Chapter 25
JOSIE
The nightmares come in fragments.
Headlights. The smell of chemicals. Ivan’s soft voice asking questions while his fists delivered consequences. The cold press of metal against my temple and Caruso’s reptilian eyes watching me like I was already dead.
I jerk awake with a gasp, heart slamming against my ribs. For one terrifying moment I don’t know where I am.
“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”
Stone’s voice cuts through the panic. His arms are already around me, pulling me against his chest, one hand stroking my hair while the other presses flat against my back like he’s trying to hold me together.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs against my temple. “You’re home. I’ve got you.”
I press my face into his neck and breathe him in, panting and gasping. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as the fragments of the nightmare fade, replaced by the solid warmth of the man holding me.
“Sorry,” I manage. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t apologize.” His arms tighten. “Don’t ever apologize.”
This is the third night in a row. The third time I’ve woken up gasping, clawing my way out of nightmares that are far too real. Stone hasn’t complained once. He hasn’t shown any sign of frustration or exhaustion, even though I know he’s not sleeping either.
He holds me. Every time.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Little after four.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Josie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and even in the darkness I can see the worry carved into his features. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay. You went through a horrific experience. It’s going to take time.”
“I know.” I do know. Intellectually, I understand trauma responses. I’ve worked with enough victims to recognize the signs—the hyper-vigilance, the nightmares, the way certain sounds or smells can trigger a flood of memory.
It’s been a while since I experienced any of it.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Stone asks carefully. “A professional?”
“You mean a therapist?”
“Yeah.”
I consider it. I used to see a woman in Atlanta. It started as a workplace health and safety yearly mandated exercise to reduce our insurance premiums, but I’d found talking to someone a few times a year about the material I’d been exposed to helped.
“I saw someone in Atlanta,” I say finally. “I’ll reach out and see if she has any tele appointments available.”
“Sounds good.”
“But let me get through the next few days first. The FBI debrief, the election, all of it. Then I’ll book it.”
“You want me to organize it for you?”
“No, I’m good. Really.”
“Okay.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Whatever you need.”
Whatever you need. He’s been saying that a lot lately. Whatever you need, Josie. Just tell me and I’ll make it happen.
The problem is, most of the time I don’t know what I need.
I feel fragile and vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before—like if I move too fast or think too hard, I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.
I hate it. I’ve spent my entire adult life being strong, being capable, being the person others lean on.
This weakness feels like a betrayal to the person I am.
“You’re overthinking it,” Stone murmurs.
“I’m not—”
“You are. I can practically hear the gears grinding.” He shifts us so we’re lying face to face, his hand cupping my cheek. “Talk to me.”
“I just...” I struggle to find the words. “I feel broken. I know that’s normal, I know it’s a trauma response, but knowing something intellectually and feeling it are two different things.”
“You’re not broken.” His voice is fierce. “You survived. You kept your head, gathered intel, stayed alive long enough for us to reach you. That’s not weakness, babe. That’s strength.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“I know.” He pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin.
“But you are. The nightmares, the fear, the moments when it all comes flooding back—that’s you being human.
Your body is trying to process stress. We have to ride it out and work through it.
” He kisses my forehead again. “Your sexy brain needs to recover just like the rest of your body.”
“Well when you put it like that….” I sigh, relaxing into him. “The woman they grabbed, is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Shaken up, but fine. The FBI got her statement, and she’s getting some counseling.” Stone pauses. “She asked about you. Wanted to know if the woman they were after made it out okay.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re the toughest person I know.” His hand slides down to squeeze my ass. “And that you’re going to be fine. Eventually.”
Eventually. I hold onto that word like a lifeline.
“Go back to sleep,” I tell him. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’m not sleeping until you do.”
“Stone—”
“Fuck it.” He sits up, taking me with him. “I’ve got a better idea.”
I laugh. “We just had sex like three hours ago.”
“As much as I love your delectable body, get dressed,” he says, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Warm layers. Jeans, not sweats.”
“Okay? Where are we going?”
He’s pulling on his own jeans. “We’re going for a ride.”
“A ride.” I stare at his back, my sleep-deprived brain struggling to catch up. “It’s—” I check my phone. “—4:47 in the morning.”
“Best time for it.” He turns, and even in the dim light I can see the hint of a smile. “Trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then get dressed. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”
He slips out before I can change my mind.
I sit there for a moment, bemused, before the absurdity of the situation makes me laugh. Here I am, recovering from a near-death experience, plagued by nightmares, and the president of a motorcycle club wants to take me on a pre-dawn joyride.
This is my life now.
I get dressed, chuckling.
The clubhouse is silent as I make my way downstairs—that particular quality of quiet that only exists in the hours before dawn, when even the most dedicated night owls have finally surrendered to sleep.
Stone is waiting by the back door, two leather jackets draped over his arm. One is his—worn and familiar, the Stoneheart patch visible even in the low light. The other is newer.
“Whose is that?” I ask.
He holds it out. “Yours.”
“You bought me a jacket?”
He gives me a look that says I’m crazy for thinking he wouldn’t have.
Got it.
I slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s a perfect fit, the leather is soft, and it smells faintly of wax.
“Ready?” Stone asks.
I strike a pose. “Let’s do it.”
His grins. “Come on.”
His massive Harley gleams even in the pre-dawn darkness. Stone hands me a helmet, adjusts the strap under my chin with gentle fingers, then swings his leg over and settles into the seat.
“Climb on. Hold tight.”
The seat is higher than I expected, and I have to use Stone’s shoulder for balance as I swing my leg over. The leather is cold against my thighs, but his body is warm where I press against his back.
“Arms around my waist,” he instructs. “Lean when I lean. Don’t fight me.”
“I never fight you.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my palms. “Sweetheart, that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told. Calling me on shit, is one of my favorite things about you.”
Before I can respond, he kicks the engine to life.
The sound is enormous—a deep, throaty roar that shatters the silence and sends a flock of birds exploding from a nearby tree. I tighten my grip, and Stone pats my clasped hands in reassurance.
Then we’re moving.
The town is a blur in my peripheral vision—dark houses, empty streets, the occasional glow of a streetlight. But Stone doesn’t stay in town. He takes us past the last buildings, past the Welcome to Stoneheart sign, and onto a winding road that climbs into the mountains.
The air gets colder as we ascend. I press closer to Stone’s back, grateful for the warmth of his body, the solid wall of muscle between me and the wind. The engine’s rumble becomes a rhythm, almost meditative, and I find my racing thoughts starting to slow.
This is what he loves. This freedom. The speed. The feeling of the world falling away.
The road twists and turns, following the contour of the mountain. Pine trees rise on either side, dark sentinels against the slowly lightening sky. Somewhere below us, the valley spreads out like a patchwork quilt—fields and farms and the distant cluster of buildings that is Stoneheart.
And then Stone pulls off onto a scenic overlook, kills the engine, and everything goes quiet.
I can hear birds waking in the trees, the rustle of wind through branches, the tick of the cooling engine.
“Look,” Stone says softly.
I turn to follow his gaze.
The sun is rising.
It crests the far mountains in shades of gold and pink, painting the sky in colors I don’t have names for. Slowly, the light catches the valley below, turning mist into spun gold, setting the world ablaze with a warmth that seems impossible after the cold darkness of the ride.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Boone,” I breathe.
“I come here sometimes, when things get loud in my head. When the club is too much, and the weight of it all feels like it’s going to crush me.”
We sit there on his bike—my arms still loosely wrapped around him, his hand occasionally coming back to rest on my knee—and we watch the sun climb higher. The colors shift and change, gold bleeding into blue, the first real warmth of the day starting to cut through the mountain chill.
And slowly, gradually, I feel the fear and grief loosen in my chest.
Not the grief—that’s still there, will probably always be there. But the sharp edges of it soften, smoothed by the beauty of this moment, by the man who thought to share it with me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t turn around, but I feel his hand squeeze my knee.
“Anytime, sweetheart. I mean it.”
We stay until the sun is fully up, until the spectacular colors have faded into ordinary daylight, until the world below has started to wake. Then Stone kicks the engine to life, and we wind our way back down the mountain.
When we pull back into the clubhouse lot, the others are starting to stir—I can see lights in the kitchen, smell coffee brewing through an open window. Stone kills the engine and helps me off the bike, steady hands on my waist.
“You should eat something,” he says. “Maggie’s probably got breakfast going.”
“Okay.” I start to turn toward the building, then stop. Look back at him.
He’s still straddling the bike, helmet dangling from one hand, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. The morning light catches the silver in his hair, the lines around his eyes, the quiet intensity that drew me in from the very first day.
“Stone?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time the nightmares come, take me on another ride.”
His smile is slow and warm and real.
“Count on it.”