Page 39 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Wings

T he weight of her against my ribs pulled me from sleep—not the familiar press of her body, but the desperate clutch of her fingers twisted in my shirt, holding on like I might disappear if she let go.

Three nights since we'd signed the contract, and each one she'd migrated closer, until now she was practically underneath me, her breath warm against my chest through the thin fabric.

I studied her face. Peaceful. The anxiety lines that had lived between her brows for weeks had finally smoothed out. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breathing was soft and even.

Moving required tactical precision. I started with my fingers, gently prying hers loose from my shirt one at a time.

She made a small sound of protest, burrowing deeper against me, and I froze.

Waited for her breathing to steady. Then continued the extraction, inch by careful inch, until I could slip a pillow into my place.

She immediately curled around it, pulling it close with the same desperation she'd shown me.

Something in my chest went tight watching her.

Her morning routine had become my meditation. First, clothes laid out on the chair—soft pink panties with tiny hearts that made her blush, her scrubs, ready for work, a pair of comfortable socks. Each item placed with care.

In the kitchen, I assembled her breakfast smoothie.

Vanilla protein powder (she'd never remember it on her own), frozen berries, spinach hidden under banana to mask the taste, a splash of the almond milk she preferred.

The blender would wake her, but not for another twenty minutes.

Perfect timing for her to wake naturally, find her clothes waiting, and emerge just as breakfast was ready.

The daily note came next—a new protocol we'd added after she'd mentioned feeling disconnected during long shifts. Today's message came easy: "My brave girl saved three lives yesterday. Today she only needs to save one—her own. Eat your lunch, drink water, and remember Daddy's so proud of you. -W"

I folded the paper into a butterfly, a skill learned from YouTube at 2 AM when I couldn't sleep. Placed it on top of her clothes where she couldn't miss it. These little rituals mattered.

My phone buzzed as I headed back to the kitchen. Unknown number. I almost ignored it—too many spam calls lately—but something made me look.

The image loaded slowly, pixels filling in until my blood turned to ice.

Kiara's car in the hospital parking lot, shot from maybe thirty yards away. Recent—I recognized the scrubs she'd worn two nights ago, visible through the windshield as she bent over her phone. The timestamp showed her break time, when she always called to check in.

No message. Just the photo. Just the proof that someone had been watching her, close enough to see what she was wearing, tracking her patterns.

My fingers moved with trained efficiency. Screenshot first, evidence preserved. Then block the number. But before I could even process, another buzz. Different number.

"She looks tired."

Buzz. Another number.

"Night shifts are dangerous."

Buzz.

"Accidents happen."

Each from a different burner phone. Each more direct than the last. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth as I screenshotted everything, building the case file that was becoming inevitably necessary.

Alex.

Had to be. The escalation from watching to contact, the specific targeting of her work location, the implicit threats wrapped in concerned observations.

I forced my breathing steady, falling back on combat training. Assess the threat. Protect the asset. Neutralize with extreme prejudice if necessary.

First things first.

She stirred when I sat on the bed, hand immediately reaching for me even before her eyes opened. "Wings?"

"Morning, baby girl." I kept my voice soft, gentle, even as rage boiled underneath. "Need you to wake up for me."

"S'early." But she was already pushing herself up, blinking away sleep. "Did something happen? You have that face."

I hated that she recognized the concern on it.

"Come here." I pulled her into my lap, her sleep-warm weight grounding me. "Alex has been in touch."

She went rigid. Just for a second, old trauma responses firing before she consciously relaxed against me. "What kind of in touch?"

"Texts. Photos." I kept my voice steady, clinical. "He's been watching you at work. Taking pictures from a distance. Making threats."

"Oh." Such a small sound for such a big fear realized. Her fingers found my shirt again, holding on. "What do we do?"

"I handle it," I said firmly. "Already screenshotted everything, building documentation. Going to talk to Duke today about increasing security measures."

She searched my face, looking for something. Must have found it because she nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"

My good girl. Scared but ready to follow protocol, trusting me to keep her safe even when threats pressed close.

"Follow your normal routine," I instructed. "But I'll be watching over you at work today. Not obvious, just . . . present. And I need you to be extra aware of your surroundings, yeah? Anyone seems off, anyone watching too long, you text me immediately."

"I can do that." She straightened in my lap, finding her strength. "Should I . . . should I change my routes? My patterns?"

Smart girl. "Already thinking tactically. But no—if he's tracking patterns, sudden changes might escalate things. Better to maintain routine while we increase security around it."

"Okay." She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "Gabe?"

"Yeah, angel?"

"Is this my fault? For leaving him, for being with you, for—"

"No." The word came out harder than intended, and I gentled my voice. "This is Alex choosing to be a threat. His actions, his responsibility. You did nothing wrong by leaving an abusive situation. You did nothing wrong by finding happiness. This is on him, not you."

She nodded against my chest, and I felt some of the guilt she'd been carrying ease. Good. She had enough weight without adding misplaced responsibility for her ex's inability to let go.

"Now," I said, shifting her off my lap with gentle hands. "You need to get ready for work. Clothes are laid out, smoothie will be ready when you are, and there might be something else waiting for you."

Interest sparked in her eyes, chasing away the last of the fear. "Something else?"

"Go see."

She padded to the chair, finding the folded butterfly note immediately. Her face softened as she read it, fingers tracing the careful creases. "You learned origami for me."

"YouTube University, 2 AM division." I headed for the door, pausing to watch her hold the note like treasure. "Twenty minutes, baby girl. Don't want you running late."

"Yes, Daddy."

The title still hit like lightning, especially when she said it soft like that, full of trust despite the morning's revelations. I'd burn the world down before I let Alex or anyone else touch that trust.

Time to talk to the club about putting those protective instincts into action.

Lucky for all of us, Alex didn’t show his hand at the hospital that day. It was uneventful, which felt like a blessing.

Later, I stood in Duke’s office, hands clasped behind my back, watching him flip through supply run reports with the kind of focused attention that had built this club from nothing.

"Sixty percent increase in medical supply efficiency," he read, not looking up from the papers.

"Zero incidents during transport despite Serpent surveillance.

Three new legitimate clinic connections established through the network Kiara built.

Inventory tracking system that would make military quartermasters weep with envy. "

He set down one folder, picked up another. The medical pipeline reports, all bearing my signature and Kiara's detailed notes. Evidence of what we'd built together, how her inside knowledge had revolutionized our operation.

My chest expanded with pride I fought not to show.

"The Serpent surveillance situation." He moved to the next report, this one with photos attached.

Connor's bike at various locations, tracking patterns Kiara and I had spotted and reported.

"You handled that with complete professionalism.

No cowboy bullshit, no emotional reactions.

Just tactical assessment and appropriate response. "

"Just doing the job," I said when he paused expectantly.

"No." Duke set the folders aside, leaning back in his chair with that calculating look that meant real talk was coming.

"You did more than the job. You took a situation that could have been a liability—dating someone the Serpents had already marked, someone with complicated history—and turned it into an asset. "

He stood, moving to the window that overlooked the compound. Security lights illuminated bikes lined up like soldiers, prospects on gate duty visible at their posts. The kingdom he'd built, that he protected with ruthless efficiency.

"Your personal situation with Kiara," he continued, back still to me, "has actually strengthened our operations rather than complicated them.

She's more committed to the club because of you.

More willing to take risks, push boundaries, innovate.

And you—you've shown judgment beyond your years.

Protecting her while letting her contribute.

Building something that makes you both stronger. "

The praise sat heavy on my shoulders. Coming from Duke, who parceled out approval like ammunition in a siege, this was significant.

He turned back, and I caught something in his expression I'd rarely seen—genuine satisfaction. Maybe even pride. "The vote was unanimous."

My breathing stopped. Just stopped, chest frozen mid-inhale as the words penetrated.