Chapter Twenty-One
Mac
Call the amateurs and cut 'em from the team
Ditch the clowns, get the crown
Baby, I'm the one to beat
'Cause the sign on your heart
Said it's still reserved for me
Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?
‘The Alchemy’ - Taylor Swift
I don’t expect anything different this morning.
The sun is just starting to crawl through Logan’s curtains when I roll over in his bed, still tangled in his scent.
Cedar, leather, and that faint trace of the cologne he wears only for himself, not for show.
The sheets are warm on my side, but his space is empty.
The pillow holds the faint dip from where his head rested hours ago, and I press my face into it, breathing him in before I even open my eyes fully.
Typical Logan.
Wake up early.
Brood in silence.
Pretend he’s not spiraling about something.
I stretch until my toes brush the cool edge of the mattress and then swing my legs over the side.
The floor is chilled from the night air, and I wince slightly before spotting one of his old MC shirts crumpled by the dresser.
I pull it over my head, the fabric soft and worn thin from years of use, hanging loose enough that it feels like armor and comfort all at once.
The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional pop of the wood as it adjusts to the morning chill. I pad barefoot into the hallway, my steps light, but there’s no need to be stealthy. He knows I’m awake.
When I reach the doorway, I see him outside.
Logan is on the front porch, sitting on the top step with his elbows resting loosely on his knees.
A coffee cup is in one hand, steam curling up toward his face, and in the other is a small black wooden box.
The kind of box that looks like it’s been handled a thousand times before.
The edges are rounded from years of use, the paint dulled by time.
Not a ring box. Not anything polished or fancy. Something old. Worn. Real.
My heart stutters.
I push the screen door open with my hip and step outside, the boards cool beneath my feet.
The morning air is crisp, the kind that clings to your skin and smells faintly of damp grass and distant woodsmoke.
It’s the kind of air that makes everything feel sharper, like it’s harder to lie to yourself in this kind of light.
“Hey,” I say quietly, settling beside him on the step. The wood is rough under my palms as I brace my hands. “You good?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just taps the box against his palm in a slow, steady rhythm, like it’s keeping time for a thought he hasn’t said yet. His eyes stay on the tree line in front of us for a few seconds longer before he finally turns toward me.
There’s no flicker of defense in his gaze this time. No sharp edge to hide behind. It’s steady. Grounded.
“I’m done pretending,” he says.
He holds the box out to me.
I glance between him and the box, my brows pulling together. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
I flip the lid. Inside is a ring. It is not glittery, not new, not the kind that catches the sun just to prove a point.
It is a thin twist of gold and silver, the metals braided together in a way that looks both delicate and unbreakable.
The surface is worn, the shine softened by time.
It is imperfect in a way that feels honest.
“It was my grandma’s,” he says quietly. “Dad’s mom. She wore it ‘til the end. Mom kept it in a drawer like it was too sacred to touch.”
I look up at him, my throat tightening until my next breath feels uneven.
“Logan…”
“I don’t have a speech,” he says, shifting his body toward me.
“You know I’m terrible at those. But you told me to show you, that night at the pond.
And you were right. I’ve spent my life halfway in.
Halfway yours. Halfway mine. And I’m done with that.
I’m done choosing safe when all I’ve ever wanted was you. ”
He takes the ring from the box, holding it between us like something fragile.
“I want all of it, Mac. The rough edges. The nights when you call me out. The mornings like this, when it’s so still I can hear your breathing and remember how damn lucky I am. I want to be yours. Not partway. Not ‘when it’s convenient.’ Always.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until he reaches up, brushing his thumb under my eye with a touch so gentle it makes my chest ache.
“I’m not down on one knee,” he says, his voice dipping softer. “Mostly because you’d call me dramatic and tell me to get my ass off the porch.”
A laugh slips out, shaky but real. “You know me too well.”
His grin is crooked, the kind that tugs at memories I forgot I still had. “Damn right I do.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, his hand steady. It doesn’t sparkle under the morning sun, but it doesn’t need to. It fits like it was waiting for me all along.
I curl my fingers around his and lean forward until our foreheads touch. The warmth of his skin and the steady exhale from his lungs create a small space where the world doesn’t exist. The air between us hums with something more than a question or an answer.
It is a promise.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I whisper, my voice catching just enough that I know he hears the weight behind it.
His smile is soft but it lands deep. “I know.”
When I kiss him, it’s slow at first, the kind of kiss that sinks in, the kind that makes time pull its brakes. The birds stir in the trees, their calls scattering into the sky. Above us, the morning opens wider, the pale blue stretching into something brighter.
And sitting there on that porch, his hand still wrapped around mine and the ring warm on my finger, I don’t feel like we’re holding on anymore.
I feel like we’re building.
We stay like that until the coffee in his cup goes cold and the shadows shift across the yard.
Then, without a word, he stands and reaches for my hand, tugging me gently toward the door.
Inside, the air is warmer, carrying the faint scent of last night’s dinner and the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.
He doesn’t let go as we move through the kitchen, past the counter where his keys and wallet sit, and down the hall toward the bedroom. Sunlight follows us, spilling in soft streaks across the walls.
Back in the room, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me between his knees, his hands resting lightly on my hips. His eyes drop to my hand where the ring catches the light not with a flash, but with a quiet gleam and I see something in him soften.
“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low, like the question is more for him than for me.
I lace my fingers in his hair, tilting his head back so he has to meet my eyes. “Logan, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
The tension that had been wound tight in his shoulders all morning seems to loosen at that, and when he pulls me into his lap, it isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deliberate. Anchored. Like we’re sealing something that has been years in the making.
And as his arms wrap around me, the world outside feels distant.
Just him. Just us. Just the beginning.
***
Two months later
Logan’s leaning against the garage wall like he’s watching me walk into a war zone.
And maybe, to him, I am.
"You don’t have to do this, Mac," he says again, his arms folded, voice low and steady like he thinks that if he just says it enough times, I’ll cave. “I can take care of us.”
I pause halfway to the car, my hand hovering over the handle, and glance back at him.
The morning light cuts across his face, softening the stubborn set of his jaw.
His eyes are warmer than they were last night when we went back and forth over this, but there’s still something else buried in them. Worry. A thread of fear.
I get it. I do.
We haven’t gotten any more packages from Anthony. Logan has been slowly, carefully, letting me reclaim pieces of my independence. If you ask me, I think he finally figured out exactly what he’d be up against if the MC was involved. Maybe he decided Anthony wasn’t worth the consequences.
“I’m not doing this to prove anything,” I tell him, my voice even. “I’m doing it because I can. And because I want to.”
His jaw tightens, that muscle ticking. He doesn’t like it, but he gives a single nod. “Just… if you need me, I’ll be ten minutes away.”
I walk back to him, the gravel crunching under my heels, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm from the sun already, his stubble rough under my lips. “I always need you. But this part? I need to do alone.”
He doesn’t say anything as I slip into the driver’s seat, but his eyes don’t leave mine through the glass. Even after I turn the key, even as I pull out of the driveway, I can still feel the weight of his stare, like a tether I’m cutting one deliberate inch at a time.
It takes until I’m halfway across town for my hands to stop shaking.
The radio is turned low, some soft instrumental track murmuring in the background, but my heartbeat drowns it out loud and steady, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me.
I shouldn’t be this nervous.
I’ve run luxury properties. Managed teams twice my age. Pulled disaster budgets back from the edge. I’ve stared down hostile boardrooms and kept my voice level when men twice my size tried to undermine me.
But none of that matters when the last time I stepped into a manager’s office, I had to drive my knee into him just to get away.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until the leather creaks.
That day feels like another lifetime now. But my body remembers. My pulse remembers.
I refuse to let it own me.
I won’t shatter. Not today.
The hotel comes into view a sleek stretch of glass and steel, too polished, too impersonal. Exactly the kind of place I used to walk into like I belonged there.
I pull into the nearly empty lot. Only a few cars scattered here and there. Renovations have the place closed to the public, which makes it even quieter. Even more still.
I smooth my skirt, reapply a quick swipe of lipstick in the rearview, and push the door open. The air smells faintly of paint and dust, the scent of something being made new again. My heels click on the tile as I step inside.
The lobby feels hollow. No background hum of conversation. No luggage wheels rolling past. Just the muted echo of my own footsteps. The front desk is unmanned except for a small sign that reads: Ring bell for assistance.
I press it, the sharp ding slicing through the quiet like an alarm in a sleeping house.
A male voice calls out from somewhere behind the wall, “Are you here for the interview?”
“Yes,” I answer, my voice carrying more confidently than I feel.
“You can come on back through the door to the left of the desk!”
I move toward the door, noting how disorganized this already feels. No one to greet me. No clipboard. No structure. Not a great sign for a job I’m supposed to take seriously.
I open the door to a dim hallway lined with closed offices. One door two spaces down has its light on.
“Right through here,” a voice says from behind me.
And my blood runs cold.
No.
“Mac,” he says, smiling.
No. No. No.
The haircut is different. He’s in a tailored suit. There’s a fake name on his badge. But the eyes, the voice, they’re the same.
Anthony Watson.
My former boss.
The man who cornered me in a locked hotel room and tried to disguise it as a misunderstanding. The man who lied to HR and walked away with a glowing recommendation while I left with trauma I carried in my bones.
And now he’s here. Sitting across from me like this is some kind of twisted joke.
“You’ve really grown into yourself,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me with that same, oily familiarity. “I always said you had leadership potential.”
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
This isn’t a coincidence.
He found me. Lied to get me here. Pulled me into this room on purpose.
My fists curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms.
“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice like ice, sharp and jagged.
“Oh, come on,” he says, holding his hands out in mock innocence. “Let’s be civil, Mac. You’re here now. No need to be unprofessional.”
I step forward, my glare locked on his. “You want civil?” My voice drops lower. “You don’t get civil. You get reported. Again. And this time? I’ll have evidence. And I’ll have more backup than I did last time.”
He flinches. Good.
“You must be talking about the biker trash you’ve picked up.
” His tone turns smug again as his eyes dart past me, like he’s checking the hallway.
“Don’t think anyone came with you. Maybe you’re not that important to them after all.
I mean, they have plenty of whores around. One goes missing, another steps in.”
The venom in his voice is deliberate. Designed to dig under my skin.
He moves fast. Too fast. Lunging forward, his hand shooting out. I pivot to bolt for the door, but his fingers snag my ponytail, yanking me backward so hard I slam into his chest. The breath rushes out of me.
Something cold and unyielding presses into my side.
“Try anything and I’ll put a bullet right through you,” he hisses into my ear. His breath is hot and sour. “No one else is here. I’ll be long gone before anyone finds you.”
His other hand twists in my hair, pulling at the roots until a cry rips from my throat.
Every nerve in my body locks tight. My heartbeat surges into a painful, pounding thud in my ears.
I can’t think about fear. Not now.
I need to think about my next move. Very carefully.