Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
BLADE
We’re already in position when the SUV rolls in. The boat docks are lit just enough to see shapes move, shadows sliding between warehouses like they belong here. We picked this spot for a reason. Too many exits. Too many blind corners. Too easy to turn into chaos.
Riot clocks the vehicle before I do, murmurs confirmation in my ear, but I’m already locked in. The Russian fucker steps out first. Tall. Clean. Confident. Same calm posture I saw in the warehouse months ago. Like the world bends instead of pushes back.
Then she gets out. And the air leaves my lungs.
Bri follows him, quiet and composed, dressed in something expensive and tailored, hair styled in a way I’ve only ever seen on Brooke when she’s forced to play nice for events she hates.
Bri has never been prissy. Never pretended to be something she’s not.
But that’s exactly how she looks now. Polished. Controlled. Like she’s been molded.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. She looks healthy. Too healthy for someone who’s been taken. No bruises showing. No obvious fear. That should be a relief. It isn’t. Because she doesn’t look like my Bri. I can’t stop staring. I track every step she takes, every way she holds herself.
And that’s when it hits me. Her body is different.
Not in a bad way. Fuck, I’ve always loved her curves.
Loved every inch of her. But this is more than that.
Her hips look fuller. Her chest heavier, pressing against the fabric of her dress in a way that makes my stomach drop.
And her stomach. It’s subtle. So subtle I almost convince myself I’m imagining it.
Almost. There’s a softness there that wasn’t before.
A roundness that makes my pulse spike and my vision narrow.
No. No fucking way. My mind spirals instantly, violent and out of control. Is she pregnant? Did that Russian bastard touch her? Did he put his hands on her? Inside her?
Jealousy explodes in my chest like a grenade. The plan evaporates. I don’t hear Mason’s voice anymore. Don’t hear Dagger. Don’t hear anyone telling me to hold position. All I see is her. And him standing too close. I snap.
The first shot cracks the night open and all hell breaks loose. I don’t think. I move. Bullets fly. Men scatter. Someone yells in Russian. Someone screams. I sprint forward, firing as I go, using the chaos like cover, closing the distance fast.
I tear toward the back door just as the Russian shoves her inside, my pulse roaring in my ears, every step fueled by one thought only. I need to get to her. I tear the back door open and there she is. Right there. Real. Alive.
Her eyes find mine and go wide, shock and disbelief and something fragile breaking open all at once. The Russian turns too slowly. I don’t hesitate. I raise my gun and pull the trigger. One shot. Clean. Between the eyes.
He drops instantly, lifeless weight slumping forward like trash finally hitting the ground.
Bri lets out a sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in her chest for weeks. I drop the gun. I don’t even remember doing it. I grab her and pull her into my arms, crushing her to me, breathing her in like I need oxygen and she’s the only source left in the world.
She’s shaking. Crying. Alive.
“I’ve got you,” I rasp into her hair, my hands everywhere, checking her, holding her, making sure she’s real. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Her arms come up around me like she’s been waiting to do this forever, fingers digging into my cut like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I don’t care about the docks. Or the guns. Or the bodies. I care about her heartbeat under my palm. And the terrifying, impossible thought pounding in my head. Because if she’s pregnant…Everything just changed.
I don’t know what else happens out there.
I don’t see who’s shooting who or how many bodies hit the ground or where Mason and the rest of the club are moving. All of that fades into background noise the second I get her inside the SUV.
I shove her across the seat and climb in after her, my body blocking the open door as another burst of gunfire cracks close enough to rattle the windows. I slam the door shut and lock it, hard, like that alone can seal us off from the world trying to tear us apart.
The SUV rocks with distant impacts. Shouting echoes. Sirens might be coming. Or maybe that’s just blood roaring in my ears.
I pull her into my lap and curl around her instinctively, one arm wrapped tight around her back, the other cradling her head against my chest. She fits there like she never left. Like this is still where she belongs.
Her body is shaking. Full-on shock. Silent sobs ripping through her, breath coming in sharp little gasps like she forgot how to breathe properly without me.
“You’re dead,” she whispers, her voice breaking, tears streaming down her face. “They told me you were dead. I saw you get shot. I thought I killed you.”
I tilt her face up with shaking hands, my thumbs brushing tears from her cheeks.
Her eyes are wild, unfocused, like she’s still trapped somewhere between then and now.
“Hey,” I say softly, forcing calm into my voice even though my heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. “Look at me. Bri. Look at me.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, confused and terrified. “How are you here?” she sobs. “I watched you bleed. I watched you fall. I thought I ended you. I thought that was it.”
“I’m right here,” I say. “I’m not dead.”
She shakes her head weakly. “It’s not possible.”
I cradle her face fully in my hands and lean in, pressing my mouth to hers. Not gentle. Not hesitant. A deep, grounding kiss that leaves no room for doubt. I pour everything into it. Six weeks of fear and rage. Six weeks of missing her so badly it almost broke me.
She freezes for half a second, then melts, clutching my jacket like she’s afraid I’ll vanish again if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.
I pull back just far enough to rest my forehead against hers. “Could a dead man do that, baby?” I murmur.
A broken sound escapes her and she collapses against me, crying hard now, the kind of sobs that come from finally letting go after holding yourself together for way too long.
“I love you,” I say into her hair, over and over. “I love you. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I swear to you, I am not letting you go again.”
She clings to me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world. And for her? I am.
We don’t get more than a few seconds.
There’s a hard knock on the SUV door, followed immediately by Riot’s voice, urgent and sharp. “Blade. We gotta go, man. Grab her and let’s move.”
I open the door and the noise rushes back in, distant now but still ugly. Smoke. Shouting. Sirens creeping closer.
I look down at her. “Ready, baby?”
She nods, small and trusting, like she doesn’t have the strength to do anything else right now. I help her out, but her heels catch on the uneven concrete and she stumbles.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Before she can even apologize, I scoop her up, arms under her knees and back, holding her tight against my chest. She doesn’t protest. She just curls into me like this is where she’s supposed to be.
I carry her to the rented SUV we came in, the one Ghost is already behind the wheel of. The door flies open and a couple of the brothers shift to make room. I climb in and pull her straight into my lap, her head settling against my chest like it knows exactly where to go.
Ghost peels out of the lot the second the door shuts.
No one talks.
The engine hums low and steady. Tires hit pavement. The docks disappear behind us. Bri’s breathing slowly evens out, my hand moving up and down her back, over and over, grounding both of us.
It’s quiet in a way that feels fragile. Like if anyone says the wrong thing, it’ll shatter.
Then the radio crackles.
Some country station fades in, and suddenly “Take Me Home, Country Roads” fills the cab.
West Virginia. Blue Ridge Mountains.
I don’t even register it at first. It’s just noise. Background.
Then Bri lets out this soft, broken laugh against my chest. Not hysterical. Not sad. Just… real.
She lifts her head and starts singing under her breath, voice shaky but determined.
“Country roads… take me home…”
Every head in the vehicle turns slowly to look at her like she’s finally snapped.
Tank blinks. Switch frowns. Riot glances back like he’s not sure if he should stop her or pretend he can’t hear it.
I look down at her, at the way her eyes are half-closed, the way she’s holding onto me like the words are keeping her tethered to something good.
She looks up at me, a little embarrassed, a little defiant. “It was playing the first night we met,” she says quietly. “Remember?”
My chest tightens.
And before I can stop myself, before I can think about how insane this probably looks, I open my mouth.
“Almost heaven…” I sing.
The cab goes dead silent.
Bri’s eyes widen, then she laughs harder, actually laughs, and keeps going.
“West Virginia…”
I shake my head, disbelief and relief tangling together, and sing with her, louder now, like I don’t care who hears it.
“Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong…”
Ghost snorts. Riot mutters, “What the fuck,” under his breath.
But no one tells us to stop.
She presses her face back into my chest, still singing, still laughing, and I hold her tighter, my chin resting on her hair.