Chapter 34
Sloane
The morning after our stolen day, I wake to warmth.
My body still hums, muscles loose in places that were locked for weeks, skin warm where Knox's hands mapped me in the dark.
His arm is still heavy around my waist, hand curved as though it belongs there, thumb resting above my hip bone as if he fell asleep mid-claim and never let go.
The house is quiet in that early way where even the walls seem to be holding their breath.
His chest rises steady behind me, warm through my shirt.
I stay still longer than I need to. Partly because I don't want to break the shape we're in.
His breath brushes the back of my neck. The scrape of his beard against my shoulder is rough in a way that should make me tense, but doesn't. Not anymore.
"Morning," he murmurs, thick with sleep and want, his hand tightening just enough to remind me he's awake.
I don't turn. Just let my fingers find his forearm, tracing the veins as though I'm counting something I don't want to lose. "You sound smug"
A low huff rumbles through his chest into my spine. "I am smug."
"About what?"
"Waking up with my wife wrapped around me." He says it as a fact. As a weapon. His mouth finds my nape. "About you not bolting the second you open your eyes."
I swallow, staring at the dim slice of light on the wall. "I'm thinking about it."
"Liar." His thumb strokes that sensitive spot above my hip bone as though he knows exactly where my nerves live. "If you were thinking about running, your breathing would change. You'd already be counting steps to the door."
I hate that he knows that because I love it too much.
I press my back harder into him. "Stop profiling me in bed."
"Can't. It's a compulsion."
His arm tightens, a subtle tug that brings me flush, and I feel the patient coil of his want. Not demanding. Just there, constant as breathing.
"Did you sleep?" I ask, because I need an anchor that isn't the way his mouth keeps brushing my skin.
"Yeah." Another kiss, to my collarbone where the blanket's slipped. "First full night without waking up in weeks."
I let that settle. The last few days have been a grindstone. Sirens. Blood. The kind of fear that turns bones to glass. Here he is, wrapped around me in the quiet, admitting something soft without flinching.
My fingers curl around his forearm. "Good."
"You saying that makes me want to keep you in this bed all day."
I try to make my voice flat. "You can't."
"I can." His palm flattens over my stomach. "I won't. But I can."
"Bossy," I whisper, half accusation, half invitation.
He smiles into my hair. I know. "You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"Mm." He bites me. Not hard, just teeth and heat that makes my whole body lock and melt. "I tolerate you, too."
I turn my head enough to glare. He's watching me already, gaze heavy and satisfied as though he's been awake longer than he admitted.
"Creep," I mutter.
"Obsessed," he corrects, and kisses the corner of my mouth as punctuation.
I slide my hand up, fingertips brushing his jaw. "You're going to make us late."
His eyes flick to my mouth. "Late for what?"
"For…" I gesture vaguely, because I don't want to invite the world back into this bed. "Life." And whatever Malachi called about three times last night while we were otherwise occupied.
His gaze stays on me. "We can be late."
"We can't always be late," I say, and there's the old fear under it.
Knox's hand stills. The humor goes quiet. He doesn't lecture. Doesn't soften me with a speech. Just nudges my chin with his knuckles until I'm looking at him.
"Hey," he says, low and firm. "You wake up. You stay. You breathe. You drink coffee. That's what you do." His thumb strokes my hip. "Everything else gets scheduled around it."
"You make it sound so easy."
"It's not," he admits. "But it's mine to handle." His gaze drops to my lips. "And you're mine to keep."
"If you keep talking that way, I'm going to do something reckless."
His mouth tilts. "Good."
"Knox."
"Yeah, sweetheart?" He kisses my jaw, softer. "Tell me."
"If we don't get up, we're going to end up having sex again."
His laugh is a low, sinful thing. "We are married."
"That's not a plan."
His voice drops to that rough growl that makes my stomach go tight. "It's a lifestyle. You keep rubbing my arm that way, Sloane, and I'm going to forget we own clothes."
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. It doesn't work. "Get up."
He stares at me, weighing obedience against hunger. Sighs dramatically. "Fine." A quick, sharp kiss. "But I'm filing a formal complaint."
"Where?"
"On your skin," he murmurs, and the promise makes my thighs tense. "Later."
I roll away before my body betrays me. Cold air hits and I shiver. He tosses the blanket over my shoulders, wrapping it around me as though he's annoyed the world contains drafts. By the time I've pulled it tight, he's on his feet, snagging his jeans off the floor with eyes still tracking me.
"Stop staring."
"No." He steps back, tugs on the jeans, and kisses my forehead in a way that hits harder than anything filthy. "You're real. I'm going to look."
We move through the morning in easy rhythm, me in the bathroom, him pulling on the rest of his clothes.
He crosses the bathroom in two strides, palms bracketing my hips from behind, and tucks his chin into the crook of my neck.
He presses a kiss on the side of my neck, right under my ear, and murmurs good girl so softly it almost doesn't count.
It counts.
"You're going to start something before 8 a.m."
"Already started. I'm just trying to be polite about it."
I snort, but there's no bite in it. "You have never been polite."
His mouth curves at my neck. "Liar."
He lets me go and walks out. I can see the effort in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides before he rounds the corner.
Yesterday mattered. It shows.
When I follow him out fully dressed, he looks up from the kitchen, and his whole expression settles, the day locking into place. His fingers catch mine, a single squeeze.
Ready to step back into the noise with me.
The ride is the same as always: his hand warm on my thigh, my arms locked around his waist, cheek between his shoulders.
I keep my grip high, above the gauze on his left side, and he doesn't comment on the adjustment.
His grip tightens on my leg when he leans into turns, and I squeeze around him to match.
When we roll into the lot and he kills the engine, he shifts once before letting out a low breath. "You do that on purpose," he mutters, adjusting himself as though this isn't a recurring occupational hazard.
I slide off, innocent as sin. "I'm literally just holding on."
Knox swings off, pulls my helmet free, and catches my wrist to tug me back for a quick, possessive kiss that says he knows better.
The clubhouse is awake. Voices overlap, footsteps on concrete, mugs clink, coffee maker works overtime. It smells of oil, caffeine, old wood, and whatever got fried too early. Crooked and loud and ours.
Knox's hand is on my lower back. I lean into it, letting my body answer with the kind of trust that still feels a risk.
Malachi and Candace at the table, heads bent together, quiet in a way that means serious but not sharp, as though they've learned the difference between urgency and panic.
Darla is perched beside East, who has his arm hooked loosely around the back of her chair as though he's daring someone to comment.
Frankie sits a little apart, pen tapping her notebook, eyes cataloguing everything and nothing.
Maggie and James argue softly about whether it's too early for chili.
Kyle stands near the door on instinctual guard duty.
Rider's by the wall, still and watchful, fitting in without trying. New patch, old calm.
Nash looks as though he's already lost a fight and hasn't figured out how.
Knox takes the seat beside Malachi without being asked. I sit where his knee can press into mine.
Ruby's voice carries in from outside, bright and pleased and weaponized in that way only Ruby can manage. "Oh, don't look so tense. You'll pull something."
Every muscle in Nash locks. The door swings open.
Ruby walks in owning the room, which honestly she kind of does, and there's a rope in her hand. She's been sending goat photos to the group chat for a week, Googling fencing options for three days, and I still didn't think she'd actually do it.
But she did it. Because she's Ruby.
At the other end of the rope is a goat.
For a heartbeat, no one speaks. Even the coffee maker seems to hesitate. The goat blinks once, unimpressed, surveying the clubhouse with the energy of a creature that has already decided everyone here is beneath it.
Ruby beams. "I'd like you all to meet Nasty Nash Jr."
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
Malachi exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing the way they do when he's deciding whether a problem is worth shooting or just banning from the premises. "I'm not cleaning up after that thing."
Nash turns, as though the movement might hurt him. "You named it what?"
The goat trots forward and headbutts Nash directly in the knee. Hard. The sound is dull and personal; his whole leg jerks as though the impact traveled through bone into pride.
I clamp a hand over my mouth. Knox doesn't bother. His shoulder shakes as he huffs a laugh into my temple, amusement vibrating through him.
Ruby is radiant. She looks the way Christmas morning would if Christmas was petty and feral. "He likes you. Bonding moment."
The goat presses against Nash's leg and stays, stubborn and smug, as though it's decided Nash is its chosen victim. Nash looks down at it, calculating threat assessment and coming up empty.
"You cannot be serious," he mutters, deadpan enough to qualify as a prayer.
"Oh, I'm serious. He's yours. I can feel it. This is a soul-bond situation."
Nash watches the goat chew his pant leg.
Darla loses it, folding over the table with a sound half laugh, half wheeze.
East openly laughs, head tipping back. Maggie crosses herself as though she's witnessed a biblical omen.
James leans back as though it's a paid performance.
Kyle, already practical, asks where the fencing supplies are stored as if this is now a legitimate operational concern.
Rider's mouth twitches, slight, but enough.
I catch Frankie in the corner, pen frozen, focus nowhere near Ruby or Nash. Her attention has shifted toward the door.
Victor and Olivia step inside a moment later, Arden just behind.
Malachi must have called them in after the meeting yesterday.
Knox mentioned the missed calls from last night, three from Malachi, all about getting Victor to the table.
Arden's eyes find Frankie's across the room briefly in a silent check-in.
She nods once, barely there, and his posture shifts, as though he's received confirmation.
Frankie's posture eases a fraction before her attention returns to her notebook.
Knox's hand finds the back of my neck, warm and steady. I press into him, smirking as Nash mutters, "I hate all of you," with the conviction of a vow.
Ruby pats the goat's head. "Phase one. Complete."
I look around the room. Laughter cracks open the tension, the clatter of mugs resumes, and Knox's attention stays anchored on me even when the room keeps moving. My spine loosens.
Whatever comes next, I'm standing in it.
The goat bleats, loud and pleased. Nash groans as though he's reconsidering his whole life.
Knox tips his head to my ear. "You're enjoying this."
I don't deny it.
I just smile, watching Nasty Nash Jr. chew Nash's pants as though he's been personally assigned to dismantle the Sergeant-at-Arms one bite at a time.