Chapter 10 #2
"You are—" The rest catches on the want choking me. "Sloane, you're fucking stunning." Color floods her cheeks. She starts to look away. I bring her back. "Don't look away from me. Not today."
Her fingers find my wrist, right over my pulse, the same way she did last night before she fell asleep.
Behind us, East whispers, "He's feral."
"Worse," Nash says quietly.
I lean closer, lips near her ear. "You okay?"
She swallows. "Terrified."
"Of the courthouse?" I breathe. "Or of me?"
"Yes," she says, honest as always.
I huff a not-quite laugh. "Stay glued to me. You don't take a single step today without my hand on you. You hear me?" She nods. "Words, Sloane."
"I hear you," she whispers.
My hand tightens on her waist. "Good girl."
Her breath catches.
Behind us, someone clears their throat. Malachi straightens from the counter, James sets his mug down, East pops up ready to move, and Nash shifts his weight, a loaded anchor. The air shifts.
I press a kiss to Sloane's temple. "Give me five."
Maggie swoops in instantly, adjusting some piece of hair that looks perfect.
I head down the hall. Shirt comes off. Jeans traded for dark slacks. I grab the black button-down, the one I've only worn to funerals and court dates. Roll the sleeves up to my forearms. Pull on my boots.
A glimpse in the dresser mirror. Jaw tense, eyes too bright.
I shrug on my leather cut last. It feels right. Settles into my shoulders. I rake my hair and head back to her.
East mutters, "Well, shit, he cleans up."
Nash gives one measured nod, which is basically applause from him.
But Sloane? She turns, sees me, and her eyes drag down my shirt, the rolled sleeves, the cut over it, then back to my face as though she's memorizing a before-and-after she never saw coming.
I step in behind her, dip my head to her hair, and say, low and steady, "Let's go get married."
Her fingers curl back into my shirt, tighter than before. "Okay."
Malachi throws a leg over his bike first, the engine growling to life. East rolls out next, sunglasses on. Nash doesn't make sound when he moves. You just look up and he's closer. James settles his helmet, gives me a chin-tip that lands heavier than words.
Maggie and Frankie take Maggie's SUV, loaded with makeup, dresses, and whatever mysterious "girl shit" they packed that I'm smart enough not to ask about. Frankie leans out her window long enough to flip East off when he whistles at them. Maggie swats him with a glare.
I take the truck. We'll use the bike later.
Sloane settles into the passenger seat carefully, smoothing the dress over her thighs. There’s a flash of black lace beneath the hem where the dress has ridden up, and my vision whites out for a second.
She stares straight ahead as I start the engine. I reach across and lay my palm over her thigh. She jumps.
"Hey." I squeeze gently. "Breathe."
She twists to look at me. "I am breathing."
"Liar."
The glare is weak, frayed, adorable.
"Don't freak out on me now," I tell her. "You already said yes. You're stuck with me."
A shaky laugh slips out. "That's what I'm freaking out about."
My thumb draws circles above her knee.
"Listen," I say, eyes on the road as we peel out behind Malachi's bike. "I know who I'm stepping in for. I know exactly what kind of war comes with you. Who your father is, what he's capable of, and I'm still driving you to that courthouse."
"I feel like I'm costing you too much."
"Don't," I murmur. "You're not a burden, Sloane. You're the point."
Her hand covers mine. Small. Cool. Trembling. "You're going to regret saying all that when I'm hogging the blankets and rearranging your kitchen," she says, voice breathier than the joke suggests.
"Baby," I say, and the word slides out so naturally I don't have time to stop it. "You can do whatever the fuck you want to my kitchen."
"You just called me—"
"I know what I called you," I cut in. "I meant it."
She turns toward the window, cheeks flushed.
My hand stays on her thigh the whole way to the courthouse.
We pull into the lot ten minutes later, the whole crew behind us. Willowridge's courthouse is old red brick, white columns, and wide steps. The American flag flaps lazily in the morning breeze.
On any other day, just a building. Today, it's the place I take Sloane Mercer apart on paper and put Sloane Turner together in her place.
We don't wait. Malachi had made a call.
The clerk behind the glass looks up, sees Malachi, and straightens so fast his chair squeaks. "Morning, Mr. Hayes," he says.
Malachi tips his chin. "Morning, Dale."
He glances at me, at Sloane, at the gaggle of Outsiders filling his lobby. "You here for…?"
"Marriage license," I say. "And ceremony if you can swing it."
I slide our forms under the glass. Names in blunt, block letters. Knox Turner. Sloane Mercer. Soon to be scratched out and replaced in every system that matters.
Dale glances at the paperwork. Then at Sloane. "Sealed filing, like we discussed?" Malachi nods once. "It'd be our pleasure. Judge Mills is in. I'll let her know you're here." He disappears in the back.
The others spread across the lobby, a low-key security detail. Maggie and Frankie flank Sloane, fussing with a curl, adjusting her necklace, whispering something that makes her huff a nervous laugh.
I stand close enough that my shoulder brushes hers every time she shifts.
"Quit hovering," East says under his breath.
"Eat shit," I answer.
"You ready?" James asks Sloane gently.
"No," she says. "Yes. I don't know."
"That's about right," he says, eyes kind.
Dale returns. "Judge can see you now. Family only in the room, please."
Nobody moves.
"That's all of us," Malachi says.
The judge's chambers are small. Wood paneled. Certificates on the wall. A shelf of law books gathering dust. Judge Mills is in her sixties, hair in a silver twist, glasses perched halfway down her nose.
Bikers. Tattoos. Leather. Sloane in white.
"Full house," she says.
"Big decision," James replies.
She smiles. "Fair enough."
We stand in front of her desk. Sloane's hand slides into mine, fingers cold and tight. I wrap both of mine around hers, covering as much skin as I can.
"Names?" Judge Mills asks, though she has the paperwork.
"Knox Turner," I say.
"Sloane Mercer," she says. "For now."
The judge's eyes soften. "We can fix that."
She runs through the legal script. We answer when we have to. My voice stays steady, but it costs me. Her voice wobbles once on the word "husband," and my grip tightens.
"Do you have rings?" Judge Mills asks.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the band I bought yesterday while Maggie had her. Plain gold, solid. A band that won't catch on gloves or shift work, that will still shine when she's eighty.
Frankie moves up from behind Sloane and slaps my shoulder. "Other way around, big guy. Ladies first."
Sloane turns to me, cheeks pink. "I, um… we—Maggie and Frankie kind of—"
She produces a small ring from somewhere I didn't see her hide it. Brushed metal. Darker, heavier. Subtle pattern etched into it that looks like waves or flames depending on the angle.
I look at it, then at her. My throat goes tight. "You got me a ring," I say, stupidly moved by that small, domestic fact.
A shy smile. "Of course I did."
"Okay," Judge Mills says. "Your vows."
We didn't write any. Didn't have time. This was never supposed to be romantic. I look at Sloane. At the way she's shaking. How she's holding it together anyway. Fuck it.
"Sloane," I say, throat rough. "I'm standing here by choice.
Nobody pushed me into this. Nobody forced my hand.
I know who and what I'm taking on. What your name comes with.
I don't care. I want your bullshit and your bad days.
You stealing my shirts and running at danger instead of away from it.
I'm going to keep you safe the way you keep everyone else safe.
I'm going to put my name on you and back it up with whatever it takes.
Long as you're breathing, I'm on your side. You hear me?"
Tears spill over. She breathes out like I punched the air from her lungs.
"Yeah," she whispers. "I hear you."
Judge Mills nods, eyes warm. "Your turn," she tells Sloane.
Sloane swallows hard, unshed tears making her irises shine.
"Knox," she starts. Small but clear. "I didn't plan on any of this.
I didn't plan on running. On asking for help.
On… ending up in your bed and in your kitchen and in your house.
I definitely didn't plan on you putting a ring on my finger after three days.
But I've spent my whole life cleaning up messes for men who never cared.
You're the first man who walked into the mess and said, 'This is mine now, I've got it.
' I don't…" She laughs once, wet and shaky.
"I have no idea how to be anyone's anything.
But I'm going to try to be yours. I'm going to try to remember this is a choice, not a debt.
When I forget, you're allowed to remind me. "
My vision blurs. Shit.
"Okay," Judge Mills says softly. "Rings."
Sloane's hands shake as she slides the dark band onto my finger. It settles. Cool metal going warm against my skin. "Knox Turner," she says, "I give you this ring as a sign that you're insane."
Everyone laughs. The tension breaks for a flicker.
I take her hand, slip the gold band over her knuckle. Slim and sure. "Sloane Mercer," I say, "I give you this ring as a sign that your old life can go to hell."
She chokes on a laugh and a sob at the same time.
"Sloane Turner," Judge Mills corrects gently, signing the certificate. "By the power vested in me by the state of Mississippi, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."
No hesitation.
I close the gap, slide a hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and drag her up to me. Her mouth opens under mine as though she's been waiting for this exact second.
The kiss is not courthouse appropriate. It's deep, hungry, and long enough that Frankie wolf-whistles and East mutters, "Jesus fuck."
Sloane fists my shirt again. She presses close, trying to climb into my skin. I taste salt from her tears, mint from whatever Maggie gave her, and something that is just her.
My wife.
I pull back, because if I don't, we're going to traumatize a judge.
Maggie dabs at her eyes. Frankie grins through wet lashes she'll deny later.
"Hi, wife," I murmur against her lips.
She blinks up at me, dazed.
"Hi," she whispers back. A beat. "Husband."
We sign the certificate. Judge Mills shakes our hands, shakes Malachi's, then nods at the others. Dale offers a clumsy congratulations when we pass his window.
Outside, the crew has somehow acquired a tiny cake, a bottle of cheap champagne, and a box of those little plastic bubble wands.
Maggie. She presses a set on everyone and points at us. "Down the stairs. Go on."
We step onto the top stair. The others fan out on either side. Someone, East probably, counts down. "One, two, three!" They blow.
Bubbles drift through the air. Champagne pops. Frankie shouts something about "Don't eat shit in those shoes, Sloane." Sloane laughs, the sound bright and wild and free.
James, with Maggie pressed against his side, holds up a phone. "Smile," he says.
I don't smile. I haul Sloane in, arm tight around her waist, and kiss her again. Bubbles float around us. Sun catches in her hair. Her fingers curl around my leather cut. The camera clicks.
Later, when I see the picture, her fingers are wrapped around my cut and her eyes are closed. Mine aren't.