Chapter 49
Knox
Three days after Chicago, the news is running.
We flew back the morning after in Phoenix's jet. The whole team crammed in, silent in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Sloane leaned into my shoulder for three hours and didn't say a word. Neither did I.
Now we're back at the clubhouse, and the televisions are on. Muted, but the anchors' faces say enough, that practiced composure that only shows up when an explosion just went off. Names scroll across the bottom of the screen. Politicians, judges, CEOs. Men who thought their power was permanent.
Phones buzz across the bar. A few low laughs. Someone mutters a curse.
The Society is exposed. Publicly fractured. The wreckage is spreading.
Phoenix stands near the bar, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. McKenzie stays close, her hand resting on the bar near his elbow.
Nash is on his phone in the corner, voice low, shoulders tight.
He's been on calls since we landed. When Ruby appears near the doorway, tablet under her arm, he glances up.
Their eyes meet. She holds the look for a second, jaw set, turns away.
Whatever the fallout means for her family, she's carrying it without complaint.
Nash watches her walk to the bar. His hand flexes around his phone.
Sloane is across the room, drink in hand, shoulders a fraction too tight. Her eyes sweep the space the way they always do. Doors, windows, bodies. I cross to her. My hand settles at her lower back. She leans into it.
The lunch starts loud and uncoordinated.
Tables shoved together. Plates appearing from the kitchen.
Kyle flicks a napkin at Rider. Rider fires back.
East plays innocent while Darla instigates with a grin that should come with a warning label.
Candace laughs, head tipped back, unguarded.
James shakes his head from the end of the table, and Maggie swats Kyle's arm without looking up from her plate.
Malachi watches from his seat, solid and unmoving.
Sloane gets pulled in without ceremony. Candace loops an arm through hers. Darla puts a fresh drink into her hand. She lets it happen. She stays in the middle of the table, not the edges.
I let her go. Drift back to the bar, pour two fingers of whiskey, and lean against the rail. She keeps finding me anyway. Fingers brushing my wrist as she passes. A pointed hip bump when she laughs. A brief tug at my belt loop that sends a jolt straight through me.
I watch her move through the room.
My hand drifts toward my hip. Empty. I force it back to the whiskey.
My eyes track movement. East shifts toward Darla. Nash's hand on his phone. The angle of the door when Kyle pushes through. Threat assessment. Exit routes. Sightlines.
I know they're safe. My body hasn't caught up.
Every sound is too sharp. Glass clinking, chairs scraping, voices layering in a frequency that sets my teeth on edge.
Measured breath. I loosen my grip on the glass before I shatter it. Sloane glances over from across the room. Her eyes narrow. She's reading me the way she reads vitals. Quick, clinical, cataloging symptoms I thought I was hiding.
She says a word to Candace, excuses herself with an easy smile. Crosses the room with her gaze locked on mine. She steps between my knees where I'm braced against the bar. Sets her hands on my shoulders.
I put the glass down. My hands find her waist.
"Hey," she says, voice low.
"Hey." Rougher than I mean.
Her fingers slide to the back of my neck, thumb stroking the tense muscle there. Her eyes move across my face, checking.
"You're scanning," she murmurs.
"I know."
"Your pulse is racing." Her thumb finds the spot at the base of my skull and bears down.
"I know that too."
"You need to come down."
"I'm trying."
She moves closer, forehead nearly touching mine. "Look at me. Just me." I do. Her eyes are calm. Certain. Present. My breathing starts to even. "Better," she says. "Stay with me."
My hand slides to her lower back. She cups my jaw with one hand, fingers sliding into my beard, and laces the other through mine at her side.
She kisses me. Hard. Her mouth opens over mine, and the room disappears.
My eyes stop tracking the door. My shoulders release and my breath eases until it matches hers.
I let go of her hand, grip her hips, and haul her in, kissing back with everything I've been holding since Chicago. The tension in my jaw breaks. My pulse starts to settle. When she draws back, her breath is uneven, eyes bright and searching.
"Better?" Her thumb strokes my jaw.
I exhale. "Yeah." She smiles. Small. Fierce. Someone whistles. Someone laughs. I don't care. "Jesus. You trying to kill me?"
Her smile widens. "I just wanted everyone to know."
My mouth curves. "They know."
Her fingers slide back into my hair, nails scraping my scalp. The last tension bleeds out. My spine loosens against the bar.
She stays between my knees, palm resting over my heart.
The noise doesn't follow us home.
I hold the door open and check the street out of habit.
The rental two streets south is empty. Has been since Chicago.
Harrison's people scattered the same night, according to Arden.
The surveillance died with the man who ordered it.
The porch is clean. Just our mat and the scuff marks from Sloane's boots.
I shut the door. Lock it. The silence lands.
Sloane kicks off her boots. Three steps into the living room before her shoulders sag.
I'm there before she hits the couch.
One hand at her elbow, the other at her back as she sinks down, breath shuddering out. Head tipping forward, hair spilling around her face.
That's when it hits her. The release. The weight she's been holding since she watched her father die in a basement three days ago. I kneel in front of her. My hands find her knees. She's shaking. The kind that comes after, when the body finally believes it's allowed to stop performing strength.
"You're safe," I murmur.
She nods. Swallows. Looks at me with eyes wrecked and trusting in a way that cinches my chest. She leans into my touch, knees parting for me to settle between them. My hands slide up to her hips.
My thumb pushes the hem of her shirt up. My hand moves on instinct, sliding from her hip to the curve of her stomach, palm spreading against bare skin.
The second my skin meets hers, the thought lands. I want to put a baby there. Her body. My hands. My child growing under my palm. Permanence. A future that belongs to us. Built, not survived.
The idea hits so hard I brace my other hand on the couch to keep from dragging her into my lap and saying it all out loud right now. My thumb works a careful circle against her skin.
Her breath stutters. She stills. Her eyes drop to my hand. Her fingers come down over my wrist. She holds me there.
I look up.
"I want you full," I say, voice barely there.
Her breath catches. "With my child." Low.
Steady. "I want you carrying what's ours.
Built because we decided to build it." Her fingers tighten around my wrist. "I want to come home to you pregnant.
I want to watch your body change because of me. Because we chose this."
My forehead brushes hers. "I would burn the world down before I let anything happen to you. To you or what we make together."
She lifts her hand and lays it over mine, holding it to her stomach. "I know," she says. Soft. Steady.
I stay there. My hand over her belly, her fingers laced with mine, both of us breathing through the weight of what's coming.
The house is quiet. The street outside is dark. The porch is empty.
For the first time in years, the silence belongs to us.