Page 92 of Threads That Bind Us
I can hear the sea rocking the boats against the docks, and the cries of gulls as they dive for their meals. All familiar sounds of my childhood. But I don’t feel at home until I see her.
Ana’s on her arm, and despite how lovely she looks, I barely see her. Because Gwen is, as always, a vision.
Long hair tied up, soft curls framing her face. Shoulders freckled and bared to the sun, the sleeves draped on her upper arms delicately. It’s like she’s floating above the terracotta tiles, the satin of her dress flowing like the waves of the ocean beside us.
Perfect. So, so perfect.
When they reach me and the officiant, Ana kisses her sister's cheek and takes the small bouquet from her hands before finding her seat next to Clara.
The words are a formality. Because I will show her every day how sincere I am about my commitment to her. We listen to the officiant tell us about duty, about sickness and health, about good times and bad, and all I can think is that the worst times with her will be better than the best with anyone else. When I slip the wedding band on her finger, over the red thread tattooed there, I wonder again what I did to deserve someone so fierceand loving and kind.
When I kiss her, I decide it doesn’t matter. She is my fate, and I will follow her wherever she leads.
Epilogue Two
Charlie
“Absolutely not.” My voice sounds firm to my own ears, but I already know I’m going to break.Anything for Gwen, right?
“Give me one good reason,” she retorts, not turning to me at all, keeping her eyes on the shiny motorcycle in front of her.
I should not have let her in here while I was changing the oil. I should not have craved her attention and presence so much that I practically salivated when she perched her round ass on my workbench and propped her feet on the back of the barstool I keep tucked underneath.
“First, motorcycles are death traps.” That gets a glare over her shoulder.
“Riding a motorcycle cannot be statistically more dangerous than being married to you, or than half of the other shit you’ve taught me to do.” She smiles and turns back to run her fingertip over the handlebars.
Internally, I try to get my dick under control. God, I love it when she torments me.
It’s been a journey, learning that. Unearthing the desires I’ve kept buried without ever truly recognizing they existed.Every time we fuck, or talk about fucking, or even just touch each other, I learn something new about myself. I can see it happening for her, too. She’s bolder. Demanding but always caring. Soft and controlled. Perfect.
“Second, this bike is way too big for you, and before you make some god-awful joke about the size of things you already ride…” Her head tips back in a laugh and warmth like sunshine fills me at the sound of her approval. “You choose a bike based on a bunch of factors, like height and inseam. Learning to ride on a motorcycle you can’t control can be deadly.”
Her fingers drift over the controls a little longer before she turns on her toes and leans back against the seat.
“Okay, if you say so.” Her smile is small, delicate, and dangerous, and it doesn’t fool me for a second.
“There’s no way that convinced you.”
“You convinced me I need to learn safely, using the correct equipment,” she replies coyly, just a hair too much innocence laced in her tone. I narrow my eyes, waiting for whatever is coming next. “So I’ll go take lessons.”
Her little shrug sets a fire in my blood, and I’m honest to god starting to think I enjoy burning for her.
“And where, exactly, do you think you’re going to find these lessons?” I’ve already got an image of Gwen in tight pants, high boots, and leather that’s going to be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids for the rest of my life. I am not sharing that with a single soul.
“Diego runs fleet, right?” she asks, referring to the twenty-two-year-old hellion that she met when she asked to learn more about Syndicate operations. “I’m pretty sure he can drive and pilot every vehicle on the planet. It wouldn’t be too much trouble for him.”
I think of Diego with his underdeveloped prefrontal cortexsalivating over my wife as he shows her how to position her legs, and I reconsider my rule against murdering staff.
“Or Lily?” she asks, dusting off her hands and pushing off my bike, making her way toward the door to the house.
I’m frozen in place thinking about Ana’s defacto bodyguard, a woman I’ve seen tape people’s eyes open and slice into them with a scalpel, reaching around Gwen from behind and adjusting her grip on the accelerator. I briefly run through a list of Arctic-adjacent assignments I could stick Lily with for the foreseeable future.
I know Gwen is doing this to get a rise out of me, and she’s hellishly good at it, but I feel this swirl of deep possessiveness and need to be the one to teach her this. To teach her everything, to learn from each other. It’s probably incredibly toxic to believe that I can provide her with everything she’s ever needed or wanted, that I can be the person to fulfill every desire, but I do. Because I don’t just feel possessive over her—I am desperate for her to be possessive of me, too.
“No,” I start toward her, and she smirks at me over her shoulder. “Please, Gwen, I’ll teach you. I want to teach you.”
When she faces me, her expression is filled with a little triumph and a lot of joy. And that’s what I really wanted. To be the one to inspire that look.