Page 22 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)
We’d ridden together before, of course. Brief trips to town, or a quick jaunt down the highway.
But never like this -- never as a couple, never with the knowledge of how her skin felt against mine, how her lips tasted, how she whispered my name in the darkness.
The memories from last night sent heat spreading through me that had nothing to do with the sun beating down on my leather cut.
The road twisted higher. Eventually, I spotted what I’d been looking for -- a small turnout perched on the mountainside, offering an unobstructed view of the landscape below. I signaled to Yulia and began to slow, guiding my bike off the main road and onto the gravel turnout.
We parked side by side at the edge of the clearing, kickstands down, engines cooling with metallic ticks in the mountain silence.
Below us stretched the valley in panorama -- a town nestled against the river, distant farms creating patchwork patterns of green and gold, and beyond it all, the compound, just visible as a cluster of buildings.
Yulia removed her helmet, shaking out her hair with a small, breathless laugh. Her cheeks were flushed from the ride, her eyes bright with exhilaration. She’d never looked more beautiful.
“That was amazing,” she said, setting her helmet on the seat. “I’d forgotten how good it feels.”
I pulled off my own helmet, running a hand through my flattened hair. “You ride like you never stopped.”
She ducked her head slightly at the compliment, but I caught her smile. “It comes back to you. Like muscle memory.”
We moved to the low stone wall that bordered the turnout, standing side by side as we looked out over the valley.
The morning sun warmed the left sides of our faces, while a cool mountain breeze kept the heat manageable.
Birds called to each other from the trees behind us.
For a long moment, we just stood there, shoulders almost touching, absorbing the peace of the moment.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Yulia said finally, her voice soft.
I glanced at her, taking in her profile against the backdrop of sky and distant mountains. “I used to come here to think. When things got complicated with the club, or when…” I hesitated, then decided on honesty. “When I needed to get away from how I felt about you.”
She turned to me then, surprise and something deeper in her eyes. “You came here because of me?”
“More times than I can count.” I shrugged, a gesture that felt inadequate for the weight of the admission. “Especially in the last few years. When pretending was getting too hard.”
Yulia’s hand found mine, her fingers sliding between my own with a confidence that was still new, still thrilling. “We wasted so much time,” she murmured.
“No.” I squeezed her hand gently. “We weren’t ready before. You needed to heal. I needed to learn patience.” I paused, then added, “Clover needed stability.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “And now?”
“Now we’re here.” I brought our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Together. Finally.”
Her eyes softened at the gesture, the reserve that had been part of her for so long melting away by degrees. She leaned against me slightly, and I released her hand to wrap my arm around her shoulders instead, drawing her closer to my side.
We stood like that for several minutes, watching a hawk circle lazily above the valley floor.
The silence between us was comfortable, charged with potential rather than awkwardness.
I found myself thinking about all the moments like this we could have in the future -- all the ordinary minutes made extraordinary simply because we were sharing them.
My gaze drifted to the town below, following the main street until I could just make out a particular storefront. A plan that had been forming in my mind since dawn crystallized into certainty.
“See that building there?” I pointed toward the town. “The one with the blue awning?”
Yulia squinted, following my gesture. “I think so.”
“It’s a jewelry store.” I turned to face her, suddenly nervous but determined. “I want to get you a proper ring.”
She blinked, her hand automatically moving to the plain gold band she’d worn for eleven years -- the one I’d slipped onto her finger during our courthouse ceremony when she was barely more than a girl. Her expression clouded slightly as she touched it.
“What’s wrong with this one?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
I caught her hand, running my thumb over the simple band. “Nothing. But it was part of our arrangement. Our protection plan.” I met her eyes steadily. “You deserve better than what I gave you back then. This is real now.”
Something flickered across her face -- surprise, followed by a softening around her eyes that made my heart stutter in my chest.
“You don’t have to,” she said, but I could tell the idea pleased her.
“I want to.” I pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “I want everyone to look at your hand and know you’re not just protected. You’re loved.”
The word still felt new on my tongue, but it came easier each time. Yulia’s eyes brightened with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant.
“Then yes,” she said simply. “I’d like that.”
I pulled her closer, kissing her properly this time -- a slow, deep kiss that held promise and certainty and the future all at once. When we broke apart, her cheeks were flushed again, but not from the ride.
“Ready?” I asked, nodding toward our bikes.
She nodded, squeezing my hand once more before releasing it.
We walked back to the motorcycles, and I couldn’t help but notice the spring in her step, the new lightness in her movements.
As we donned our helmets and fired up the engines, I caught her eye through her open visor and saw the same anticipation reflected there that I felt coursing through my own veins.
We pulled back onto the mountain road, angling downward now toward the town and what waited for us there. Not just a ring, but a first step into the life we should have been living all along.
* * *
The jewelry store looked smaller from the outside than I remembered, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop on the town’s main street.
Its blue awning fluttered slightly in the breeze, gold lettering spelling out Hartman’s Fine Jewelry in an elegant script that had faded with time.
We parked our bikes at the curb, and I kicked down the stand on mine before moving to help Yulia with hers.
She removed her helmet, hair tumbling free around her shoulders, and I caught the momentary flash of uncertainty in her eyes as she looked up at the storefront.
“You’ve been here before?” she asked, smoothing her wind-tangled hair with one hand.
I nodded, taking her helmet and securing it to her bike. “A few times. For club business.” I didn’t elaborate that those visits had involved pawning items we’d acquired through less-than-legal means. Some parts of club life were better left unshared, even with her.
Yulia’s fingers fidgeted with the plain gold band on her left hand, twisting it nervously. I covered her hand with mine, stilling the movement.
“We don’t have to do this today,” I said quietly. “If you’re not ready.”
She shook her head, a determined set to her jaw that I recognized. “No, I want to. It’s just…” She glanced down at her riding gear, then back at the store with its polished windows and tasteful displays. “I’m not dressed for this.”
I laughed softly, gesturing to my own leather cut with its patches. “Neither am I. But our money spends the same as anyone else’s.”
That earned me a small smile, though the tension didn’t completely leave her shoulders. I took her hand, threading our fingers together in a way that still felt new and thrilling, and led her to the door. The small brass bell above it chimed as we entered, announcing our presence to the empty shop.
Inside, the store was cool and quiet, the air scented faintly with polish and leather.
Glass cases lined three walls, their contents glittering under recessed lighting.
The floor was dark hardwood, worn smooth by decades of customers, and soft classical music played from hidden speakers.
It felt like stepping into another world -- one far removed from the compound, from motorcycles and club business, from the violence that had touched our lives just days ago.
A door behind the counter opened, and an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and neatly combed silver hair emerged.
He paused momentarily at the sight of us -- taking in my cut, the tattoos visible on my forearms -- but recovered quickly, professional smile firmly in place.
He wasn’t the man I usually dealt with, but I could tell he was in charge.
“Good morning,” he greeted us, his voice cultured but not unfriendly. “Welcome to Hartman’s. I’m Arthur Hartman. How may I assist you today?”
I felt Yulia’s hand tighten slightly in mine, her discomfort palpable. Before I could speak, she surprised me by stepping forward.
“We’re looking for a ring,” she said, her accent more pronounced than usual, as it often was when she was nervous. “A wedding ring.”
Arthur’s eyes flicked to the plain band on her finger, then to our joined hands, understanding dawning in his gaze. “Of course. Something to replace the current one, perhaps?”
I nodded. “Something special.”
He gestured toward a case on the right side of the store. “Why don’t we start over here? I have several lovely options that might interest you.”
We followed him to the case, where dozens of rings glittered against black velvet -- some simple bands, others elaborate confections of precious metals and gemstones. Yulia’s eyes widened slightly at the display.
“See anything you like?” I asked, watching her reaction carefully.