Chapter 20 Keeley
TWENTY
KEELEY
I wake to the heat of a body pressed under my cheek. Nic’s chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths and I just lie there, listening to each pull of air into his lungs, letting it soothe me. I have one leg wrapped around his and his arm is banded around me as if we were both scared to let go.
This is moving scarily fast between us, and I can’t even joke about it anymore.
It’s not Stockholm syndrome or forced whatever, but I don’t know if this ends once Nic’s dealt with Morozov.
There’s still a part of me that doesn’t believe this is forever, no matter if Nic looks like at me like I hung the moon.
Right now, we’re in a bubble, and it’s very cosy, but bubbles eventually burst. I’m not the girl who keeps the guy, especially not one like Nic.
Brilliant, Keeley. Good to see you’re still dragging your issues behind you like a sad little suitcase.
But it’s not even my self-worth that’s an obstacle. Nic runs a criminal organisation, and I’ve never even had a late fine at the library. The only trouble I’ve ever been in was because of my brother.
Can I slot into Nic’s life? Is there room for me? How do we straddle two very different worlds?
The thought hits me like a truck. Maybe I don’t get to keep him. Maybe that’s the price of this small taste of happiness.
Oh, Keeley. Stop. That’s pathetic even by our usual standards.
I shove all of that down into the box where I keep my trauma and shit I don’t want to handle yet and toss it right back into the shadows of my mind. It’s too fucking early for that amount of self-pity.
Especially when I have a chiselled, stunningly beautiful man under me.
Carefully, I lift my head an inch off Nic’s chest and everything in me softens as I take him in. He looks tired, even asleep. He shouldn’t have to carry so much alone and I hate that he does. I know he has his club friends, but he’s the one making decisions and trying to keep everyone alive.
It’s too much pressure for one person.
Who takes care of him while he’s got the safety of every single person in this building resting on his shoulders?
Why does he always have to be the strong one? When does he get to fall apart?
I wish I could bundle him up and take him away from all of this, even just for a few hours.
I stare at that spot on the underside of his jaw, the one I kissed last night, and without thinking, I brush my mouth there again. It’s weird, but it does something to my brain the moment my lips touch there. It’s almost a giddy feeling as his stubble scratches against me.
I’m so fucked.
My heart isn’t listening to any of the warnings my head is giving.
Even the threat of getting hurt isn’t enough to stop me from falling headfirst into this anymore.
If none of this is real and he’s not sincere about this—us—then fine.
I’ll deal with it, but I don’t have the resolve to fight this anymore.
I want him and he wants me—at least in this moment.
That’s enough for now.
I let my gaze drift up to his face, wanting to admire his annoyingly chiselled jaw line some more.
And freeze.
He’s staring at me. Not drowsy. Not like a man who just dragged himself out of unconsciousness by his nails. Nope. He didn’t even shift or change his breathing. He just…woke.
I smile at him, and that guarded look he usually has for everyone else is nowhere in sight as his eyes linger on me. It’s like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing as his gaze wraps around me like a warm hug.
Fuck a duck.
Yeah, it melts through any remaining doubts I might have had. It’s too intimate, too tender for it to feel temporary. So I’ll ride whatever wave this is because even if this ends tomorrow, I would rather have these moments with him than miss out.
This is Nic the man—not the president. Not the one calling the shots and carrying the world on his shoulders. Just him. And he knocks the breath right out of my lungs.
I’m still tangled with his legs and suddenly very aware of the fact—especially since the man is radiating enough heat to power the sun.
Or maybe it’s me. Am I just casually combusting here?
I try to untangle myself, but he traps my legs between his. “Stay.”
There’s that fucking flutter again. At this rate, I’ll need a cardiologist to check my heart.
“You sure? I’m draped all over you.” Brilliant. I sound like a needy bitch. I’m one step shy of begging Nic to keep me like a fucking tamagotchi.
“Keeley, you’re sayin’ that like it’s a problem. I like you bein’ in my space.”
Oh. Okay… fuck. Right. He likes me? In his space?
Fuck me sideways.
“You’ll like it less when I drool on you.”
Why in the fuck did that come out of my mouth? I cringe. Keeley Ann West, what is wrong with you?
There’s nothing else to do but own it. Or die. Maybe evaporate into the mattress. “I’m just going to shut my mouth until I get a coffee or ten into me,” I mutter.
He skims his mouth against my temple, unbothered by my ridiculousness. “I don’t give a shit if you drool on me, sunshine.”
“I can’t decide if that’s romantic or weird.” My voice is muffled as I press my face into his chest.
Annoyingly, the t-shirt he insisted on wearing for bed last night is hiding all those pretty tattoos and muscles from me. I would have liked to study them closer. For science, obviously.
“Didn’t you say last night I’ve had my tongue in your mouth?”
Shit. I did say that, and now I regret everything. “Yeah, but—”
“But nothin’.” He pulls me closer, arm tightening around me, and closes his eyes. “Quit tryin’ to move away from me. You’re exactly where I want you.”
My brain does that static blue screen thing where everything just… stops. And then, because I’m warm and wrapped in him—and not a saint—I let myself go boneless in his arms.
“I could get used to wakin’ up like this,” he says it with a quiet warmth that smooths out all his jagged edges.
Me too.
“You sleep okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did. First time for a while, actually.”
“Probably because you got free of the back destroying couch.”
“Or ‘cause of the company.”
He slept because I was with him? Shit. I mean… now that I think about it, I slept better too. None of the usual nightmares hit me last night.
Huh.
My musing scatters as he kisses my head like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
I melt.
Obviously.
I could die happy right now. I snuggle back into him, since he clearly wants me draped all over him.
Why is he so comfortable to lie on?
I stroke my fingers over his stomach in slow rhythmic circles, while his move over my spine. Every ounce of tension leaks out of me under his touch.
“You’re comfy for someone who’s built like a wall.”
I feel him shift beneath me as he laughs and then because my brain to mouth filter doesn’t work with him, I add, “I’m serious. When do you even find time to make those things?”
I poke his solid abdominal muscles, but he grabs my hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing my fingers one by one.
That has no right being that hot. I’m still catching my breath when he says, “Years of draggin’ Riot out of fights.”
Riot looks like the kind to cause trouble. I’ll bet he does it with that shit-eating grin as well. The one that makes Mace scowl at him and Ivy smile.
Something occurs to me. I probably shouldn’t ask it, but I’m all boneless and soft, which makes it feel like the perfect time for an interrogation.
“That’s a nickname, right?” I ask. “I mean, no mother is going through hours of labour just to call their kid Riot.”
And Ivy calls him Nate. Same with Diesel. Makenna calls him Zane. Dash is Rhys to Dayna and Mace is—well, Mace. But he’s the outlier. They all have a nickname and another that doesn’t sound like it was decided over a skinful of booze and a lost bet.
The point is, the women get to use their real names, but only them. I’ve never heard Makenna call Riot by his first name. Even Maylie, who is his sister-in-law, still calls him Riot.
But Nic is just… Nic to everyone.
Sometimes they use prez, but they’re not calling him Phoenix and leaving Nic for me. It’s absurd, but I want a name only I get to whisper against his throat in the dark.
The feeling bubbling inside me is hot and sharp. I’m jealous. The realisation hits me like a punch. I’m fucking jealous that I don’t have the exclusive use of his name. There’s no private version, no hidden piece of him reserved just for me. It’s unhinged, but I hate it.
Why don’t I get something no one else gets to use?
I lift my head slightly to look at him, but his eyes have drifted shut, and he’s unaware of the irritation blooming through me.
“Nic?”
“Hmm?”
“Riot?” I prompt.
“Oh, yeah, it’s his road name.”
My lips press into a tight line. “So, why does nobody call you Phoenix? You’re always Nic or sometimes prez. What’s the deal with that?”
His eyes open at the sharpness in my voice. For a moment, he just… stares at me, his brain trying to catch up in a game he didn’t know he was playing.
“Phoenix is my real name,” he says it slowly, as if I’m a bomb he’s not sure if he’s about to set off.
I blink. Then I do it again for good measure and to give him a chance to laugh it off.
He doesn’t.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about shared names and exclusivity because this needs unpacking. Immediately.
“Your first name—your actual legal, government name—is Phoenix?”
I assumed it was a biker thing like Diesel, Dash, or Riley. Okay, not him. I’m pretty sure that’s his actual name and Riley’s actually cool, even if he’s quiet and far too broody for someone that young.
He gets a look on his face that I read clearly. He’s preparing to shut this whole conversation down before I get my answers. Hell no.
“You’re telling me you’re walking around with literally the coolest and most unhinged name I’ve ever heard? And you’re using Nic?”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “I thought you knew all of this?”
How did I miss that?
I blow out an impatient breath. “I thought your name was Nicholas or maybe Nico. Nicodemus at push, but Nic is short for Phoenix?”
I figured he had some insane back story about rising like a fucking hero out of the ashes. Or just really liked birds.
There’s a beat of silence then, “Nicodemus?”
“Please. Phoenix is on the table already. Nicodemus isn’t that out there. How did you get to Nic?”
“Name was shortened to Nix as a kid. Then became Nicks and eventually just… Nic. This is really the thing you wanna get stuck on this mornin’?”
“Absolutely.” A pause, then, I peer up at him. “It explains a lot.” His brow lifts. Heroically, I keep going. “Yeah, you’ve got this whole mythical, mystic energy going on.” I wave a hand at him. “Makes sense you’d have that kind of name.”
“Keeley, the only mystic thing goin’ on here is the fact you ain’t back in my arms yet.”
I close my mouth. That had no right coming out of his mouth, not right now. Not when I’m trying to focus.
“You don’t play fair,” I pout.
“Ain’t tryin’ to.”
He loses patience and pulls me onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. I fumble for the headboard, letting out a little squeak at having my world suddenly shifted without warning, but I go willingly.
I’m weak and he’s hot as hell.
Nic settles me where he wants me and settles against the pillows. I can feel his hardness pressed between us, and it takes every ounce of control not to grind against him.
Fuck me, he’s so handsome. It’s not fair. No one should look this good.
All that dark stubble, a jaw cut from stone. Broody eyes that are storms one second and blue skies the next.
He’s the whole package.
His hand hovers close to my stitched side for a second before his eyes find mine. I don’t miss the concern in them. “You hurtin’?”
“No.” His brow lifts, and I cup his face between my hands. His stubble is rough against my palms. “Nic, I’m fine. I’d say if it wasn’t. I mean, I’m not planning on running a marathon or anything.”
“You collapsed.”
“I was stressed,” I counter. “There was a lot happening.”
He doesn’t look reassured, so I thread my fingers through his hair, the repetition rhythmic and soothing. Instantly, he starts to relax. I feel the tension seep out of him with every movement I make. “I’ll check the stitches later.”
“Okay,” I agree.
His eyes close, his grip on my hips flexing, like he’s not sure if he wants to pull me closer or give me breathing room.
“Nic?”
“Hmm?”
“Can I call you Phoenix?”
“Sunshine.” His eyes stay closed, but his lips twitch.
“You don’t like it?” I press.
I really want something that’s just ours, and I don’t know why it matters so much. Not when he has me in his lap like this.
“I hate it.” He pauses. “But I hate it less when you say it.”