Page 15

"She needs protection," Regnor says. "Dylan came at her today. In public. Grabbed her, threatened her. Made it clear he's not backing off. She can't go back to her apartment."

"So bring her here," Dad says. "We'll protect her."

"I am here," Regnor points out. "She's staying with me. In my room. Where I can watch over her properly."

The muscle in Dad's jaw ticks. "Like hell she is."

"Dad—"

"No." He cuts me off. "You want to play house with him? Fine. But not under my roof. Not in my clubhouse."

" Our clubhouse," Runes interjects, speaking for the first time. "And keeping Everly here makes sense. Dylan's escalating. We need her where we can protect her."

"I can protect my own daughter."

"Can you?" Fenrir asks. "Were you there today when Mitchell grabbed her? Were any of us? No. Regnor was. Regnor's been keeping her safe."

"This is club business now," Runes continues. "Dylan threatened to expose club secrets. Mentioned the raid, Marcus. He's a threat to all of us."

Dad looks around, realizes he's outnumbered.

The rage is still there, simmering, but practicality wins.

"Fine," he grits out. "But if you hurt her?—"

"I won't," Regnor says simply.

"You better not." Dad turns to me. "This is what you want?"

"Yes."

He nods once, sharp.

Then walks away without another word.

Mom lingers, studying my face. "Are you really okay?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm trying to be."

She pulls me into a hug, careful and warm. "That's all any of us can do. But Everly? Be careful. Four months of sneaking around... that's a long time to keep a secret."

"I know."

She pulls back, cups my face. "If you need anything?—"

"I know," I repeat. "Thank you."

She nods and follows Dad, probably to keep him from doing something stupid.

The party slowly returns to normal, though I catch people whispering, staring.

The news will be all over town by morning.

Knocked up by a biker, finally free of that asshole Dylan.

At least that's the story they'll tell.

"Come on," Regnor says quietly. "Let's get your stuff."

The drive to my apartment is silent.

I stare out the window, processing everything that just happened.

In the span of hours, I've gone from hiding everything to having it all laid bare.

Well, almost everything.

"You okay?" he asks as we pull up to my building.

"You said you love me."

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

"Did you mean it?"

"I’ve always had love for you, Ev. For years now, but I said it to get your father off our backs a little bit." He turns to look at me. "Didn't mean to say it like that. In front of everyone. But yeah, I meant it. I think I’m gonna fall head over heels for you in no time, though."

"Regnor—"

"You don't have to say it back," he interrupts. "I know this is complicated for you. I know you're just trying to survive. But it's not fake for me. Hasn't been for a while."

My throat closes up.

How do I tell him that the lines blurred for me, too?

That somewhere between him making me toast and holding my hair while I threw up and facing down Dylan in a grocery store, fake became real?

"Let's get my things," I say instead.

We pack quickly—clothes, toiletries, the few things that matter.

My life fits into two suitcases and a duffel bag.

Honestly, I don't even know if I want to come back here.

Maybe I’ll call my landlady and let her know she can rent it out.

"That's it?" he asks.

"I travel light." I look around the apartment one last time. "I don't think I'll miss it."

"You can always get your own place later," he offers. "When things calm down. If you want space?—"

"I don't want space," I admit. "I'm tired of being alone. Tired of being scared. I just want..."

"What?"

"Safe. I want to feel safe."

"I can give you that," he promises.

Back at the clubhouse, he helps me carry everything to his room.

I've never been in the personal quarters before—this was always off-limits when I was growing up.

His room is simple.

Bed, dresser, small bathroom.

But it's clean, and it smells like him, and there's something comforting about the sparse masculinity of it.

"I'll clear out some drawers," he says, setting down my bags. "Make room in the closet. Whatever you need."

"Regnor."

"There's probably rules about having you here," he continues, not looking at me. "Runes will want to talk protocols. And your dad—fuck, your dad's going to make my life hell. But it's worth it. You're worth it."

"Regnor."

"What?"

I cross to him, place my hand on his chest, and feel his heart racing under my palm. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything. Today. The past two weeks. Keeping our secret. All of it."

"You don't have to thank me?—"

I rise up on my toes and kiss him.

Soft at first, then deeper when he groans and pulls me closer.

It's different from the parking lot.

Less desperate, more intentional.

A choice instead of a reaction.

When we break apart, his eyes are dark. "Everly?—"

"I'm tired of pretending," I whisper. "Tired of lying to everyone. Well, except about..." I touch my stomach. "But the rest? I want it to be real."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want this to be real. You and me. Not just for the baby, not just for protection. Because I want you."

"You're emotional," he says carefully. "Today's been a lot?—"

"Don't." I press closer. "Don't dismiss this. I know what I'm feeling."

"What are you feeling?"

My hands shake as I frame his face. "Like I could fall in love with you, if you're not too careful."

A smile tugs at his lips. "Who says I want to be careful?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing just under my ribs. "Careful's never been my style, Goldilocks."

"I'm a mess," I warn. "Pregnant, traumatized. Probably not good for anyone right now. And Goldilocks?"

"Goldilocks suits you, and I don't care about the other shit."

"You should."

"But I don't." He backs me toward the bed. "You're mine now. The rest is just details."

"Regnor—"

He kisses me again, effectively ending the conversation.

This time there's heat behind it, intent.

His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.

I melt into him, letting myself feel for the first time in months.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my lips.

"Don't you dare stop."

He groans, lifting me easily.

My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries me to the bed.

"You sure?" he asks, setting me down gently.

"Yes."

But my hands are shaking as I reach for his cut, push it off his shoulders.

He catches them, brings them to his lips.

"We don't have to do anything," he says. "Not tonight. Not until you're ready."

"I want this," I insist, though my voice wavers. "Want you. Just... be patient with me?"

"Always," he promises.

He kisses me again, slower this time.

Letting me set the pace, following my lead.

His hands stay carefully on safe zones—my waist, my back, my face.

I'm the one who tugs at his shirt, wanting his skin on mine.

He pulls it off, and I trace the scars that map his body.

Knife wounds, bullet holes, a lifetime of violence written on his skin.

"So many stories," I murmur.

"Not all of them are good."

"But they made you who you are." I press a kiss to a particularly nasty scar over his ribs. "And I like who you are."

His breath shudders out. "Everly?—"

I silence him with another kiss, braver now.

My hands explore the planes of his chest, feeling muscles jump under my touch.

He's holding himself so still, letting me lead, and something about that control makes me feel powerful.

When's the last time I felt powerful in bed?

When's the last time my pleasure mattered?

"You can touch me," I whisper against his mouth. "I won't break."

"I know you won't." His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just under my breasts. "But I want this to be good for you. Want to erase every bad memory and replace it with this."

The words make my throat tight.

My dress comes off slowly, his hands reverent as they reveal new skin.

I wait for the criticism—too soft here, not tight enough there.

Instead, his eyes darken with want.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and the way he says it—rough, awed—makes me almost believe him.

Even with the bruises Dylan left, fading now to yellow-green shadows.

Even with my body already changing from pregnancy, my breasts tender and fuller.

Even broken and scared and barely holding together.

He makes me feel beautiful.

His lips follow the path of his hands, pressing kisses to my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the sensitive skin of my ribs.

When he encounters a bruise, he gentles further, like he can kiss away the pain Dylan caused.

"Tell me if anything?—"

"I will," I promise. "But don't treat me like glass. I need to feel... I need to remember what it's like when it's good."

He understands.

His touch firm, still careful, but no longer hesitant.

When his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp, back arching.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs.

"It’s the pregnancy," I manage. "Everything's more..."

"More?"

"Just more."

He hums against my skin, filing that information away.

Everything about this is different than what I'm used to.

Dylan took.

Regnor gives.

Dylan rushed.

Regnor savors.

Dylan made me feel like my pleasure was an inconvenience.

Regnor acts like it's his mission.

His hand slides between my thighs, and I tense automatically.

He pauses immediately. "Okay?"

"Yes. Just... habit."

"Bad habit," he says darkly. "Let me give you better ones."

His fingers are gentle but sure, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan.

He watches my face like I'm a puzzle he's solving, adjusting his touch based on my reactions.

"That's it," he encourages when my hips start moving. "Take what you need."

The permission breaks something in me.

I've spent so long being still, being quiet, being whatever Dylan wanted.

Now Regnor's telling me to take, and I don't know how.

"I don't..." I struggle for words. "I'm not good at..."

"At what?"

"Asking for things. Saying what I want."