Page 27 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)
We stood motionless, watching the small family. The fawns stayed close to their mother, occasionally nudging at her side, tails flicking nervously. The doe kept her head up, alert, protective, even in this seemingly safe place. I understood that vigilance all too well.
“Just like us,” Yulia murmured, so quietly I almost missed it.
We watched until the deer moved deeper into the forest, disappearing among the trees like ghosts.
The moment broken, we continued along the trail, climbing steadily as it wound upward away from the shoreline.
When the path grew steeper, roots creating natural steps in the incline, Yulia reached for Clover’s hand without hesitation.
My daughter -- nearly grown but still so young in many ways -- took it without the eye-rolling protest she might have shown back at the compound.
Some walls came down here in the forest, away from watching eyes and reputations to maintain.
A hawk circled overhead as we crested a small rise, its wingspan impressive against the clear blue sky. I pointed it out to Clover, who tracked its lazy circles with fascination.
“Did they name Uncle Hawk after birds like that?” she asked, shielding her eyes against the sun.
I chuckled, the sound rusty but genuine. “Yeah. Story goes he could spot trouble from a mile away, like those birds spot prey. Nothing escaped his notice. Until he fell in love, then he screwed up in all kinds of ways before finally making Hayley his.”
The trail opened suddenly into a clearing perched on a small rise above the lake.
The view was spectacular -- water stretching to the distant shore, mountains rising beyond, the afternoon sun turning everything golden.
A fire pit ringed with stones occupied the center of the clearing, clearly used by hikers before us.
“Perfect spot for a break,” I announced, shrugging off my small backpack. “Think we can get a fire going before the sun drops too low?”
Clover’s eyes lit up. “Marshmallows?”
I grinned, pulling a bag from the pack. “What’s the point of a fire without them?”
While I arranged larger branches in the fire pit, Yulia and Clover gathered kindling from the surrounding forest edge.
They worked together seamlessly, heads bent close as they discussed which sticks would burn best, Yulia pointing out particularly dry pieces, Clover darting to collect them.
The sight of them together -- so similar in some ways despite no blood connection -- made something twist pleasantly in my chest.
Once the fire caught, flames licking eagerly at the dry wood, we settled around it in a tight semicircle.
The breeze off the lake carried the clean scent of pine and water, mixing with the smokier smell of burning wood.
I unwrapped the package of marshmallows, passing out long sticks I’d stripped of bark for roasting.
“The trick,” I told Clover seriously, “is to keep it just above the flames, not in them. Slow and steady.”
“Says the man who burns his marshmallow every single time,” Yulia teased, her accent wrapping around the words like silk.
“I like them charred,” I protested, deliberately plunging my marshmallow directly into the flames until it caught fire.
Clover burst into laughter as I blew out the small inferno, leaving a blackened, smoking lump on the end of my stick. “Dad! That’s disgusting!”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I said, popping the entire burnt mess into my mouth with exaggerated satisfaction.
Yulia’s laugh joined Clover’s -- a sound so rare and precious it momentarily stopped my breath. Her head tilted back, throat exposed, eyes crinkled at the corners, all reserve forgotten.
The sky began to deepen toward evening, gold giving way to the first hints of pink and orange.
We roasted more marshmallows, sticky sweetness coating our fingers, sugar buzzing in our veins.
Clover told a story about school that had Yulia laughing again, and I found myself simply watching them, memorizing the way firelight played across their faces, the easy comfort between them that had grown over eleven years together.
This, I realized, was what I’d been fighting for all along.
Not just their safety, not just their survival, but their happiness.
Their freedom to laugh without looking over their shoulders, to exist without fear shadowing every moment.
For the first time since the kidnapping -- maybe for the first time ever -- I felt completely present, completely at peace.
“Mom, do you have a napkin or something?” Clover asked, examining her marshmallow-coated fingers with dismay. “I’m all sticky.”
The word dropped casually from her lips, natural as breathing, but its effect on Yulia was immediate and profound. Her eyes widened, then shimmered with sudden moisture. She still hadn’t adjusted to Clover calling her that, but it was clear how much she loved it.
“Here,” she said, voice slightly husky as she handed Clover a tissue packet. “Use water from the bottle too. It helps with the stickiness.”
Clover simply nodded her thanks and began cleaning her hands.
I reached across the small space between us, taking Yulia’s hand in mine, squeezing gently.
No words needed. We understood each other perfectly.
Family. Not by blood, not by law, but by choice.
By love. By the bonds forged through hardship and protection and quiet moments like this one, when the world narrowed to just the three of us, connected by something stronger than DNA could ever be.
“I have something for you both,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Something I’ve been holding onto for a while.”
They turned to face me, curiosity replacing the contentment on their faces.
I pulled the wooden box from my pocket, its surface smooth and dark with age.
It had belonged to my grandfather, one of the few things I’d kept from my life before the club.
Small but solid, its brass hinges polished by years of handling.
“What is it?” Clover asked, moving closer, her eyes fixed on the box.
I opened it carefully, revealing its contents nestled in dark velvet.
Two necklaces lay side by side, identical in design -- delicate silver chains supporting small pendants engraved with roses.
The roses looked the same as the ones adorning Yulia’s wedding ring, the detail so fine you could count individual petals despite their size.
“They’re beautiful,” Yulia whispered.
I lifted the first necklace from its velvet bed, the silver catching fire in the sunset light. “One for each of you,” I said, holding it out toward Clover. “Because you’re both mine to protect. To cherish.”
Clover reached for it with uncharacteristic gentleness, her fingers trembling slightly as she took the delicate chain. “The roses match Mom’s ring,” she said.
Clover didn’t hesitate, immediately fitting the chain around her neck. The small pendant settled against her collarbone, the silver bright against her skin. “Will you help me with the clasp?” she asked, turning to present her back to me.
I fastened it carefully, my larger fingers clumsy with the tiny mechanism. When it was secure, she turned back, one hand coming up to touch the pendant, her expression solemn in a way that made her look older than her years.
“Thank you, Dad,” she said simply, but the words carried the weight of all we’d been through together -- her mother’s death, the explosion that had scarred her, the recent kidnapping, all the years I’d raised her as my own despite no blood connection between us.
I nodded, throat too tight for words, and turned to Yulia. She stood perfectly still, watching us with eyes that shimmered in the fading light. I lifted the second necklace from the box, holding it out toward her.
“I will always protect you both,” I said, my voice thick with emotion I no longer tried to hide. “No matter what happens, we’re a family now. For real. No more arrangements, no more pretending, no more separate lives under one roof.”
Yulia’s fingers trembled visibly as she reached for the necklace, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s beautiful,” she said again, but I knew she meant more than just the silver and engravings.
“Turn around,” I said softly. “Let me put it on you.”
She did, gathering her hair to one side to expose the nape of her neck.
The simple trust in the gesture -- turning her back to me, allowing me close to such a vulnerable spot -- spoke volumes about how far we’d come.
I stepped closer, the scent of her skin mixing with pine and clean mountain air as I draped the chain around her throat.
My fingers brushed against her skin as I worked the clasp, and I felt her slight shiver at the contact. When it was secured, I didn’t step back immediately. Instead, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the spot just below her ear, a kiss that was both tender and possessive.
“You’re mine,” I whispered, the words meant only for her. “You’ve always been mine.”
She turned in my arms, her face tilted up to mine, tears tracking silently down her cheeks. “And you’ve always been mine,” she replied. “Even when neither of us could say it.”
I pulled her against me, one arm circling her waist while the other reached for Clover, drawing her into our embrace. For a long moment, we stood like that -- three bodies pressed close, three hearts beating in rhythm, three lives intertwined by choice rather than circumstance.
When we finally separated, the sun was balanced on the edge of the horizon, its last rays painting the sky in vivid oranges and pinks.
We turned to face it together, standing in a line at the edge of the outcropping.
Yulia’s hand found mine, her fingers lacing through mine with the easy familiarity of long-time lovers, though we’d only crossed that line weeks ago.
On my other side, Clover leaned against my shoulder, no longer trying to maintain teenage independence, just accepting the comfort of family.
The pendant gleamed against Yulia’s throat as she turned her face up to the blazing sky, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Her other hand came up to touch it, fingers tracing the rose engraving in a gesture that mirrored how she often touched her wedding ring -- as if reassuring herself it was real, that this was real.
“Thank you,” she said softly, the words carrying on the evening breeze. “For everything.”
I understood what she meant. For saving her from her father’s enemies eleven years ago. For giving her a home, a family, when she had nothing. For the years of respect and distance when she needed it. For finally finding the courage to cross that distance when we both were ready.
“Thank you,” I replied, meaning just as many things. For helping raise my daughter. For standing by me through club business and violence and the life I’d chosen. For waiting until I was ready to admit what she meant to me. For loving me despite knowing exactly what I was capable of.
The sun slipped below the horizon, its last rays reaching across the lake like fingers of fire.
In that moment, with Yulia on one side and Clover on the other, their matching pendants catching the fading light, I felt something I’d never experienced before -- a perfect, complete peace.
Not just the absence of danger or the temporary quiet between threats, but a bone-deep certainty that I was exactly where I belonged, with exactly who I belonged with.
For a man who had lived his entire adult life in a world of violence and uncertainty, this feeling was as foreign as it was precious.
I held onto it fiercely, memorizing every detail -- the weight of Clover against my side, the pressure of Yulia’s fingers intertwined with mine, the scent of pine and lake water, the last gold light fading from the sky.
My family. Complete at last.