I feel… karmic.
* * *
The compound is still when we roll in. Truck parked, engine killed.
Bloodhound nods at me once in the parking lot. Ounce claps my shoulder without speaking. Maddox disappears into the clubhouse.
I stand in the cold for a full minute, breathing.
Then I walk inside.
Saylor is in my room. Asleep in my bed, one arm stretched across the space where I should be, her hair fanned across the pillow.
I strip off my jacket, my boots, my shirt, and wash my hands in the bathroom sink.
The soap is white and the water runs clear because the pliers didn't draw blood, but I wash them anyway. Multiple times.
I climb into bed behind her. She shifts in her sleep, pressing back against my chest, making a small sound of recognition.
Her body knows mine even when her mind is somewhere else.
I wrap my arm around her waist and press my mouth to the back of her neck and breathe her in.
Soap and citrus and warmth.
The same smell from the first night she showed up at the compound shaking.
The smell of the woman I love, alive, safe, and sleeping in my bed.
My hands settle against her stomach. She laces her fingers through mine without waking up.
I hold on and close my eyes.
The boy who couldn't keep his mouth shut.
The prospect who washed bikes and swallowed the word "kid" for years.
The man who sat in a kitchen tonight and broke a predator's fingers with a pair of pliers because the predator smiled at the wrong woman.
All the same person, and yet, I drift off to sleep easier than I have in ages.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saylor
Something has changed in the clubhouse and nobody will tell me what.
The brothers move differently. Doors close when I walk down hallways. Conversations stop mid-sentence when I step into the kitchen. Ruger's office light has been on for two days straight.
Rookie says it's club business. His jaw tightens when he says it, which means it's bad club business, but I've learned the boundaries of what I'm allowed to ask and this sits on the other side.
I don't push. He didn't push me when I was hiding Creedy. Returning the courtesy costs me some sleep, but I return it.
Creedy’s gone, though. The parking lot at Backroads has been empty after every shift the last few days.
My mother hasn't seen the truck on her street in days now either. The gas station, the Kroger, the dental office—all clear.
Rookie came home that night smelling like cold air and soap.