CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KADE
It’s a glimpse into the life Eden deserves. The one she needs.
We spend the weekend relaxed. We eat good food, watch films that avoid violence and anything that reminds us of our old life.
We laugh and talk about the baby and who we think it looks like.
We agree with my eyes and her nose, my lips and her brown hair.
My sense of humour and her gentle temperament.
And it's nice.
But there’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that it’s not real. It’s fake. It’s a life we’re creating to avoid the heaviness of reality. That I’m a biker with a shady past and she’s a survivor who killed her attacker.
So, tonight, as I sit propped against the headboard of her bed, hands resting in my lap, eyes fixed on the window while the sky fades from dusky orange to murky black, I finally ask the question that’s been burning in my chest.
“Do you think about it?”
She turns her head slightly. “What?”
“Liam,” I say. “His ending.”
Her fingers twist in her lap, and guilt cuts sharp through me for disturbing the peace we’ve found. But the men in group keep telling me that avoiding it isn’t the same as dealing with it.
“Sorry,” I add quickly. “I know it must be hard—”
“It’s not that,” she cuts in, shaking her head.
“I do think about it. A lot.” She exhales slowly.
“One of the women, I can’t remember which, said it would haunt me.
” She lifts her eyes to mine. “But it doesn’t.
” She pauses before adding, “I’m glad he’s dead.
I’m glad he can’t hurt anyone else. Most survivors don’t get that kind of peace.
” Her voice steadies. “The fact it was my hand that stopped him . . . it gives me that.”
Something warm and unexpected swells in my chest. Not pride that she killed him, but relief that she’s not drowning in it. That he isn’t living rent-free in her head.
I offer a small smile, turning my palm upward. She slides her hand into mine, and I curl my fingers around hers.
“I’m glad too,” I say quietly. “I hated thinking he might be giving you nightmares.”
We sit in silence, something we’ve become comfortable doing lately.
After a few minutes, I drop my feet to the floor. “I should let you sleep.”
I still when her hand slips around my wrist. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to stay in here tonight, with me.”
My chest twists with love for this woman, that she finally trusts me enough to lay beside her.
I slide back against the headboard. “Sure,” I say casually, like this isn’t huge.
She smiles, nodding. “Great.”
A few minutes pass, then she turns to face me.
“I went back to therapy.” My brow furrows. I hadn’t realised she was struggling. “Not because of Liam,” she rushes to clarify. “Not really.” She sighs, frustrated. “I feel . . . ready.”
I wait.
“When I’m around you,” she continues, “I feel things again.” My heart slams, but I keep my expression calm.
“And I didn’t know if that was normal, so I asked.
” She looks down at her hands. “She said we all heal differently, at different speeds.” Her voice softens. “I thought I’d never feel ready again.”
When she looks up, her eyes hold something new. “And I wondered,” she says carefully, “if . . . if you wanted to try kissing me.”
I barely breathe.
“You can say no,” she adds quickly. “There’s no pressure. I just—”
I lean in, cupping her cheek gently, grounding us both. “Yes,” I whisper.
Her lips curve into a shy smile. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We hold each other’s gaze. My thumb strokes lightly over her cheek as I move closer, slow enough that she could stop me at any point.
She doesn’t.
Our lips meet, soft, brief, reverent. I pull back just enough to check her reaction.
Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow.
“Again,” she whispers.
This time, I linger, pouring everything I’m not saying into the kiss. When I pull back, her eyes flutter open.
Her hands rise, cupping my face. This time, she leans in first, fitting us together with certainty. When her tongue brushes my mouth, a low sound escapes me—something relieved, something undone.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, her breaths uneven.
She doesn’t look away as her fingers find the hem of her top, lifting it over her head and letting it fall beside her. My gaze stays on her face—always on her—until she reaches for my shirt and draws it up and over my head.
Then her hand comes up to my chest, where I had the tattoo of her name added over my heart after she left. Not Queenie, but Eden. She traces the letters but says nothing. Then she cups the back of my neck and pulls me in for another kiss.
“Can we just . . . lie together?” she asks.
I nod, lying back against the soft pillows, my arm outstretched. She carefully slides closer, laying her cheek to my chest. Then she guides my arm around her.
“It’s been so long,” she whispers.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My emotions are clogging my throat, so I just give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
The steady weight of her cheek against my chest feels unreal, sacred. I stare up at the ceiling, afraid that if I move too fast or breathe too hard, I’ll break whatever fragile peace we’ve found.
“It has,” I murmur finally. “Too long.”
Her fingers curl lightly into the skin at my side. I feel the rise and fall of her breaths, slow and measured, syncing with mine without effort. The baby shifts between us, a gentle roll that makes my chest tighten all over again.
I drop my chin, resting it against the top of her head. Her hair smells like summer and something warm underneath—like home, if I’m honest with myself.
“I don’t feel scared like I thought I would,” she says quietly.
I swallow hard. “That’s good,” I whisper. “And this feels nice.”
She hums softly in agreement, her body relaxing inch by inch. The tension I didn’t realise she was holding eases, and I feel it when her weight sinks fully into me, trusting.
My hand moves on instinct, slow and deliberate, resting flat against her back, my fingers gently grazing her skin.
Every part of me wants to promise her forever. To swear I’ll never leave, never fail her again.
But tonight isn’t about that, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t take over. That everything would be on her say so, at her pace.
Her hand rests against my thigh.
I still, waiting for her to stop, to realise and change her mind. But she continues to move slowly, deliberately, like every inch forward is a decision she’s making as she moves.
“Is it okay if I . . .” she whispers.
I swallow, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, forcing my body to stay where it is. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “If you feel comfortable.”
She watches my face as much as her own hand, checking me, gauging whether I’m okay as she traces the bulge in my jeans. When she shifts closer, my breath catches despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
“I want to,” she murmurs. “I just . . . I need to know if I can.”
“There’s no pressure,” I remind her gently, threading my fingers through her hair. “We can stop. Anytime. No questions.”
She nods, pushing herself upright. “I need to be in control,” she admits, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Okay,” I say immediately.
“I can’t be under you,” she adds, like the words surprise even her.
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “Whatever you need.”
She moves with purpose now, standing and slowly undressing. I don’t look away. I don’t rush her. When she glances up at me, searching my face, I let her see the truth there—want, yes, but patience first. Always.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Absolutely stunning.”
Her smile is shy, almost disbelieving, as her hands cradle her bump for a moment. It’s the best view I’ve ever witnessed.
She waits, watching as I unzip my jeans and push them down my legs, dropping them to the floor.
I hold out my hand, and she takes it, climbing over me carefully, awkwardly, and we both let out quiet, nervous laughs when it doesn’t quite work the way either of us expects. I stay still, letting her set the pace, letting her decide the distance between us.
She leans close, breath warm against my mouth. “I can’t get closer than this,” she says softly, tapping her bump.
I smile. “That’s okay,” I whisper, lifting my head just enough to meet her.
Our lips touch, slow, cautious, testing. I don’t deepen it. I don’t take. I wait.
When she doesn’t pull away, when she stays right there, I feel something inside my chest loosen. Like I’ve been holding my breath for months and only just remembered how to exhale.
She takes my hands, guiding them slowly to her chest. I trail my fingers over her collar bone, focussing on her breathing as I move lower to her breasts.
Her body doesn’t tense. Instead, a moan escapes her lips as she allows her head to fall back in pleasure.
But I keep my focus on her the entire time, checking for any sign she’s not okay.
And when she lines me up at her entrance, I hold my breath. She smiles, lacing our fingers together. “Breathe,” she tells me, sinking down, stealing the air from my lungs completely.
We move slowly, pausing often, checking in without words.
At one point, she stills completely, eyes closed, and I stop with her. We wait like that—connected, quiet—until she nods once and whispers, “Okay.”
It isn’t rushed. It isn’t perfect. But it’s real.
Our fingers lace together as she moves faster, chasing the feeling. I stiffen, the warmth starting in my toes and rushing through my body. I groan, shuddering as the orgasm rips from me. Eden follows, her cheeks flushed as she pants through her own.
And when she’s finished, she collapses beside me with a breathless laugh, like she’s just crossed a finish line she didn’t know she could reach.
“I did it,” she says, voice shaky but proud. “We did it.”
I laugh softly, brushing my lips against her temple. “Yeah,” I agree. “You did.”
She curls into my chest, fitting there like she always has. “Thank you,” she whispers.