Bonus Epilogue
STEEL
Duck’s Thanksgiving whiskey has gone straight to my head.
Not that I’m complaining. After the last few months, I figure I’ve earned a little celebration of my own.
I’m a full patch member. Finally.
I trace the rocker on my cut as I stumble down the hallway toward my room. Even after three months the leather feels heavier.
Fairy Floss, the women call me. I let them. Doesn’t matter what nickname they give me—what matters is the colors on my back and the brothers who put them there.
The clubhouse is quiet now, most everyone either passed out or paired off. I should probably drink some water, eat something, be responsible.
Instead, I’m heading to my room to collapse face-first into my pillow and deal with the hangover tomorrow.
I push open the door to my room, already reaching for the light switch—
And freeze.
Someone’s inside.
The moonlight through the window catches her first—a silhouette leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, completely at ease in my space like she belongs there.
My hand drops from the light switch. The drunk haze clears faster than it should, survival instincts kicking in despite the whiskey sloshing through my veins.
I let my gaze drift up. Taking inventory.
Boots first. Black leather, knee-high, with a heel that could double as a weapon. The kind of boots a woman wears when she wants to fuck—or fight.
Thigh-high stockings disappear under a skirt that’s more a suggestion than fabric. She’s got thick thighs that make my mouth go dry despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
My gaze lifts higher still to curves that could stop traffic—full hips, a waist my palms itch to hold, breasts that strain against a top that’s doing the Lord’s work keeping them contained and perky.
And the weapons.
Jesus Christ, the weapons.
A knife is strapped to one thigh. Another at her hip. The telltale bulge of a shoulder holster sits under the jacket she’s wearing. This woman is a walking armory dressed up in seduction.
My gaze finally reaches her face.
Long dark hair tumbles over her shoulders. Full lips curve in a smile that’s equal parts invitation and threat. Her eyes catch the moonlight and throw it back—dark, knowing, amused.
She’s gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that gets men killed.
I kick the door closed behind me, the click of the latch loud in the silence.
She pushes off the wall, moving toward me with the fluid grace of someone who knows exactly how dangerous she is. Each step is deliberate. Calculated. The moonlight catches the glint of her knife, the curve of her smile.
She stops inches away. Close enough that I can smell her perfume—dark and expensive, nothing like the cheap stuff the women I grew up around wore. She’s close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
Close enough to kill me, if that’s what she’s here for.
Her hand comes up, fingers tracing along my jaw. Despite every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, to run—I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I know that touch. Know it like I know my own heartbeat, even after three years of trying to forget.
“Hello, husband,” she murmurs, her smile turning sharp. “Have you missed me?”
THE END…