Page 11

Rio

Steam followed me out of the bathroom, curling around my bare shoulders like phantom fingers. I’d scrubbed until my skin turned pink, washing away blood and grime until the water ran clear, but I couldn’t erase the memory of tonight’s violence so easily. Rebel’s T-shirt hung loose on my frame, the worn fabric soft against my freshly cleaned skin. I’d swiped it the morning I’d woken up in his bed and hadn’t given it back. Something about sleeping in it gave me comfort.

The bathroom mirror had shown me a woman I was still learning to recognize -- battered but not broken, eyes clear and determined despite the bruising. I stepped into Rebel’s room, my hair damp against my neck, and found him sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me.

He’d showered in the other bathroom while I’d taken my time under the hot spray. His hair was still wet, slicked back from his forehead, and he’d changed into clean sweatpants, his chest bare except for the tattoos that mapped his history across his skin. The Devil’s Boneyard insignia dominated his right pectoral, a reminder of where his loyalties lay.

The room felt different now -- more intimate in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. What had seemed Spartan before now registered as intentionally minimal. No distractions, no sentimentality. Just the essentials and space to breathe. It suited him.

“Feel better?” he asked, tracking my movement as I padded barefoot across the floor.

“Cleaner, at least.” My voice sounded rough even to my own ears. “Thank you. For having my back tonight.”

He shrugged, the gesture dismissive but not unkind. “You didn’t need me. You had those Army fuckers handled.”

“Still. It’s good to know someone’s there.”

A half-smile played across his lips. “Getting soft on me, Rio?”

“Maybe.” I sank onto the bed beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin but not quite touching. “Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t care.”

His eyes sharpened, that intense focus that always made me feel like I was the only person in his world. He didn’t rush to fill the silence, just waited for me to continue. It was one of the things I’d first noticed about him -- how he could be still in a way few people managed, patient in his confidence.

I drew a deep breath, gathering my courage. Tonight had shown me something about myself, about what I was capable of and what I wanted. The woman who’d walked into the Moretti hideout wasn’t the same one sitting here now. The more time I spent with the club, the more I changed. I wouldn’t run from anyone who hurt me. I’d face everything head on, and I knew I’d have the club at my back and Rebel by my side.

“When I found Ellis and Denton tonight,” I began, my fingers tracing the edge of a bruise on my thigh, “I could have killed them. Part of me wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you?” No judgment in his tone, just curiosity.

I considered the question, searching for the truth beneath my actions. “Because death would have been too quick. Too easy.” I looked up, meeting his gaze directly. “I wanted them to remember. To know I’m not just some random woman they can terrorize. I have people behind me now, and I belong to something stronger than they are.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, but he remained silent, letting me find my way, find the right words.

“I’ve been fighting my whole life, but especially since my discharge from the Army,” I continued. “Fighting to survive, fighting to stay independent. Fighting against needing anyone. But tonight, standing in that room with you behind me, I realized something. Being part of something doesn’t make me weaker. It makes me stronger.”

I shifted to face him fully, forcing myself not to look away despite the vulnerability of the moment. “I’m ready to be your old lady.”

The words hung between us, simple but profound. In the world of the Devil’s Boneyard, they carried weight that went beyond typical relationship labels. Being an old lady meant belonging -- to a man, yes, but also to the club. To a family bound by loyalty stronger than blood.

Rebel’s expression remained steady, but I caught the flash of something primal in his eyes before he controlled it. “You sure about that? Life with me, with the club -- it isn’t always going to be pretty.”

“Pretty’s overrated,” I replied. “I don’t need pretty. I need real.”

A slow smile spread across his face, satisfaction and something deeper warming his features. “All right, baby,” he said, the endearment rolling off his tongue with newfound possession. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for his phone on the nightstand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Messaging Charming,” he replied, thumbs moving across the screen. “Requesting a property cut for you. Technically our three days are long up, but with everything going on, he hasn’t pushed. Now that you’ve made up your mind, I’m letting him know.”

The phrase made something in my stomach tighten -- not unpleasantly, but with the weight of significance. A property cut. The visible symbol that I belonged to Rebel, that I was under his and the club’s protection. My independence balked momentarily before quieting. This wasn’t about submission or control. It was about choice. My choice.

“That fast, huh?” I said, aiming for lightness despite the gravity of the moment.

Rebel set the phone aside and reached for me, his hand cupping my cheek with surprising gentleness. “Been waiting for you to be ready,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to push.”

The confession shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. For all his cocky exterior, Rebel had never pressured me, never demanded more than I was willing to give. He’d let me set the pace.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Now?” His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, careful of the split. “Now we make it official. Charming will approve the cut. You’ll get my mark. The club becomes your family, for better or worse.”

“And us?”

His eyes darkened. “We were always heading here, Rio. From the first day you walked into the clubhouse.”

I laughed, wincing as the movement pulled at my bruised ribs. “Just as cocky as ever.”

“I haven’t made a secret you held my attention from the very first moment I saw you.” His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair. “You never flinched. Never looked away. Even when you saw what this life really is.”

“Because I’ve seen worse,” I admitted. “At least here, the monsters are honest about what they are.”

Understanding passed between us -- the recognition of shared darkness, of choices made in shadows. Rebel pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.

“Being my old lady means you’re mine,” he said, his voice low and rough with promise. “But it also means I’m yours. Equal exchange. I protect what’s mine, Rio. With everything I have.”

In another life, such possessive words might have sent me running. But tonight, covered in battle wounds and surrounded by the trappings of this dangerous man’s world, they felt like sanctuary.

“I can live with that,” I whispered.

His phone buzzed, interrupting the moment. Rebel checked it without fully pulling away from me. “Charming says the cut should be ready tomorrow. Says it’s about damn time.”

I smiled, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. “He approves of me, then?”

“After tonight? Hell yes.” Rebel’s hand traced down my arm, finding my scraped knuckles and raising them to his lips. “Club respects strength. You’ve got that in spades.”

The gesture, unexpectedly tender from a man like him, made my breath catch. “This changes things,” I said, needing to acknowledge the shift.

“Only what needed changing.” He drew me closer, until I was practically in his lap, his arms encircling me with careful pressure that avoided my worst bruises. “Everything important stays the same. You’re still you. Still stubborn as hell. Still won’t take my shit.”

“Damn straight.”

His smile turned predatory. “Except now you’ll be doing it with my name on your back.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. This was Rebel -- cocky, dangerous, loyal to his core. The man who’d watched me take down two Army soldiers and looked at me with pride instead of concern. The man who cleaned my wounds with hands that had caused violence.

“I can live with that too,” I said, leaning into his embrace.

Tomorrow would bring the official recognition from the club, the adjustments to a life I was still learning to navigate. But tonight, in this room with the man who’d seen both my strength and vulnerability and wanted all of it, I felt something I hadn’t expected -- peace.

Not the peace of safety -- nothing about the Devil’s Boneyard would ever be truly safe. But the peace of belonging. Of choosing my path instead of just surviving whatever life threw at me. Of finding my place in a world that made sense to the woman I’d become.

Rebel traced the line of my jaw with his fingertips, tilting my face up to his. “No going back now,” he murmured, the words both warning and promise.

I met his gaze steadily, unflinching despite the bruises marking my skin. “I’m not looking back. Only ahead.”

His smile was all the future I needed.

He claimed my lips with an unexpected gentleness, mindful of my split lip. The kiss was a seal on the promise we’d just made. When he pulled back, his eyes had darkened, intense and focused solely on me.

“I want you,” he said, voice rough with desire. “But you’re hurt.”

I traced my fingers along his jaw, feeling the scratch of his beard against my skin. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No.” His thumb brushed over the bruise darkening my temple. “You’re made of something much stronger.”

I leaned into his touch, my body responding to his proximity despite the aches pulsing through it. “We don’t have to rush,” I said, surprising myself with the admission. “I’m not going anywhere now.”

That predatory smile returned, sending heat pooling low in my belly. “Taking it slow, huh?”

“Just for tonight,” I clarified, not wanting him to think I was having second thoughts.

He nodded, accepting the boundary without question. Another surprise from a man who seemed built for taking what he wanted. “Come here,” he said, shifting to lie back against the pillows and drawing me with him.

I settled against his side, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm curled protectively around me. The position should have felt confining. Instead, it felt secure. I traced the outline of a tattoo on his chest -- an intricate design I hadn’t noticed before.

“What’s this one mean?” I asked, following the lines of what looked like a compass rose surrounded by storm clouds.

“Got that after my first year as a Prospect,” he explained, his voice a low rumble beneath my ear. “Rode through a hurricane in south Florida. Thought I was gonna die. Decided if I made it, I’d mark the occasion.”

“You rode through a hurricane? On purpose?”

His chest shook with silent laughter. “Not on purpose. Got caught in it. Too stubborn to find shelter until it was almost too late.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” I murmured, continuing my exploration of his inked skin. Each mark told a story -- of survival, of loyalty, of choices made and consequences accepted.

“You got any more ink?” he asked, his hand making lazy circles on my shoulder.

“Small one. On my hip.”

His eyebrows raised in interest. “Yeah? What is it?”

“A phoenix. Got it after my discharge.” I didn’t elaborate further, but I didn’t need to. Rebel understood rebirth from ashes better than most.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of my borrowed T-shirt, seeking but not demanding. “Can I see it?”

I hesitated only briefly before shifting to push the shirt up just enough to reveal my right hip. There, in vivid reds and oranges, a small phoenix spread its wings.

Rebel traced the outline with his fingertip, touch feather-light against my skin. The calluses on his hands created a delicious friction that sent goose bumps racing across my flesh.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Suits you.”

I lowered the shirt, suddenly self-conscious in a way I rarely allowed myself to be. “Got it after everything fell apart. When I was lost and wandering. Needed to remember I could rise again.”

His eyes met mine, intense and knowing. “And you did.”

“Yeah.” I settled back against him, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to me. “I did.”

Silence stretched between us, comfortable in a way I hadn’t experienced with another person in years. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear was hypnotic, lulling me toward sleep despite my desire to stay in this moment.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet in the dimly lit room, “first time I saw you, I thought you’d be trouble. The fun kind though.”

I huffed a laugh against his chest. “You weren’t wrong.”

His fingers combed gently through my damp hair. “Thought you’d be entertaining for a bit. Didn’t expect…” He trailed off.

“Didn’t expect what?” I prompted, lifting my head to see his face.

Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes before he masked it with his usual confidence. “Didn’t expect to want to keep you.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

“Good,” I whispered. “Because I’m staying.”

His arm tightened around me, and I felt the tension drain from his body. Neither of us spoke after that. We didn’t need to. In this moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, our bruised bodies testament to the violence we’d survived together, words seemed unnecessary.

I drifted toward sleep, my mind replaying the events that had led me here. The attack that had nearly broken me. Meeting Rebel. The gradual pull into his world. The fight tonight that had shown me who I truly was -- and who I wanted to be.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges. The official recognition as Rebel’s old lady. The continued war with the Morettis, unless by some miracle they backed down. The lingering threat of Ellis and Denton, who wouldn’t stay down forever. Sure, I’d told them to turn themselves in, but would they? Tonight, though, I allowed myself to simply exist in this space of belonging.

As sleep claimed me, one final thought surfaced: I’d spent so long fighting against needing anyone that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. Not just for my body or what I could offer, but for my strength. My resilience. The very qualities that had kept me alone for so long were what had drawn Rebel to me. Being a strong woman in the Army wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Not when the men in your unit didn’t want to accept you. They tended to have an old school mentality and thought I had no place among them.

* * *

The sound of metal crashing against metal jerked me from sleep. I bolted upright, instantly alert, my hand already reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Beside me, Rebel moved with similar precision, his body tensing for combat.

“What the fuck?” he growled, voice rough with sleep.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. The bedroom door burst open without warning. Chaos stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild. Blood spattered his cut like abstract art.

“Morettis are hitting back,” he panted. “They’ve got Java.”

Rebel was already moving, grabbing jeans from the floor. “When?”

“Found out ten minutes ago. Shade immediately started accessing the cameras around town. Last we heard, Java was making a coffee run to that twenty-four place in the next town. We think he was ambushed on the way there, or on his way back.”

I slid from the bed, ignoring the protest of my bruised body. “Is he alive?”

Chaos’s eyes flicked to me briefly. “Yeah. For now. They sent proof of life -- cut off part of his pinky finger.”

My stomach lurched, but I kept my face neutral. This was the reality of the life I’d chosen. No room for squeamishness.

“Everyone’s at the clubhouse waiting,” Chaos said. “Charming wanted me to get you two.”

“We’ll be there. Just need a minute to get dressed.” Rebel ran a hand over his face. I could tell the news had hit him hard.

Looked like my peaceful moment was over. Time to jump back into the war I’d brought down on the club.