Chapter 25 Emma
EMMA
Iwake to emptiness.
The bed beside me is cold, the indentation where Bones lay barely visible in the pillow. For a moment I’m disoriented—the guest suite at the clubhouse, ice packs gone warm around my ankle, pain meds wearing off enough that I can feel the dull throb.
Then I remember.
The town meeting. Carlos. Running. The woods. The bath. Bones holding me while I fell apart.
And then . . . nothing. I must have fallen asleep.
I sit up carefully, wincing as my ankle protests. The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM. The clubhouse is quiet in that particular way that means most people are asleep, or gone.
My stomach drops.
I know where they went. Know what they’re doing. Bones didn’t say it explicitly, but he didn’t have to. “I’ll take care of it” means exactly what I think it means.
I should go back to sleep, trust him to handle it and be the good MC girlfriend who doesn’t ask questions.
But I can’t.
I swing my legs off the bed, testing my ankle. The pain is sharp but manageable. The surgical boot is on the floor where Maggie left it. I strap it on, then use the nightstand to haul myself upright.
The clubhouse hallway is dim, lit only by a couple of lamps. I make my way to the stairs, gripping the railing, taking each step slowly. Where the hell are my crutches?
Downstairs, the main room is mostly dark except for the bar area where a single downlight glows. Ginger sits at the bar, a mug of tea in front of her, staring at nothing.
She looks up when I hobble in. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Bones is gone.”
“Yeah.” She gestures to the stool next to her. “They’re all gone. Come. Sit down before you fall over.”
I make my way over and ease onto the stool, propping my booted foot on the lower rung. Ginger gets up and pours another mug of tea, sliding it toward me.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. “How do you do this? Just . . . sit here and wait?”
“Practice.” Ginger looks at me, and in the low light she looks older, tired. “Been doing this for twenty years, Emma. Every time Tank leaves on club business, I sit and I wait. And I don’t ask questions when he comes back.”
“But don’t you want to know?”
“No.” She says it with finality. “Knowing doesn’t help. Knowing just means I carry the weight of it too. And that’s not my job.”
“Then what is your job?”
“To be here when he gets home. To make sure he knows he’s got something good to come back to.
To help him wash the blood off—literal or otherwise—and remind him who he is underneath all the club shit.
” She sets down her mug. “That’s what we do, Emma.
We hold the light while they wade through the dark. ”
The words settle heavy in my chest. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
I’ve spent my whole life running from this. From the club, from Stoneheart, from what it means to love someone who lives in the gray. And now I’m being asked to not just accept it—but to be the light that guides him home.
“You already are.” Ginger gestures at me with her mug. “You’re down here, aren’t you? Waiting. Even though every part of you wants to call him, text him, demand to know what’s happening.”
She’s right. My phone is upstairs and part of me is grateful for the distance.
“Does it get easier?” I ask.
“No. But you get stronger.” She sips from her mug and carefully sets it back down.
“You want to know what the hardest part is? It’s not the waiting.
It’s not the not-knowing. It’s trusting that when they come back, they’re still the men we fell in love with.
That whatever they did out there doesn’t change who they are in here. ” She taps her chest.
“What if it does change them?”
“Then we help them find their way back.” Ginger looks at me directly. “But Bones? He’s not going to change. He’s going to do what needs to be done, and then he’s going to come home to you. That’s who he is. That’s who he’s always been.”
I think about that—about Bones at sixteen, watching over me in the woods. Bones at twenty, waiting for me to come home from New York. Bones only months ago, emptying a clip into the men who took me. Bones tonight, kissing me goodbye before he left to do it again.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.
“Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Keeps you from getting complacent.” Ginger stands, stretches. “But don’t let it eat you alive. He’s coming back, Emma. They always do.”
The door to the kitchen opens and Maggie emerges, looking just as tired as Ginger. She spots us at the bar and makes her way over.
“Steel?” Ginger asks.
“Left with them.” Maggie settles onto a stool. “They’ve got Mouse on the gate. Duck’s on the door. Reckon they’re all in place by now.”
My heart lurches. “Did someone call you?”
“No, honey.” Maggie looks at me. “No one calls. I’m just good at figuring out the clues.” Her eyes move down to my boot. “You should be sleeping. Your ankle—”
“I can’t sleep.” I stare into my tea. “Not until he’s back.”
Maggie and Ginger exchange a knowing look.
“Then we wait together,” Maggie says simply.
She makes a fresh pot of tea and the three of us sit in silence, watching the clock creep toward three AM, then four. The clubhouse stays quiet.
Right after five, the rumble of engines returns. A blast of headlights through the picture window, the crunch of bikes settling on gravel. I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth, a knot cinching tight in my chest.
Ginger barely glances out the window. “That’s them.”
She stands, brushes invisible lint from her shirt, and faces the front door, eyes hopeful.
When it opens, Tank is first—massive, tired, his usual calm more rigid, somehow.
Hawk right behind him, then Steel, who walks quietly to the kitchen without a word.
My heart’s pounding so hard I almost miss the way Bones comes in last, moving a little slower than usual, his hands slack at his sides.
He looks at me and for a second I see everything—the exhaustion, the anger, the relief. I’m not sure what to say. Is “Did you get him?” too crass? “Are you OK?” too na?ve? Instead, I just watch as Bones stops halfway into the room, hesitates, and then moves straight to me.
His arms go around my shoulders before I can decide what to say, and I feel his forehead press to the crown of my head. He’s shivering a little. Not from cold, but from the aftermath of adrenaline where you can’t shake the day off your skin.
I slip my arms around his waist and just hold on, squeezing tighter. I feel everyone looking, but let them. This is what I needed. The reassurance of heartbeat, of breath and bone and muscle. He’s safe and he’s here.
Tank is already at the bar, pouring himself a whiskey one-handed because the other arm is hooked around Ginger tight. He kisses the top of her head and says, “Go rest.”
“Only if you’re coming with me,” she says, pulling Tank toward the staircase. The others ghost off to corners of the main room, slumping into old recliners or heading for their rooms upstairs.
Bones is still holding me. “You want to talk?” I ask, voice quiet. “Or just . . .”
He shakes his head, just barely, but I feel the movement. “Just this. For a while.”
“OK,” I whisper, and let myself sway into him, my face pressed against his chest. He smells like cold wind and gunpowder.
“I thought I lost you.” The words just slip out, and instantly I’m pissed at myself for sounding needy.
“You could never lose me, swan,” he says. “Not in a million fucking years.”
I want to ask what happened, but it’s enough just to feel him breathing, just to know he’s alive and the world hasn’t yanked the rug out from under me.
We stand there for a while, the clubhouse settling into quiet around us. I hear Tank and Ginger’s door close upstairs. Hawk heads toward the chapel to talk to Stone, Steel tagging along behind.
Finally, Bones pulls back enough to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot, exhausted, but underneath all of that, there’s . . . relief.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you back upstairs. That ankle is supposed to be elevated.”
He scoops me up before I can argue, and I don’t bother protesting. Just wrap my arms around his neck and let him carry me.
Once we’re inside the guest suite, he sets me on the edge of the bed carefully, then steps back.
“I need to shower,” he says, and his voice is rough, raw. “Need to . . .”
He doesn’t finish, but I understand. Need to wash it off. Need to scrub away whatever happened tonight until all that’s left is him.
“OK.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s checking to make sure I’m real, that I’m still here. Then he turns and heads into the bathroom.
I hear the water start. Hear the shower door close. And I just sit there on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands, at the surgical boot strapped to my ankle, at the reality of what my life is now.
Bones killed a man tonight.
Maybe more than one. I don’t know, don’t want to know.
He killed someone who threatened me, and now he’s in the shower washing the evidence off his skin, and I’m sitting here waiting for him to come back to bed like this is normal.
And the thing is, it is normal. For this life. For the men of Stoneheart MC.
This is what Ginger meant about holding the light. This is what loving an outlaw looks like. Sitting in the dark at 5 AM, waiting for the sound of water to stop, knowing that when he comes out he’ll need me to remind him he’s more than what he just did.
And I’m choosing it. Not because I have to. Not because I’m trapped. But because this is where I belong. In the hard parts as much as the easy ones.
The shower runs for a long time. Longer than necessary. I picture him standing under the spray, palms pressed against the tile, letting the water beat down on his shoulders until his skin turns pink.
Finally, the water shuts off.
I hear movement in the bathroom—the medicine cabinet opening, closing. The sound of a towel. Then the door opens and Bones emerges wearing just his boxer briefs, hair still damp, water droplets on his shoulders.
He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he left part of himself somewhere between here and wherever they went tonight.
He crosses the room slowly and stops in front of me, taking me in. I realize I probably look a mess, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his t-shirt, surgical boot still strapped on, hair probably messy from when I was asleep earlier.
“Come on, swan,” he says softly, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you back in bed.”
I take his hand and instead of letting him help me up, I tug and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “Bones,” I whisper against his skin.
He goes still, then slowly kneels in front of me, eye-level now. His hands come to rest on my thighs, warm and steady.
“I’m OK,” he says, and I know he’s not just talking about physically. He’s telling me he came back whole. That whatever he did tonight didn’t break him.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Because if I open my mouth, I’ll tell him how terrified I was, how every minute felt like an eternity, how I kept imagining worst-case scenarios. And I can’t put that on him. Not when he just risked everything to keep me safe.
But a tear slides down my cheek anyway, betraying me.
His thumb catches it, brushing it away with heartbreaking gentleness. Then he leans up and kisses first one cheek, then the other, his lips soft against my skin.
“It’s OK,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re safe now. He can’t touch you ever again. No one can.”
I nod again, another tear falling, and he catches that one too.
His hands move to my boot, carefully undoing the Velcro straps. “Let’s get this off so you can sleep properly.”
He removes it with practiced care, setting it aside, then gently massages my ankle—just light pressure, checking the swelling. Then he stands and scoops me up, carrying me to the center of the bed and settling me against the pillows.
He climbs in beside me and I immediately turn into him, pressing my face against his chest. His arms come around me and we just lie there in the growing dawn light, holding each other.
No words. Just breathing. Just the steady beat of his heart under my ear and the warmth of his skin and the knowledge that we’re both here, both safe.
After a while, I tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are already on me, watching me.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone.
I lean in and kiss him, soft at first, just a brush of lips. He responds immediately, kissing me back with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
But then something shifts. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. His hand slides into my hair, gripping slightly, and I feel the tension in his body, the adrenaline, the relief, the desperate need to connect.
I press closer, my leg hooking over his hip, and he groans against my mouth. His hand slides down my side, under the t-shirt, palm hot against my skin.
“Emma,” he breathes, pulling back slightly. “We should sleep. You need to rest, and your ankle—”
“I don’t care about my ankle,” I whisper, dragging him closer. “I care about having your cock inside me.” He groans. “Fuck me, Bones. And don’t you dare be careful.”