Page 30 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

I 'd been lying awake for the past hour, not anxious or restless, but humming with something I couldn't quite name.

My body remembered last night in ways that had nothing to do with the fading sting across my backside and everything to do with the seismic shift that had happened between Gabe and me.

For months, I'd been carrying guilt about the smuggling like shrapnel under my skin.

Every supply run, every lie by omission, every time I'd chosen the club's needs over the rules—it had all been eating at me.

But Gabe had drawn it out like poison from a wound.

The sting of his palm hadn't been punishment; it had been purification.

That was love. Real love. The kind that held you accountable because you were worth the effort.

The kitchen smelled like coffee when I emerged, and my heart squeezed. He'd been up even earlier, setting out breakfast like he did every morning now. Greek yogurt with berries, whole grain toast, orange juice. It looked wonderful.

"Morning, angel."

Even at this ungodly hour, he looked alert, those hazel eyes tracking over me with an intensity that made my stomach flip.

"Morning." I slid onto the barstool, hyperaware of how the hard seat pressed against tender skin. His eyes caught the tiny flinch, and something shifted in his expression—concern mixed with satisfaction.

"How are you feeling?" He moved closer, one hand settling on my lower back with deliberate gentleness. "Really feeling, not just what you think I want to hear."

I considered lying, giving him something easy. But that's not what we did anymore. "Sore," I admitted, then quickly added, "but good sore. Like . . . like everything makes sense now."

His thumb rubbed small circles against my spine. "Yeah?"

"The guilt's gone." The words tumbled out, surprising me with their truth. "I've been carrying it around for months, and now it's just . . . gone. You took it away."

"No, baby girl." He turned my stool so I faced him fully, his hands framing my face. "You gave it away. You trusted me enough to let go."

The pride in his voice undid me. Not disappointment, not lingering anger, but pure pride. Like I'd done something brave instead of just accepting consequence for breaking rules.

"Eat," he said softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "We need to leave in twenty."

I managed half the yogurt and most of the toast while he moved around the kitchen, checking his weapon, securing his tactical bag. Normal morning routine, except for the way he kept glancing at me, like he was memorizing every detail.

"I have something for you," he said suddenly, reaching into a cabinet.

He pulled out a small insulated lunch bag, navy blue with a butterfly sticker on the front. My breath caught. It was such a little thing—cheap, probably from the dollar store—but he'd chosen it specifically. The butterfly killed me.

"Your little bag," he said, voice carefully neutral like he wasn't sure how I'd react. "Juice box, crackers, and a fruit cup."

"Gabe. Thank you so much. I just—" I couldn't finish, couldn't find words for what this meant.

"Hey." He set the bag on the counter, pulling me against his chest. "It's just snacks, angel. Nothing to cry about."

He pulled back, studying my face with those too-perceptive eyes. "You ready for this?"

The supply run. Right. Back to reality, back to the risk we were taking. But somehow, with the phantom warmth of his discipline still present and the weight of that little bag in my hands, I felt steadier than I had in months.

"Ready," I said, and meant it.

He smiled, that rare full smile that transformed his whole face. "That's my girl."

I tucked the little bag carefully into my work tote, already imagining how the juice would taste after—sweet and cold and perfect, like being held from a distance.

"Let's go," he said, but caught my hand before I could move. "Kiara?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you." Simple words, but his voice carried weight. "For last night. For this morning. For trusting me."

The last piece of uncertainty dissolved.

"I love you," I said, because it needed saying.

"Love you too, angel." He squeezed my hand once more. "Now come on. Time to go be my brave girl."

And God help me, that's exactly what I intended to be.

I moved through triage with practiced efficiency, my hands steady as I took vitals from a construction worker who'd put a nail through his palm. Normal Tuesday stuff, nothing that would make anyone look twice at the night shift nurse going about her business.

"Scale of one to ten?" I asked, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his good arm.

"Four," he grunted, which meant probably seven. Construction guys always downplayed pain, like admitting it hurt might revoke their man card.

"I'll get you something for that." I made notes on his chart, already mentally cataloging what supplies I'd need for his treatment. The same mental process I'd been using all night for a different purpose entirely.

Three boxes of gauze squares from the supply closet when I'd restocked after a motorcycle accident. Two bottles of saline from the cart someone left in the hallway. Nothing major, nothing that would be missed. Just overflow, extras, the kind of surplus that got thrown out when it expired anyway.

The guilt that usually gnawed at me during these moments was gone. Gabe's hands had driven it out last night, replaced it with something cleaner. Purpose, maybe. Or just the simple understanding that some rules mattered more than others.

I wasn't stealing. I was reallocating resources to people who needed them but couldn't walk through our doors without legal consequences. The Heavy Kings protected this town in ways the hospital never could.

"Mitchell, you good to cover trauma two?" Dr. Reyes barely waited for my nod before rushing off to another emergency.

Trauma two was empty, recently cleaned, waiting for the next crisis. I ducked inside, ostensibly checking supplies. The crash cart was fully stocked—had been since I'd refilled it an hour ago. But the backup supplies in the cabinet . . . those were fair game.

A handful of alcohol swabs joined the growing collection in my tote bag. Butterfly closures that would handle cuts too small for the ER but too big to ignore. Basic antibiotics that could mean the difference between a healing wound and sepsis.

Each item was a calculated choice. Nothing controlled, nothing that would trigger inventory flags. Just the everyday supplies that disappeared into the chaos of a busy ER anyway.

By seven-thirty, my tote was strategically full. Not bulging, not obvious, just a nurse's bag with the usual detritus of a long shift. The little lunch bag Gabe had given me sat on top, innocent as Sunday morning.

I clocked out right on time, waving to the day shift as they stumbled in with their coffee and exhaustion. Nobody paid attention to the night nurse heading home. Nobody ever did.

The morning air hit like a slap after hours of recycled hospital atmosphere.

I'd parked in the staff lot as usual, but instead of heading home, I drove toward Riverside Park.

New location, new time. Gabe had picked it—far enough from the hospital to avoid connection, public enough to look innocent, isolated enough for a quick transfer.

My hands stayed steady on the wheel, but my heart picked up pace. Not from fear. From anticipation. In twenty minutes, I'd see him again. My Daddy, my protector, the man who'd taken my guilt and transformed it into something useful.

The park was nearly empty at eight in the morning. A few joggers, an elderly man feeding ducks, normal people doing normal things. I parked near the playground, scanning the area with habits born from years of watching over my shoulder.

There. His familiar motorcycle tucked under the trees, a figure leaning against it that made my pulse skip. Even from across the lot, Gabe commanded attention. Not flashy, not obvious, just that quiet intensity that made people step carefully around him.

He'd changed clothes—tactical pants and a dark henley that stretched across his shoulders. Professional, prepared, every inch the security specialist. But when his eyes found mine across the distance, I saw the flicker of warmth meant just for me.

I grabbed my tote and climbed out, forcing myself to walk normally. Just a woman meeting someone in a park. Nothing suspicious about that.

"Morning," I said as I approached, proud of how level my voice stayed.

"Morning." He'd already opened the saddlebags. Quick transfer, then he'd leave on the bike while I drove away separately. Smart. "How'd it go?"

"Smooth." I set the tote on the ground, beginning the transfer. I handed off supplies, he packed them efficiently, neither of us speaking more than necessary. The air between us crackled with last night's memory, with the new dimension to our relationship.

His fingers brushed mine as I passed him a box of gauze, deliberate contact that sent warmth up my arm. Such a small thing, but it grounded me.

"Antibiotics?" He sorted through the supplies with practiced ease.

"Basic stuff. Nothing flagged." I glanced around again, habit more than concern. "Should help with that knife wound Thor's prospect picked up."

"Good girl."

Two words, quiet approval, but they hit like a physical touch. My skin flushed, remembering other times he'd said them. Different context, same devastating effect.

We finished the transfer in minutes. Efficient, professional, except for the way his hand lingered on my lower back as he closed the saddlebags. A claim, a comfort, a promise all rolled into one touch.

"Drive safe," he murmured. "I'll see you tonight."

I nodded, already turning back to my car, when something caught my eye. Movement across the park, sun flashing off chrome in a way that sent ice down my spine.

I knew that bike.