Page 38 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)
Relief flooded through me. "Oh. That's . . . yes, we should talk about that."
"I want to brag about my good girl," he admitted. "Want everyone to know how perfect you are for me. But I'd never share intimate details without permission."
"Scene details stay private," I said immediately. "But dynamics . . . I like when people know I'm yours. Like when you put your hand on my back at the clubhouse, guiding me. That claiming in public makes me feel . . ."
"Cherished?"
"Owned," I corrected, then blushed at the admission. "In the best way."
"Then we don't hide." He made another note. "But always at your comfort level. You can dial it back anytime, no questions asked."
"What about during work?" This worried me more. "I can't exactly drop into little space during a trauma."
"Basic protocols only. Meal requirements, check-in texts, bedtime rules. Nothing that interferes with your professional responsibilities." He set the pen down, taking my hands. "Kiara, your work is important. Being a nurse is part of who you are. The dynamic supports your life, not replaces it."
Tyson returned with the gravity of a priest approaching the altar, his presence immediately shifting the room back to ceremonial formality. In his hands, he carried a wooden signing board—polished mahogany that gleamed in the candlelight.
"Have you completed your private negotiations?" His voice carried that same weight from earlier, judge and witness combined.
"We have," Gabe answered for both of us, his hand finding the small of my back. The touch grounded me as Tyson arranged the final documents on the table's surface.
"Then we proceed to the signing." He placed three fountain pens in a neat row—one for each of us. "This contract, negotiated in good faith and with full consent, will bind you for one year from today's date. Do you both understand?"
"Yes," we said in unison, the word hanging in the air like a vow.
Tyson nodded solemnly. "Gabriel ‘Wings’ Moreno, do you accept the responsibilities of Dominant as outlined in this contract? Do you promise to protect, guide, and cherish Kiara Santos within the bounds of your negotiated dynamic?"
"I do." Gabe's voice held no hesitation, only certainty that made my knees weak.
"Kiara Santos, do you accept the role of submissive as outlined in this contract? Do you promise to trust, communicate, and submit to Gabriel Moreno within the bounds of your negotiated dynamic?"
"I do." The words came out clear despite my racing heart.
"Then sign."
Gabe went first, his signature bold and decisive across the bottom of each page. The fountain pen moved with assured strokes—this was not a man who doubted his choices. When he finished, he set the pen down carefully and looked at me with such intensity I forgot to breathe.
My turn. The pen felt heavier now, weighted with significance. But my hand stayed steady as I signed my name next to his. It felt like crossing a threshold—no going back, only forward into whatever we would build together.
"As witness to this contract," Tyson intoned, adding his signature with flourish, "I acknowledge the sacred trust between you. May your dynamic bring growth, joy, and mutual satisfaction."
He pressed a seal next to his name—the Heavy Kings' crown surrounded by Latin words I couldn't read. Official club business now, our contract protected by the brotherhood's weight.
"The contract will be kept in the club safe," Tyson explained, organizing the pages with military precision. "You'll each receive notarized copies for your records. On this date next year, we'll meet again for renewal or renegotiation."
A year. It seemed both forever and no time at all.
"There's one more thing," Tyson said, producing a small black box from his jacket. "A gift from the club, recognizing this moment."
Gabe accepted the box, opening it to reveal two items: a small silver lock and a matching key on a chain. My breath caught understanding the symbolism.
"Thank you," Gabe said roughly, clearly moved. The brotherhood's acknowledgment of our dynamic, their blessing in tangible form, meant everything.
"Take your time," Tyson said, gathering the contracts. "The room is yours as long as you need it."
He left with another formal nod, taking the signed documents and leaving us with the weight of what we'd just done. The candles had burned lower during our negotiations, casting dancing shadows that made everything feel dream-like.
"How do you feel?" Gabe asked, turning to face me fully.
"Like I just got married," I admitted, then blushed at the comparison. "Not that this is—I mean—"
"It's exactly that serious," he interrupted, pulling me against him. "We just made vows, baby girl. Witnessed and sealed. That's marriage in every way that matters to me."
My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall. Not now, not when everything was perfect. His arms around me, the contract signed, our future mapped out in careful detail—I'd never felt so safe, so claimed, so utterly certain of my place in the world.
"My contract girl," he murmured against my hair. "My owned, collared, documented submissive."
"Yours," I agreed, the word carrying more weight now. Legal weight. Witnessed weight.
We stayed wrapped in each other as the candles flickered, neither wanting to break the spell. But eventually, reality intruded. It was late, we both had early mornings, and the emotional weight of the evening was catching up to me.
"Ready to go home?" Gabe asked, pulling back enough to study my face.
"Ready," I confirmed, already missing the warmth of his arms as we separated.
He helped me with my coat—the temperature had dropped while we were inside—and gathered the gifts from Tyson. I took a last look around the transformed meeting room, wanting to remember every detail. The candles, the formal arrangement, the place where we'd made it official.
The clubhouse was quieter now, most members having headed home or to their rooms upstairs. A few nodded as we passed, knowing smiles acknowledging what we'd done. No judgment, just recognition.
The parking lot stretched before us, lit by security lights that pushed back the darkness.
That's when I saw it.
A motorcycle idled at the far edge of the lot, engine rumbling low like a predator's growl. Not a Harley—the sound was wrong, higher pitched and aggressive. A sport bike, sleek and black, barely visible except for the gleam of chrome where light caught it.
The rider wore a full helmet, features completely hidden. But something about the build, the way he sat, the particular angle of his shoulders...
My blood turned to ice.
The bike had custom pipes—I'd heard that exact note too many times, usually at three in the morning when he'd come home high and aggressive.
The way the rider's left hand drummed against the tank, a nervous tick I'd watched for three years.
The slight favor of his right side, compensating for the badly healed rib from a fight years ago.
Alex.
I couldn't be sure. Not completely. The helmet obscured everything, and lots of people rode sport bikes. But my body knew, some primitive part that had learned to recognize danger. The hair on my arms stood up, heart rate spiking from ceremony calm to prey alertness.
"Baby girl?" Gabe had noticed my stillness, was already scanning for threats. "What's wrong?"
"I thought I saw . . ." But I couldn't finish, couldn't ruin this perfect moment with paranoia. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe my mind was playing tricks, seeing threats where none existed.
The bike's engine revved once, deliberately, before the rider pulled away in a spray of gravel. The taillight disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of pipes and my racing pulse.
"Kiara." Gabe's voice had shifted to command mode. "Tell me what you saw."
"That bike," I managed, forcing my voice steady. "Sport bike, watching us. The rider . . . the way he sat . . ."
I didn't have to say the name. Gabe's expression darkened, understanding immediately. His hand moved to his phone, already texting someone—probably Duke or the prospects on security duty.
"Could have been anyone," I said weakly, wanting it to be true. "Lots of people have bikes like that."
"Maybe." But he didn't sound convinced. His arm came around me, protective and possessive. "Let's get you home. I'll check the security cameras."
I let him guide me to the truck, his vigilance both comforting and confirming my fears. If Gabe was taking it seriously, it wasn't just paranoia.
If Alex knew about us, if he'd been watching . . .
"Hey." Gabe's voice cut through my spiral as he helped me into the truck. "Whatever that was, whoever it was, it doesn't change anything. You're mine. Protected. Safe."
I nodded, wanting to believe him. But as we pulled out of the lot, I couldn't shake the feeling that our perfect night had been witnessed by someone who'd want to destroy it.
The contract was signed. Our dynamic was official.
But the past, it seemed, wasn't done with us yet.