Chapter 13
Reagan stood outside Channel's cabin for three full minutes before she knocked.
The compound had quieted hours ago, families retreating to their cabins, brothers drifting toward the lodge or their own beds. She'd tried to sleep. Tried to tell herself the feelings churning in her chest would settle by morning.
They hadn't.
She was tired of deciding everything alone.
Nine years of it. Nine years of every choice landing on her shoulders, every risk calculated in isolation, every night spent wondering if she'd made the right call with no one to ask.
She'd learned to carry it—learned to be proud of carrying it—but tonight, watching Channel's face when she'd laced her fingers through his, something had cracked.
She didn't want to be alone anymore.
Not tonight.
The door opened before she finished knocking.
Channel stood in the doorway wearing jeans and nothing else, his hair damp from a shower, his eyes widening when he saw her.
"Reagan?"
"Can I come in?"
He stepped back without a word, and she walked into his space.
It was smaller than her borrowed cabin—prospect quarters, stripped to essentials. A narrow bed against one wall, a dresser, his cut hanging from a hook by the door. The lamp she'd given him back sat on the dresser, casting warm light across his bare chest.
He'd kept it. Of course he had.
"Is something wrong?" He was studying her face, concern replacing surprise. "Did something happen?"
"No. Nothing's wrong." She turned to face him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I just... I wanted to see you."
Something shifted in his expression. The concern didn't disappear, but it was joined by something else. Something heated. Something hopeful and uncertain at the same time.
"You wanted to see me."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." His voice dropped. "That's not a problem at all."
He moved toward her slowly, like she might spook if he came too fast. Reagan held her ground, watching him close the distance between them until they were inches apart.
"You're sure?" His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone the way it had on the bluff. "Because once I touch you, Reagan, I'm not going to want to stop."
"I know."
"And I meant what I said. You're mine." His eyes searched hers. "That doesn't change after tonight. It gets worse."
"Worse?"
"More." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her lips. "I'll be more possessive. More protective. More everything. You need to know what you're walking into."
Reagan reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him down to her.
"Shut up and kiss me."
His mouth found hers with a groan that vibrated through her whole body. Not gentle—hungry, desperate, the kiss of a man who'd been holding back for days and couldn't do it anymore. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back, and Reagan grabbed his shoulders and held on.
He kissed like he fought. Focused, intense, completely committed. She tasted coffee and something sweeter underneath, felt the scrape of stubble against her jaw, heard herself make a sound she didn't recognize.
"Wait." He pulled back, breathing hard, his hands shaking where they cradled her face. "Wait, I need to—"
"What?"
"My name." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. "You should know my real name. Before we—it's Tyler. Tyler Skaggs. Channel is what the club calls me, but Tyler is... that's who I am. Underneath."
Reagan's chest tightened. He was giving her something. Something real, something he didn't share easily.
"Tyler," she said softly, testing it.
His whole body shuddered.
"Say it again."
"Tyler." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I see you, Tyler."
He broke.
His mouth crashed into hers and he lifted her, hands gripping her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist. Three steps and her back hit the wall, his body pressing into hers, every hard plane and edge making itself known.
"I've wanted this since you looked at me in your store." His mouth moved to her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive spot below her ear. "Stood there with bruises on your arms and told me to mind my own business."
"I was trying to." Reagan gasped as his teeth scraped her shoulder. "You made it difficult."
"Good."
He carried her to the bed, laying her down with more care than his desperation suggested. Reagan pulled him after her, wanting his weight, his heat, the reality of him pressed against her.
"You're shaking," she said, her hands tracing the muscles of his back.
"I'm nervous."
"You? Nervous?" She laughed—actually laughed, because the idea of this man who'd killed for her being nervous about touching her was ridiculous and wonderful at the same time.
His cheeks flushed. Actually flushed, pink spreading across his cheekbones, and Reagan wanted him so badly it hurt.
"Don't laugh at me," he muttered.
"I'm not—" She pulled him down, kissed him soft and slow. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because you're the most dangerous man I've ever met and you're blushing because I'm in your bed."
"You're in my bed." His voice cracked on the word. "Reagan, you chose me. The patched brothers—they're right there, and you walked past all of them and knocked on my door."
"I didn't want them. I wanted you."
His eyes went dark. Possessive. The dangerous man she'd seen kill coming through, mixed with the vulnerable one who'd just given her his name.
"Say that again."
"I wanted you." She cupped his face. "I want you. Only you."
He kissed her like she'd saved his life.
His hands found the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and Reagan arched into his touch as his palms mapped her skin. Reverent and hungry at the same time, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch her and couldn't stop himself from wanting more.
"You're beautiful." He kissed her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the sensitive skin of her ribs. "I thought it the first time I saw you. Thought, 'she's beautiful and she's going to tell me to go to hell.'"
"I did tell you to go to hell."
"I know." His grin was sharp against her stomach. "Made me want you more."
They shed the rest of their clothes in a tangle of hands and breath, both of them too desperate to be elegant about it. When they finally came together—skin to skin, nothing between them—Reagan felt something click into place she hadn't known was missing.
Like inventory she'd been searching for her whole life.
He was careful with her, even when careful was clearly the last thing on his mind. Watched her face for signs of discomfort, adjusted when she shifted, kissed her through the moments when sensation overwhelmed everything else.
"Okay?" he asked, voice strained, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of holding back.
"Yes." She pulled him closer. "Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
The man who'd been eager and nervous became something else when she gave him permission. Focused. Intense. Overwhelming in the best possible way. His mouth found hers as they moved together, swallowing her sounds, giving her his own.
"Mine," he breathed against her lips. "Tell me you're mine."
"Yours." The word came out broken, barely a whisper. "I'm yours, Tyler. I'm yours."
He shattered.
She followed seconds later, his name on her lips—his real name, the one he'd trusted her with—and the world narrowed to this. His arms around her. His breath in her hair. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress, grounding her, anchoring her to something real.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Channel—Tyler—rolled to the side, pulling her against his chest, his heart pounding under her ear.
"Still breathing?" he asked.
"Barely."
His laugh rumbled through her. Warm. Content. The laugh of a man who'd gotten something he wanted and couldn't quite believe it.
"I should warn you," he said, his fingers tracing patterns on her back. "I'm not letting you go now."
"Who said I wanted you to?"
"Nobody." He kissed the top of her head. "Just making sure we're on the same page."
Reagan shifted, looking up at him. His face was softer than she'd ever seen it, the deployment shadows retreating, something young and hopeful breaking through.
"We're on the same page," she said. "I don't do this. Haven't done this in years. But you—" She stopped, trying to find words for the feeling in her chest. "I haven't let anyone into the back room of my life since I left home. And you just walked right in like you belonged there."
"Because I do."
Such simple certainty. Such complete conviction.
Reagan rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow. His hand kept moving on her back, soothing strokes that made her eyes heavy.
"Go to sleep," he murmured.
"What about you?"
"I'll keep watch."
"Tyler—"
"I like when you say that." He kissed her hair again. "Go to sleep, Reagan. I've got the doors."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he needed rest too, that he couldn't keep functioning on two hours of sleep and adrenaline. But his hands were warm and his heartbeat was steady and she was so tired—not just from today, but from years of carrying everything alone.
For once, someone else was watching the doors.
She let herself fall.
Sleep came fast, dragging her under with the easy surrender of a body that had finally stopped fighting. She dreamed of nothing—for once, blessedly nothing—and woke only once, briefly, to find Channel exactly where he'd been when she closed her eyes.
Sitting up against the headboard. Eyes on the door.
Still watching.
Still protecting.
His hand found hers in the darkness, squeezed once, and she fell back under knowing that for the first time in nine years, she wasn't alone.