Page 49 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Wings

T he minute I woke, I knew today would be different.

Not because of the weak light filtering through the blinds or the distant rumble of early deliveries to the tavern below.

Different because today ended with violence, with choices that couldn't be taken back, with lives hanging on intel I still didn't fully trust.

But right now, none of that mattered. Not with Kiara warm against my ribs, her breath tickling my chest in sleep-slow rhythm.

The apartment had transformed since she'd moved in.

Ours. Hair ties on my nightstand. One of her scrubs hanging on the bathroom door.

Little pieces of her scattered through what used to be just a place to crash between runs.

I studied her face in the pale light. Peaceful. No anxiety lines between her brows, no tension in her jaw. Just my little girl, safe in our bed, trusting me to come back to her tonight.

The kiss started gentle—just my lips against her temple, breathing her in. But she stirred, made that small sound that always shot straight to my cock, and suddenly gentle wasn't enough. Her eyes fluttered open, green gone dark with instant want.

"Morning, Daddy." Voice rough with sleep but already reaching for me, small hand sliding down my chest.

"Morning, baby girl."

Then her fingers found my cock, already half-hard from waking beside her, and the growl that ripped from my throat belonged to something primal. Something that wanted to claim, to possess, to imprint myself so deep she'd feel me even when I was gone.

"Need you," she whispered, already moving. The T-shirt—my shirt, worn soft from too many washes—rode up as she shifted. Lace shorts that barely deserved the name. Then she was straddling my lap, and coherent thought became impossible.

She pulled the shirt over her head in one smooth motion, and Christ. The morning light painted her gold—every curve, every freckle, every inch of skin I'd mapped with hands and mouth but would never get enough of. My hands found her hips, steadying her as she positioned herself.

"So wet already," I groaned, feeling her heat through the thin lace. "Always ready for Daddy."

"Always," she agreed, pushing the shorts aside rather than removing them. Impatient. Needy. Perfect.

When she sank down on my cock, we both gasped.

The pleasure hit like lightning—hot and tight and exactly where I belonged.

Her head fell back, exposing the column of her throat, and I had to taste.

Had to mark. My teeth found that spot where neck met shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make her clench around me.

We moved together slow at first. This wasn't fucking—this was something else entirely.

Her fingers traced the scars on my shoulder, my fingers traced the scar on her hip.

We'd been self- conscious about them once.

Now they were just another map we knew by heart, another piece of each other we accepted without question.

My hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones as we found our rhythm. Memorizing. She did the same, fingers ghosting over my jaw, my lips, like she was storing up touches for later.

"Beautiful," I murmured against her mouth. "My beautiful girl."

She kissed me deep, tongue sliding against mine as her hips rolled in that way that made my spine tingle. I could feel her getting close already—the little catches in her breath, the way her thighs trembled against mine.

"Faster," she pleaded, and who was I to deny her anything?

My hands dropped to her hips, guiding her into a rhythm that had us both panting. She leaned back, changing the angle, and fuck—I could see where we joined, could watch my cock disappearing into her again and again. The sight nearly ended me right there.

Instead, I found her clit with my thumb, circling the swollen nub while she rode me harder. Her hands clutched my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to ground us both.

"That's it," I encouraged, feeling her inner walls start to flutter. "Come for Daddy. Want to feel you."

She shattered with a cry that filled our small space, her whole body clenching around me. The sensation—her pleasure, her trust, her complete surrender—dragged me over the edge with her. I pulled her tight against me as I came, marking her inside where no one else would ever reach.

We stayed joined as our breathing slowed, foreheads pressed together, sharing air and heartbeats. Neither of us mentioned what came next. What the night would bring.

"Come back to me," she whispered finally, the words carrying weight that had nothing to do with volume. "Promise me, Daddy. Whatever happens tonight, you come back to me."

"Always, little girl." I sealed it with a kiss that tasted like promises I'd die to keep. "Always."

When we finally separated, she reached for something on the nightstand. The St. Christopher pendant caught the light—small, silver, worn smooth from years of handling.

"This was my granddad's," she said quietly, fastening it around my neck with careful fingers. "Tuck it in your cut tonight? For luck?"

The medal settled against my chest, still warm from her hands. Another piece of her to carry into darkness. Another reason to make it through.

"Thank you, baby girl."

We lay entwined under the blanket for a few more precious minutes, her head on my chest, my fingers in her hair. But time moved forward whether we wanted it to or not. Thursday had arrived, and with it, choices that would reshape everything.

The watch glowed 11:47 PM, the time synced to match the Serpent’s operations down to the second.

I crouched in the overgrown weeds outside the Stanton warehouse, knees protesting against the cold ground, grateful for the prosthetic that at least didn't feel the chill.

Tank breathed steady beside me, each exhale turning to mist. Thor flanked my other side, still as stone.

The old furniture distributor was in the center of the industrial district.

It was two stories of corrugated metal and dirty skylights, surrounded by chain-link topped with lazy loops of barbed wire.

Through my scope, I tracked the roving guards— fifteen-minute cycles, just like Alex promised.

They moved with the bored confidence of men who'd done this too many times, who'd forgotten that complacency killed more soldiers than bullets.

"Northeast rover just passed," Tank whispered, voice barely carrying over the distant hum of highway traffic. "Right on schedule."

I lowered the scope, checking our positioning again. We'd bellied through the grass from the abandoned lot two blocks south, slow enough that the motion sensors wouldn't trigger. Now we waited in the dead zone between camera sweeps, invisible in the shadows cast by the rusted shipping containers.

A block behind us, Duke and Tyson held position with the rest of our strike team. Eight Heavy Kings total—small enough to move fast, large enough to overwhelm. Their bikes sat silent behind the old train depot, ready for the extraction that would either save us or damn us.

The plan lived in my bones now, rehearsed until it flowed like muscle memory.

Two smoke grenades through the skylights to blind the money count.

Flash-bangs at both exits to trap and disorient.

In the chaos, we'd drop through the roof, grab the cash, and vanish before the Serpents knew what hit them. Quick, clean, professional.

Through the grimy windows, yellow light spilled across stacks of money.

Venom's laugh carried on the wind—I’d heard that distinctive bark before, from every territorial dispute we'd weathered.

Tomb and Slash flanked him at the counting table, their soldiers spread throughout the warehouse floor.

Nine men inside, focused on dividing Houston's quarterly payment.

"Two at the gate," Thor reported, scope trained on the main entrance. "Prospects. Young and stupid."

"Two rovers, one sniper," I added, marking Bones' position on the roof. The Serpent sniper had claimed the northwest corner, best vantage point for the approaches. His cigarette flared orange in the darkness—another sign of complacency. Light discipline mattered, even on home turf.

My hand found the St. Christopher pendant through my cut, metal warm against my chest. A talisman now, carrying her faith that I'd return.

"Five minutes," Tank said, checking his own watch.

"Masks," I ordered, pulling the black balaclava over my face. The others followed suit, transforming from men into shadows. Anonymous instruments of violence.

Through the earpiece, Duke's voice crackled with command authority. "Strike team in position. Perimeter team ready. On your signal, Wings."

The weight of leadership settled across my shoulders heavier than any pack I'd humped through Afghan mountains. These men trusted my brother's intel, trusted my judgment that this wasn't a trap. If Alex had lied, if this went sideways, their blood would paint my hands.

But the money was there, stacked neat on tables just like he'd described. The guard positions matched his drawings down to the meter. Even Venom's presence—the Serpent president rarely showed for counts, but Alex had promised he'd be here tonight. Everything aligned too perfectly for coincidence.

"Two minutes," Tank breathed.

I pulled the smoke grenades from my vest, feeling their weight.

Military surplus, purchased through channels that didn't ask questions.

Purple smoke that would fill the warehouse in seconds, turn their secure count into blind chaos.

The flash-bangs hung from Thor's belt—his contribution to the party, sourced from a cousin in demolitions.

One minute.