Page 5 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

“Yeah.” I stopped by the window, staring out at the compound without really seeing it. “It was never supposed to be a real marriage. Just papers. Protection.”

“But now?”

I turned to face him. “Now I can’t stop thinking about her. As a woman, not just someone I need to protect.” The admission felt like weights lifted from my shoulders. “And I think… maybe she feels the same. But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m just seeing what I want to see?”

Beast leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You afraid of ruining what you have? The friendship?”

“That’s part of it.” I sank back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. “But it’s more than that. What if I push for more and it triggers something? Makes her remember…” I couldn’t finish the thought.

“You think she still sees you as just protection? A safe harbor?”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe. And then there’s Clover to consider.”

Beast raised an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“She’s sixteen now. Same age Yulia was when I married her.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “She and Yulia are close. What happens if Clover thinks I’m taking advantage? Or if things between Yulia and me go bad? It would tear Clover apart.”

A small smile played at the corner of Beast’s mouth. “You always did overthink shit.”

“This isn’t funny,” I said, my words holding more bite than usual.

“Never said it was.” Beast stood, moving to the small bar in the corner of the office. He poured two fingers of whiskey into each of two glasses and handed one to me. “But you’re spinning scenarios that haven’t happened yet. Making decisions based on fear.”

I accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “It’s not fear. It’s caution.”

“Call it what you want.” Beast leaned against his desk, looking down at me. “That girl’s been living with you for eleven years. She’s not the same scared teenager you rescued. She’s a woman now. Twenty-seven, right?”

I nodded.

“And in all those years, she’s chosen to stay. With you.” Beast took a sip of his whiskey. “That tells me something.”

I rolled the glass between my palms, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “What about Clover?”

“Your daughter’s not stupid. She sees more than you think.” Beast’s voice softened slightly. “Kids adapt. Especially kids like Clover who’ve already weathered hard times.”

“And if Yulia doesn’t feel the same?” The question that had been haunting me for what felt like forever finally had a voice.

Beast shrugged. “Then you respect that and move on. But at least you’ll know.” He fixed me with his steady gaze. “The question you need to ask yourself is whether what you might gain is worth the risk.”

I downed the whiskey in one burning swallow, welcoming the heat that spread through my chest. “And if she pulls away? Leaves?”

“That’s her choice. While marriage is a forever thing around here, your case is different. If Yulia wants to move on, then we’ll let her.” Beast’s words were firm but not unkind. “You can’t protect someone from their own decisions, Salvation. Not even someone you love.”

Love. The word hit me like a physical blow. Was that what this was? This constant awareness, this need to ensure her happiness, this ache to be closer to her?

“How did you know?” I asked quietly. “With Lyssa?”

A rare smile crossed Beast’s face at the mention of his wife. “I didn’t. Not for sure. I just knew I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it.” He set his empty glass on the desk. “Sometimes you just have to take the leap, brother. Despite the risk. Despite the fear.”

I stood, setting my glass beside his. “Thanks for the advice.”

Beast clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. That woman’s been waiting for you to see her -- really see her -- for a long time now.”

His words followed me as I left the office, threading through the crowded main room of the clubhouse. Had Yulia really been waiting? Had I been blind to what was right in front of me all these years?

Only one way to find out. But the thought of crossing that line, of potentially disrupting the careful balance we’d established, still made my heart race with something between anticipation and dread.

Tonight. I’ll talk to her tonight .

* * *

Yulia

I lingered in the kitchen doorway, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat as I watched Salvation pull ingredients from the refrigerator.

Since my conversation with Whisper that afternoon, every nerve ending in my body seemed heightened, attuned to his presence in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too intimate -- a space where we’d coexisted for years without acknowledging the current that sometimes sparked between us.

Tonight, that current felt like a live wire, dangerous and irresistible.

“You just going to stand there?” Salvation asked without turning around, his voice deeper than usual.

I stepped into the kitchen, forcing my feet to move naturally. “What are you making?”

“Chicken stir-fry.” He set a package of chicken breasts on the cutting board. “Figured it was quick. Been a long day.”

I nodded, though he wasn’t looking at me.

The kitchen enveloped us in its familiar comfort -- the soft hum of the refrigerator, the warm yellow light above the stove, the lingering scent of this morning’s coffee.

Through the open window, cool evening air carried the distant sound of motorcycles and the sweet scent of spring flowers.

It should have felt normal. Routine. But nothing about tonight felt routine.

“I can help,” I said, moving to the sink to wash my hands. “What do you need?”

Salvation glanced at me, surprise flickering across his face. “You don’t have to --”

“I want to.” I dried my hands on a dish towel, summoning a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “Just tell me what to do.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded toward the vegetables on the counter. “You could chop those. Bell peppers, onion, broccoli.”

I took a knife from the block and set to work beside him, acutely conscious of how our arms nearly touched as we stood at the counter.

The knife felt awkward in my hand -- I hadn’t done much cooking over the years, content to let Salvation handle that domain.

But lately, I’d been trying more, finding excuses to spend time with him in these domestic moments.

“Like this?” I asked, showing him my attempt at dicing the bell pepper.

He glanced over, his gaze lingering on my hands. “Smaller pieces, if you can.” His fingers brushed mine as he repositioned the knife in my grip. “Like this.”

That brief touch sent electricity racing up my arm. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on the vegetable and not on the heat of his body so close to mine.

Whisper’s words echoed in my head: Be honest with him . But how could I form words when my pulse hammered at the base of my throat, when every fiber of my being seemed drawn to him like a magnet?

We worked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the rhythmic chopping of knives and the sizzle of oil heating in the pan.

I snuck glances at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice -- the concentration in his brow as he sliced the chicken into perfect strips, the play of muscles in his forearms, the way his dark hair curled slightly at his collar.

When our hips bumped as we both reached for the cutting board, I nearly jumped.

“Sorry,” we said in unison, then shared an awkward smile.

“Cramped space,” Salvation murmured, stepping back to give me room.

But I didn’t want room. I wanted closer. The realization shocked me with its intensity.

“It’s fine,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “I don’t mind.”

His gaze met mine, something dark and questioning in their depths. Had he spoken with someone too? Something felt different about him tonight -- a tension in his shoulders, a deliberateness to his movements that hadn’t been there before.

We continued preparing the meal, orbiting each other in the small kitchen like planets caught in each other’s gravity.

When he reached past me for the salt, his chest brushed against my shoulder.

When I moved to the sink, he shifted to let me pass, his hand briefly settling on my waist to steady me.

Each touch, however fleeting, left my skin burning.

The stir-fry sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the aroma of garlic and ginger. Salvation stirred it with practiced ease, adding soy sauce and a splash of something from a bottle I didn’t recognize.

“We need the red pepper flakes,” he said, glancing at the spice rack mounted on the wall above the stove. “For heat.”

I followed his gaze to the small jar on the highest shelf -- just out of my reach. “I’ll get it.”

I stretched up on my tiptoes, fingers grasping for the jar. It remained stubbornly beyond my reach.

Suddenly, Salvation was behind me, his chest pressed against my back as he reached up. “Here,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Let me.”

Time seemed to stop. His body caged mine against the counter, solid and warm. I could feel the steady thud of his heart against my back, smell the familiar scent of his soap mixed with leather and something uniquely him. My breath caught in my throat.

He grabbed the jar but didn’t move away. Instead, he lowered his arm slowly, his body still pressed against mine. I turned within the circle of his arms, my back now against the counter, my face tilted up to his.

Our eyes locked. The spice jar dangled forgotten from his fingers.

“Yulia,” he said, my name a rough whisper.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. All I could do was look up at him, at the question in his eyes, at the way his gaze dropped to my lips. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. My eyes fluttered closed, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

I felt the heat of his breath against my lips, the slightest brush of contact --

“Is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!”

Clover’s voice shattered the moment like glass. We sprang apart, Salvation nearly dropping the spice jar as he stepped back. I turned to the stove, my cheeks burning, hands shaking as I pretended to check the food.

“Five more minutes,” Salvation answered, his voice unnaturally gruff. “Just finishing up.”

I risked a glance at him. His jaw was tight, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders as he added the red pepper flakes to the pan. When our eyes met briefly, I saw something smoldering there that made my stomach flip.

Clover leaned against the doorframe, looking between us with narrowed eyes. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” we said in unison, too quickly.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Right. Sure, I didn’t.” She pushed away from the doorframe. “I’ll set the table, then.”

As she gathered plates from the cabinet, I continued stirring the stir-fry, trying to calm my racing heart. So close. We’d been so close. And from the heated look Salvation had given me, the moment hadn’t been one-sided.

“Almost done?” he asked quietly, coming to stand beside me again.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His fingers brushed mine on the handle of the wooden spoon, a touch so brief it could have been accidental. But when I looked up, the intensity in his eyes told me nothing about it had been accidental at all.

“Later,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “We need to talk.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, a mix of anticipation and terror swirling in my chest. Later. When we were alone again. When there would be no interruptions.

The thought made me tremble.