Chapter 26
Jo-Leigh
Morning comes too fast. I barely sleep, my thoughts chasing themselves in messy circles until the first thin streaks of sunlight creep through the blinds. When I finally drag myself out of bed, the sheet tangled around my legs, Swag’s side is already cold. He’s gone.
The dress is draped over the back of the chair like a warning.
I stare at it for what feels like forever before I finally force myself to move.
My hands shake as I pull the soft white fabric over my head, smoothing it down over my hips.
It fits perfectly. That somehow makes it worse.
Because it feels like everything’s already decided.
A pair of white flats finishes off the look.
I stand in front of the mirror, trying to recognize the girl staring back at me. She looks calm. Almost put together. But underneath, my chest feels tight, my stomach knotted so hard it hurts to breathe.
This is a mistake.
The thought whispers sharp and insistent in the back of my mind, but I shove it down, force myself to keep moving, to keep breathing.
By the time I step out into the hallway, the clubhouse is buzzing — low voices, boots scuffing against old hardwood, the faint smell of cigarette smoke curling beneath the heavier scent of leather and oil. Everyone knows what today is.
Pretty Boy is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His gaze meets mine as I pass, and he doesn’t say a word, but I see the warning in his eyes, silent but screaming: Think this through.
I drop my gaze and keep walking.
The front doors are propped open, and sunlight spills across the worn steps leading down to where the bikes are lined up in perfect formation, chrome catching the light.
Swag’s standing near the edge of the lot, his cut stretched across his shoulders, black T-shirt hugging the lines of muscle beneath.
He looks untouchable. Untamed. Every inch the man the world should fear.
And somehow, he’s about to be my husband.
He turns when he senses me, his gaze locking on mine instantly, like he always knows where I am without even trying. For half a heartbeat, something soft flickers in his expression before it’s gone, swallowed by that controlled, steady calm he wears like armor.
“You look perfect, bee,” he says quietly when I reach him, his knuckles brushing against mine in a fleeting, secret touch.
Perfect. The word lands heavy, curling tight in my chest. I should say something, but the words get stuck somewhere between my throat and my heart.
Instead, I let him guide me toward the line of bikes, Pretty Boy falling in behind us like a shadow.
I understand why Swag picked this dress as soon as I climb on behind him.
The short, flowing skirt allows me to comfortably without the risk of it getting tangled in the bike.
The ride into town is quiet, the roar of engines drowning out the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.
By the time we roll up to the courthouse, my hands are trembling.
He notices but he doesn’t call me on it.
He just reaches for my hand, his grip steady, warm, unyielding.
Inside, the courthouse smells faintly of old paper and furniture polish, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.
A clerk at the counter glances up, eyes widening when she sees the wall of leather and tattoos filling the lobby.
Pretty Boy mutters something under his breath and peels off to stand near the doorway, his watchful gaze scanning every shadow.
My heart hammers, loud enough that I’m sure he can feel it through my skin.
Because standing here, holding his hand, staring down the reality of what we’re about to do, I can’t shake the feeling twisting sharp and tight inside me.
I’m marrying a man who hasn’t told me the whole truth.
I’m marrying into a world that already wants to eat me alive.
And somewhere deep in my chest, a quiet, relentless voice whispers the thing I can’t admit out loud.
This might be the biggest mistake of my life.
Swag leans down, his lips brushing just above my ear, his voice rough and certain, as if he can sense the storm inside me.
“You’re mine after today, bee,” he murmurs. “No one touches you. No one takes you from me. Not Langston. Not anyone.”
The words should feel like safety. Instead, they sound a little too much like a cage.
The clerk calls our names, and my chest tightens. Swag stands first, taking my hand in his and leads me forward without hesitation. Like there’s no question, no doubt, no choice but this. But I can feel my pulse pounding in my throat, fast and uneven.
What am I doing?
The officiant, a woman in a navy blazer, greets us with a polite smile, her eyes flicking between us and the wall of leather and tattoos gathered behind us.
Half the club showed up, lined against the back of the room like sentries, silent and dangerous.
I feel Swag’s thumb trace slow circles against the inside of my wrist. It’s grounding, but it also feels possessive.
Like the onesie buried in that blue box, the one stitched with Property of Swag.
He’s already claimed me in every way that matters. This is just paperwork making it legal.
“Do you have your rings?” the officiant asks gently.
Pretty Boy steps forward silently and places a small black box in Swag’s hand. I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on me.
But Swag turns toward me, his expression softening, and for a heartbeat, the weight in my chest loosens just slightly. This man — dangerous, possessive, broken — looks at me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
“Repeat after me,” the officiant says.
Swag doesn’t need prompting. His voice is low, steady, unshakable when he speaks. “I take you, Jo-Leigh Lewis, to be mine.”
Not “wife.” Not “partner.” Mine.
The words crawl over my skin, hot and cold all at once.
When it’s my turn, the officiant smiles gently, nodding for me to continue, but my throat locks tight. I hesitate for half a beat too long, and Swag’s hand squeezes mine, his eyes sharp on mine like a warning.
I swallow hard. “I… I take you, Swag, to be mine.”
My voice shakes, but I force the words out anyway.
The officiant says, “You need to say his legal name, honey.”
“Right. I take you, Jackson, to be mine.”
There’s a pause, a moment of silence that stretches a little too long.
Then the officiant continues, but the sound of her voice fades beneath the pounding in my ears.
Because over her shoulder, I see Pretty Boy straighten sharply near the door, his entire body going tense.
My gaze flicks toward the courthouse lobby through the glass.
There’s a black SUV parked crooked at the curb, engine still running.
A man leans against it, hands in his pockets, a cap pulled low over his face.
Pretty Boy’s hand slips inside his cut toward his gun.
Swag follows my gaze, his entire body stiffening, muscles going tight under his shirt. He leans forward just slightly, close enough that his breath ghosts warm against my cheek when he speaks.
“Finish this, bee,” he murmurs, voice sharp and low. “Now.”
My mouth is dry, my chest tight, but I manage to nod faintly. The officiant declares the words, and I repeat them without hearing myself, going through motions my heart isn’t sure of.
When she finally says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Swag doesn’t wait. He pulls me against him, his hand cupping the back of my neck, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that’s hot and possessive enough to make my knees weak. But under the heat, there’s something darker.
Because this isn’t just a kiss.
It’s a claim.
When he pulls back, his hand slides down to the small of my back, guiding me firmly toward the exit. Pretty Boy falls in on my other side, close enough to shield me, his jaw tight as his eyes flick constantly toward the windows.
The black SUV is still there when we step outside. Still idling. Still waiting.
Swag’s grip on me tightens as he leans down, voice barely a whisper, gravel rough with heat and fury.
“Smile for me, little bee. We’re married now. And Ricky Langston’s about to find out in real time.”
My stomach flips, cold and sharp, but I force a smile onto my lips as he steers me forward. Pretty Boy falls into step on my other side, close enough that his arm brushes mine, his hand resting near the pistol tucked beneath his cut.
The sunlight is blinding as we step out of the courthouse, heat rising off the pavement, the roar of distant traffic buzzing in my ears. That black SUV is still there, engine idling, windows tinted dark enough to hide whoever’s inside.
Swag doesn’t hesitate.
He walks us straight down the courthouse steps, every line of his body coiled tight, ready to strike. Behind us, a few of the guys from the club peel off the walls and fan out, scanning the street, forming an unspoken perimeter. The air feels electric, like something’s coming.
The SUV door cracks open. I hear Pretty Boy curse under his breath. My grip on Swag’s hand tightens automatically, my pulse slamming in my ears.
Two men climb out. They’re big, broad-shouldered, wearing ball caps low and jackets zipped despite the heat. Swag angles his body, subtly shifting me behind him, his hand sliding from mine to rest on the small of my back, firm and grounding.
“Stay close,” he murmurs without looking at me, his voice quiet but lethal.
The taller of the two men steps forward, his gaze fixed on Swag. “Prez.”
Swag’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down. “If Langston wants a message delivered, he should grow a pair and show up himself.”
The man smirks, tilting his head slightly, but his voice is cold. “Message is simple. Langston says congratulations and enjoy the honeymoon while it lasts.”
Pretty Boy shifts beside me, hand already hovering near his gun. One of the other club members edges closer too, his posture screaming ready.