Page 23

O akley and I spent the morning at the hardware store. She held up three color swatches, waiting for my opinion. They all looked the same—shades of brown. But her brows furrowed in concentration, like she was solving a puzzle that mattered. When she finally selected one, her smile transformed her entire face.

I carried every bag despite her protests. Her delicate hands reached for supplies I wouldn't let her touch.

The smell of sawdust hung in the gutted bakery. I'd ripped out the rotting furniture, cleared space for her to create. She stretched on tiptoes, brush extended toward the ceiling, cleaning walls for tomorrow's paint. I watched her struggle. Too short. She kept trying, straining upward, but couldn't reach. Her shirt lifted—just a breath of skin above her leggings. I crossed the room without thinking. My palm engulfed hers on the brush handle, taking over where she couldn't reach.

"T-Thank you." The stutter in her voice sank into my blood. I handed back the brush, watching her stretch her arms overhead, checking the walls.

"I can't believe how much you've cleared out in so little time. Is there anything you can't do, besides cook?" Her expression danced with amusement. I didn't understand what she meant, but her curved lips made me want to split open my veins just to see what color they'd bleed for her.

"Live without you."

She stared at me, lips parted, but no sound came out. She studied me for something she wasn't sure how to ask, as if looking for a sign I wasn't serious. Pink bloomed across her cheekbones, lips lifting at the corners. Her smile lit up parts of her face I hadn't seen before—the corners of her eyes, the dip of her cheeks. Like she saved that expression just for me.

I looked around the bakery to evaluate our progress. The back room would need complete demolition, just as she'd planned. She'd already selected all the appliances, mapped out every detail. Tomorrow I'd tear out the fixtures while she painted, following her instructions exactly. Hellbound would have to wait. My toys would stay hungry, less important than making her smile again.

As Oakley packed away tools, the day's work settled into silence. She waited by the door, dust catching in the low light across her clothes. "Are you ready to leave?"

I locked up with my keys. Her car waited beside my bike in the parking lot. She stowed her things in the trunk, that new smile I craved spreading across her face. "Well I'll see you?—"

Sunlight hit her skin. I wanted to keep looking at her. The thought of watching her drive away made something inside me twist like a knife being turned in flesh.

"Come with me."

She glanced at my motorcycle, uncertainty crossing her features. "On your motorcycle?"

I nodded.

"I've never been on the back of one before."

I stepped closer, tucking hair behind her ear. "I won't let you get hurt." I'd slaughter heaven itself if it reached for her.

Her teeth caught her bottom lip. She twisted her fingers in her shirt hem—something I'd noticed her do since the first day I watched her. I took her hand, deciding for her.

Those jade eyes pinned me where I stood. She could control me with a look, and she didn't even know it.

I mounted the bike, worn leather handlebars familiar beneath my grip. Solid. Predictable. Unlike the emotions churning inside me.

"How do I get on without falling?"

I dismounted in one fluid motion, my hold spanning her ribcage as I lifted her. The pressure against her delicate bones, so fragile that I could crush them with minimal force. Her little scream—soft, startled—made something shift inside me as I placed her on the back of my bike like she weighed nothing.

The helmet I'd bought for her slid over her head. I secured the strap beneath her chin before lowering the visor.

I swung my leg over the bike and settled onto the seat in front of her. She wrapped her arms around my waist, clutching my cut. Her body pressed against my back. I wanted her closer.

"Don't let go." Her nod against my back was all I needed. The engine roared to life beneath us. We glided through streets blurring into nameless colors, her tension gradually loosening its grip on her muscles as minutes passed.

When we hit the winding roads beyond the city limits, I pushed harder, testing her response. Her shriek and tightening arms answered me. I accelerated again, and Oakley's laughter burst from her throat—like church bells in a town I'd never been allowed to enter. The sound wrapped around my spine, more potent than the rush of watching life drain from enemy eyes.

I raced down abandoned roads, her excited shouts rippling behind me. No destination guided us, just the need to feel her arms locked around me, holding me like I mattered. Like I wasn't something to be feared but something worth keeping.

She held on. Her body molded against mine like I was the only thing keeping her from being gutted and left to bleed out. My grip on the throttle tightened, hunger for her nearness driving me faster. If she slipped away, if she loosened her hold for even a moment, the world would steal her from me. I'd raze cities to ash before I let that happen.

Moonlight painted the road silver as we left civilization behind. The world looked different with her arms around me—sharper, more vivid. Colors deeper. Sounds clearer. The wind carried scents I'd never noticed—pine, distant water, the lingering warmth of sun-baked earth. The stars above us seemed closer, as if reaching down to touch us.

The faster I pushed, the tighter she held. When we hit a sharp curve, her shout turned into laughter—raw and unrestrained, rising like it couldn't be helped.

That sound cracked something open—and it didn't just bleed, it gushed. Like it had been trapped for years behind barbed wire and finally tore its way free. Something light that made my chest ache. It wasn't meant for someone like me. That kind of feeling—it's for boys who grew up in safe homes, not for the men who kill just to feel alive.

But she gave it to me. She gave it to me like I hadn't done everything wrong.

She leaned back slightly, tilting her face to the stars. Panic shot through me—colder than knives. The thought of her slipping away turned my blood to glass. But then she tightened her arms again, cheek pressing to my back. The world righted itself.

I'd never heard her laugh with me before. Not during the bakery. Only silence and her music.

I turned to glimpse her through the visor—then her gasp cut through the night. She clung to my jacket, trembling against my ribs. Fear replaced joy in an instant.

"V! Look at the road!"

I swerved onto the shoulder, killing the engine. My focus had slipped—unforgivable. I twisted to face her, working at the helmet strap, impatient to see her face. When I removed it, she was breathtaking. Cheeks flushed pink, jade eyes luminous under the rising moon, hair tousled from the helmet.

A drug I'd kill for and die chasing—withdrawal already ripping me open at just the thought of losing her.

In that moment, I knew—my heart had been silent because nothing before her had ever felt like a reason to live.

Not for the first time with her, my hands—steady when slitting throats, calm when breaking bones—trembled without my permission. I tried to hide it, curling my fingers into fists, but the tremor traveled up my arms.

I searched for meaning in memories of my brothers with their women. Grim and Sarge with Nyla and Joslyn. Prez looking at Victoria when he thought no one noticed.

Was this what I felt with Oakley? The racing pulse, the constant need to be near her, the way she existed in my thoughts from waking until sleep claimed me? The realization crashed over me like a wave—she was home. Not the clubhouse. Not revenge. Not violence. Just her.

"My heart is pounding." I seized her hand, crushed it against the drumbeat beneath my ribs. "Do you feel it?" I wanted to hold this wild ebb and flow in my hands—proof I wasn't hollow. That something inside me had survived her love.

"I do." She clutched my cut, making my lungs seize. Then something changed—she didn't pull away as I expected. Instead, she leaned forward, raising her palm to my mask. Her gesture was deliberate, tracing the edge where metal met skin—where no one had ever dared to go. Not because I'd guided her there. Because she wanted to.

The world tilted beneath me. My vision blurred at the edges—a disorientation I'd only experienced from blood loss. But this was different. Better. Worse. I don’t know.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, still resting against my chest.

I shook my head. "It's how I always feel when I'm with you."

She rubbed over the spot, each circle making my muscles coil. "I think that means you're...happy."

"Happy." I said it softly, like it might break if I held it too tight.

I watched her. She'd closed her eyes, face tilted toward me like a prayer, chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders as she gifted me what I wanted.

Her laugh cracked something open in me. Eyes bright, dimples cutting deep. Like she hadn't smiled like that in years. This wasn't the careful smile she gave to strangers or the polite curve of her lips when something amused her. This was raw joy—unfiltered and bare. Her head tilted back slightly, her throat exposed in a display of trust she'd never shown before. I wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about love.

I thought love meant bruises. Watching her face swell purple under a man's fist before he'd bring her flowers the next day. Seeing her accept gifts from the same hands that broke her ribs. Love was possession, pain, and control.

But this didn't feel like that. This felt different. Wrong, maybe. Or right in a way I couldn't understand.

Emotions I couldn't name erupted inside of me, my impulse taking control as I cradled her face. Her green eyes sparkled under the stars, her flushed cheeks marked with blood rushing beneath the skin, the trust she'd developed for me burning through me with an intensity I craved. The urge to kiss her rolled through me, like I had seen the actors do in all the movies she liked. What my brothers did with their women. I wanted that with Oakley.

To be happy with her.

Smiling with her.

If love could take form—something real, something you could hold—it would be her. And if it needed a reason to live, it would be the way she made me feel human when I didn't deserve to be.

I pressed my forehead against hers, the universe narrowing to just the feeling between our skin. Something violent stirred within me, threatening to tear through everything beneath my skin. The engine ticked beneath us, cooling in the night air while something inside me burned hotter than before.

"Teach me how to fall in love with you, Oakley."

The words hung between us, suspended in the silver moonlight. She shivered against my cut, unsure where to settle. The scent of her—vanilla and sweat and something uniquely hers—made my breathing falter. My chest constricted, every nerve ending firing at once.

"I…" Her voice faltered as I leaned back, giving her space. Her gaze fell to her hands, where her fingers twisted anxiously. "I don't know how to love myself, V."

The confession hit like a hollow point—expanding on impact, tearing through everything in its path. I'd seen it every day—how she ducked away from her reflection, how food remained untouched when I watched, how she held herself like she was apologizing for existing. But hearing the words stripped raw from her throat turned the fracture into an abyss.

I wanted to rip out every soft thing I'd stolen or salvaged through the years and press them into her skin. Make her feel whole with pieces of myself I didn't know I'd kept. The night air sharpened around us, carrying the distant scent of pine and asphalt.

"We'll learn together." My grip tightened on her hands, not enough to bruise but enough to anchor. Moonlight caught in her hair, turning chestnut to silver. Her throat fluttered visibly, like a moth trapped beneath her skin.

She studied me for a long moment, then reached up to brush something from my leather jacket—a gesture so casual, so domestic it struck me silent. Her fingers lingered there, arranging the collar with meticulous care.

"Have you ever loved anyone before?" The question floated between us, soft yet heavy with implication. The motorcycle shifted slightly beneath our weight as I searched through memories gone grey with time.

Her face surfaced—a blur of features I could no longer fully recall. Eleven years had faded her, leaving only the shape of what I'd needed and never received.

"Mother." The word tasted wrong on my tongue.

Oakley's grasp tightened over mine. "There's different types of love. Familial, platonic, and romantic." My head tilted, signaling her to continue. "Familial love is the love you have for your family." She explained. The concept was alien to me.

"I don't have any family." The stars reflected in her eyes as her brows knitted together.

"You have your club brothers. You don't feel anything for them?" I shook my head. Their faces meant nothing—empty oxygen, necessary but meaningless. "What about Darrell?"

Something electric jolted through my chest, uncomfortable and strange. "He saved me."

"From who?" Her voice barely carried over the night sounds—a distant owl, the whisper of wind through roadside grass. The silver glow outlined her face in light, and the rest of the world fell away into shadow.

"Mother."

Her hands slid from mine, hesitating before reaching toward my face. Her palm pressed against my mask as her thumb traced the contour of my cheekbone. The weight of her gesture—its meaning, not its feeling—created a response in me that I fought to control.

"I wouldn't be here with you if he hadn't saved me from her." The thought materialized suddenly, leaving acid in its wake. Without Prez's intervention, Oakley would remain unprotected. "What if I wasn't here? Who would protect you?"

A memory slammed into me—the kitchen, her nails tearing flesh from bone, promises spit through bloodied teeth that I'd never be worth anything but suffering. My grip flexed involuntarily against Oakley's thighs. The need to destroy surged through my veins, gasoline seeking a spark. Then she met my gaze, her caress settled on my skin like a benediction, and the fury imploded.

Her body shifted closer, knees brushing my inner thigh. The contact sent electricity arcing through muscle and bone. "Shh," she soothed, her words visible in the cool night air. "You're here. Don't worry about what-ifs."

Crickets chirped in the darkness beyond our small circle of existence. The stars wheeled overhead, distant witnesses to whatever this was becoming.

"Darrell saved you from your Mom, but you still loved her?"

Her version of love flashed through me. Push to the floor. His fist in her hair. Laughter—hers. Bright, wrong. "They love me," she said, choking on blood. Another man. Another night. A slammed door. Bruises he never apologized for. Her thumb brushing one. "He didn't mean it." She smiled like it proved something. "They always come back."

I knew they did.

Just not for her.

"I thought she would love me back."

Oakley's palms moved from my mask to encircle my neck, her caress feather-light where others had tried to strangle. My body tensed, each breath measured and controlled. Her thumbs brushed beneath my jaw in small, deliberate circles—a rhythm, a pattern that was becoming ours.

"I don't..." Something changed in her voice. "I don't know if I can teach you, V."

My hold slid beneath her thighs, pulling her closer until our bodies pressed together on the narrow seat. The intensity between us deepened, her softness against my hardness. "We'll learn together."

She melted closer with a low sigh that drifted across my collarbone. "It's not like the movies." Her palm settled over my hand where it rested on her thigh—small against my scarred knuckles yet wielding absolute power. "They choose each other because they want to."

"I want to be with you." The words erupted from my core with unexpected force.

Something shifted in her expression—terror and longing battling beneath her skin. Her throat fluttered with a visible rhythm beneath delicate skin.

"B-But?—"

"Try." My grasp tightened, the desperation I'd never allow myself to show bleeding through. "Please."

Her fingers sketched slow circles on my cut, each glide rewiring nerve endings I didn't know existed. The worn leather seat beneath us creaked as she shifted her weight. A single tear gathered at the corner of her eye, silver in the moonlight, but never fell.

"I..." Her voice caught. I could see the war behind her expression—retreat or surrender, fear or acceptance. She trembled beneath my hands, the vibration traveling through my palms and up my arms.

Her back straightened suddenly. A new look crossed her features—something I'd never witnessed before. It vanished before I could decipher its meaning, replaced by the familiar gesture of teeth worrying her bottom lip. Her gaze dropped to my mask-covered mouth, lingered there with an intensity that made my skin burn.

She inhaled sharply, then exhaled with certainty. "We'll learn how to love, together."

The promise echoed through me as I leaned in. Her lips pressed against my mask, she choked on something she couldn't name. The sound traveled through to reach me, and in that moment, everything changed.

The sound of her quiet moan vibrated against my lips through the mask, sending a pressure building behind my ribs, sharp and breathless. My body hardened instantly in a way I'd never known before.

Then she did something unexpected. Her hands moved to cradle my face. She pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, then deliberately pressed her forehead against mine and held it there. A connection point. A circuit completed.

My whole body went still. The gesture felt sacred somehow, more intimate than the kiss we shared in the bath days ago. Her breath mingled with mine as we shared the same small space. I committed every detail to memory—the pressure, the specific angle where we connected—knowing without words that this was ours now, a ritual no one else would understand.

Her hands mapped the edges of my body, feeling the storm beneath my ribs. My grip marked the curve of her hips, testing the give of flesh. The stars stretched endlessly above us, silent witnesses to this covenant.

When she pulled away, her eyes held the vastness of midnight waters. "I want to try, V. With you."

I bent toward her as she lifted her face to mine. The kiss was softer this time, a promise. Her lingering presence remained with me—a moment I would replay endlessly.

It was late. Knowing how Oakley hated being out at night, I turned back toward the road. The engine roared to life beneath us, vibrating through both our bodies. Her arms circled my waist, holding tighter than before. Even through her helmet, I could feel her pressed against my back, anchoring me.

She thought we'd learn love together, each teaching the other. But she doesn't understand—I've already learned.

Love is not kind. Love is not patient. Love is a blade, and I'll engrave my name into her soul until she forgets she was ever free.

I'm not scared of dying.

I'm scared of a world where she learns to love herself more than she fears losing me.