Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
storm
"It's done."
Ace nods, taking in the information with his usual stoic calm. Around the chapel table, my brothers wear expressions ranging from satisfaction to grim acceptance. We've been workin on this for days; calling in favors, leveraging connections, applying pressure where needed.
"Cantlay agreed to the terms?" Digger asks, clearly surprised. Men like Cantlay rarely back down, especially not when money is involved.
"Not exactly," I admit, leaning back in my chair. "But Makenna Gallagher made him an offer he couldn't refuse."
Shadow chuckles darkly, understanding the implication. "The Irish really came through on this one."
"They did," I confirm. Makenna's intervention had been decisive, a mixture of financial incentives and threats that made it clear to Cantlay that pursuing Eric's debt through Camryn would cost him far more than the fifty grand he was owed.
"Eric's debt has been transferred to the Irish. They'll collect from him directly."
"And Eric?" Mayhem asks, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
"Being handled," I say simply. No need to elaborate on what that means. The brothers understand Eric won't be bothering Camryn or Emily ever again. Whether he leaves town voluntarily or in a body bag depends entirely on his next move.
"So it's over," Ace states, a statement rather than a question. "Camryn and the kid can go home."
Something twists in my gut at those words. Home. Back to their house, their normal life, away from the clubhouse. Away from me.
"Yeah," I say, keeping my voice level despite the turmoil inside. "They can go home when they're ready."
Ace studies me for a moment, then nods, a knowing look in his eyes. "Meeting adjourned," he announces, pushing back from the table.
As the others file out of the chapel, Ace lingers, waiting until we're alone before speaking. "You gonna tell her?"
"About the arrangement with Cantlay? Of course."
He shakes his head. "Not that. About how you feel. About what you want."
I stare at him, caught off guard by his directness. Ace and I have been brothers for years, fought side by side, trusted each other with our lives, but we've never been ones for heart-to-heart talks.
"She knows how I feel," I say finally. "We've talked about it."
"But have you told her what you want? Long term?" he presses.
I hesitate, thinking back to this morning, to waking up with Camryn in my arms, to making pancakes with Emily, to the domestic scene that felt so right it scared me.
"No," I admit. "Not in so many words."
Ace nods, unsurprised. "You should. Before she goes back to that house, back to her old life, you should make damn sure she knows what could be waiting for her here."
"And what's that?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Family," he says simply. "A home. Protection. Everything she and that little girl deserve."
The word hits me hard, stirring up feelings I've spent a lifetime burying. Family, something I lost long ago and never expected to find again, especially not in a woman I've known for barely a month and her butterfly-loving daughter.
Yet here I am, contemplating exactly that.
"Thanks," I tell him, meaning it. "I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long," he advises, heading for the door. "Women like her don't come along every day, brother."
I sit alone in the chapel for several minutes after he leaves, turning his words over in my mind.
Ace is right, I need to be honest with Camryn about what I want, about the future I'm starting to envision for us.
But the thought of laying myself bare like that, of risking rejection, makes my chest tight in a way facing down armed enemies never has.
Eventually, I make my way back to the room, rehearsing what I'll say, how I'll broach the subject. But when I open the door, all planned speeches fly from my mind.
Camryn is standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts, her long legs bare, hair damp from a recent shower. She's hummin softly, moving around the small space with a grace that makes my mouth go dry.
"Hey," she says, looking up with a smile that turns questioning when she sees my expression. "Everything okay?"
"Where's Emily?" I ask, scanning the room for signs of the little girl.
"Girls' night with Sera and Ruby," she explains. "Tavia invited her to stay over. Apparently they're having a movie marathon and making sundaes."
"So we're alone," I say, the implication hanging in the air between us.
Her cheeks flush slightly but she holds my gaze. "We are."
I cross the room in three strides, coming to stand before her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body but not yet touching. "I have news," I say, forcing myself to focus on the reason I came back. "About Cantlay, about Eric. It's handled."
Her eyes widen. "Handled? What does that mean exactly?"
"It means you're safe," I tell her. "Cantlay has agreed to back off. Eric's debt is no longer your problem. You and Emily... you can go home, if that's what you want."
She absorbs this, her expression unreadable. "I see," she says finally. "And is that what you want, for us to go home?"
The question catches me off guard. "What I want..." I begin, then stop, struggling to find the right words. "Camryn, what I want is for you and Emily to be safe and happy. If that means going back to your house and your normal life, then that's what should happen."
"That's not what I asked," she says softly, stepping closer. "I asked what you want, Storm. Not what you think should happen, not what makes logical sense. What do you want?"
The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility. I take a deep breath, Ace's advice echoing in my mind. Be honest. Tell her what you want.
"I want you," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. "Both of you. Here, with me. Not just until the danger passes, not just as a temporary arrangement. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to make breakfast with Emily. I want... everything. A family. Our family."
The confession hangs in the air between us, leaving me raw and vulnerable in a way I've never allowed myself to be before. Camryn stares at me, her hazel eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
"Say something," I urge when the silence stretches too long. "Anything."
She steps forward, closing the last bit of distance between us, her hands coming up to frame my face. "I want that too," she whispers. "All of it. With you."
Relief crashes through me like a wave, followed immediately by a surge of desire so strong it's almost painful. I capture her lips with mine, pouring all the longing, all the hope I've been holding back, into the kiss.
She responds instantly, her body pressing against mine, arms winding around my neck. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, desperate, as days of restraint and uncertainty dissolve in the heat between us.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom. My t-shirt rides up her thighs, revealing a glimpse of black lace, which makes my blood burn hotter.
Inside the bedroom, I set her down gently on the bed, taking a moment to simply look at her; flushed cheeks, tousled hair, eyes dark with desire. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You're staring," she says, echoing my words from this morning.
"Can't help it," I reply, shrugging out of my cut and tossing it aside. "You're worth staring at."
She blushes; a charming reaction that contrasts with the boldness in her gaze as she watches me undress. I pull my t-shirt over my head, revealing the tattoos that cover my chest and arms; intricate designs that tell the story of my life, my loyalties, and my losses.
Her eyes trace the inked patterns, curious and appreciative. "Beautiful," she murmurs, surprising me. Most people find my tattoos intimidating rather than beautiful.
"Your turn," I say, nodding toward the shirt she's wearing.
She hesitates just a moment then reaches for the hem, drawing it slowly upward. I catch my breath as she reveals herself inch by tantalizing inch; the smooth skin of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the black lace panties that barely conceal the heat at her core.
She pauses with the shirt bunched just below her breasts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. I understand instantly what's holding her back. This is the first time she's been with someone since Eric; the first time she's chosen to be vulnerable with a man in years.
"We can stop," I tell her, meaning it despite the ache in my body. "Anytime you want, Camryn. Just say the word."
She shakes her head, determination replacing hesitation. "I don't want to stop," she says, and in one fluid motion pulls the shirt over her head before tossing it aside.
My breath catches at the sight of her, the gentle swell of her breasts, the delicate lace of her bra, the soft curve of her stomach. She's everything. Real. Beautiful. Mine.
"Goddamn," I whisper, moving toward her slowly, giving her time to adjust to my gaze, to my presence. "You're fucking perfect."
Her laugh is soft, a little self-conscious. "I'm not, but thank you for thinking so."
I slide onto the bed beside her, my hand already reaching out like it knows exactly where to go.
My fingertips brush along the curve of her cheek and glide down her neck, following the line of her collarbone.
She’s warm under my touch, smooth and responsive.
I hear the hitch in her breath, see the way her eyes flutter shut.
“Perfect for me,” I murmur, and I mean it. Every damn inch of her.
She shivers, a soft sound catching in her throat when my fingers trace the edge of her bra. “Storm…” she breathes my name, part plea, part dare.