.

The way his shoulders moved beneath that tight black tee he wears when he’s relaxing, how his jaw flexed when he looked at me tonight with something I couldn’t quite name. Want, maybe. Or maybe something deeper.

God, I want his hands on me.

The thought alone sends a shiver through me. Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading like wildfire. It’s not just lust. It’s everything.

All those years of wanting him from a distance. Of watching him smile at Sparrow with my words in his hand.

Of wishing I had the courage to step into the light and say, "It was always me. I wrote those. I loved you first."

I move to the bed, sitting on the edge, and run my hand over the blanket he gave me the first night I stayed here. It still smells faintly like him. Of clean soap, leather, and motor oil.

I want more. Not just his protection. Not just his pity.

I want his hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. His body pressing me into the mattress while I finally, finally, stop pretending I don’t burn for him every time he walks into the room.

I press my knees together, exhaling a shaky breath as I try to get ahold of myself.

Just because he now knows those words were mine, doesn’t mean he wants anything more from me.