Chapter 22 Nic
TWENTY-TWO
NIC
The next few days are fucking bliss. I go to sleep with Keeley on my chest and I wake with her tangled around me as if there’s no start or end between us.
This morning, before the sun fully rose, we laid wrapped around each other, our mouths fused in slow, unhurried kisses that stole the air from my lungs.
These calm, quiet mornings are becoming my favourite part of the day. It’s the one time we’re both able to just exist without pressure or threats bearing down on us.
And Keeley? Fuck. The way she settles against me, like she already carved that space for her and doesn’t want to be anywhere else, has changed me on a bone-deep level.
The feel of her moulded against me is still so fresh, I swear her heat is still branded on my skin an hour after we were forced to start the day.
As I pull my jeans up over my hips, I glance over at her and immediately regret every decision that means I need to walk out of this room in the next five minutes.
She’s not even doing anything, just sitting on the edge of the bed, towel drying her hair.
It’s the most normal, natural fucking thing ever and yet something restless and warm moves through me.
One look at her—that’s all it takes—and I want to drag her back to bed and make her mine until the sun rises again tomorrow. I want to steal those little cries she makes when my fingers are inside her or teasing through her folds.
I drag in a slow breath that doesn’t do a fucking thing to steady the pounding beneath my ribcage. Not when her sweater clings to her body like that, showing every curve of her hips and tits.
And those jeans? They should come with a warning label. She looks incredible in them and yet, I fucking hate them.
After she asked for her clothes, I went to her flat. It was a risk, sure, but that catch in her voice when she mentioned it a few days ago was a punch to the chest.
I shouldn’t have gone, and not because Morozov is still out there, still a threat.
But for weeks now she’s been walking around wrapped in my shirts and my joggers.
I had no idea how much I liked my things touching her skin until she stopped wearing my clothes.
Now, all I want to do is tear that fucking sweater off her and put her back in one of my hoodies.
I’ve never resented fabric so fucking much.
And her flat? Fuck. I wanted to torch it.
Her place was exactly what I expected. Clean, light, and all her. I loved stepping into her world, seeing how she lives outside of this bizarre bubble I’ve trapped her in, but I also hated everything about it. The idea of Keeley going back there and carrying on with a life I’m not a part of?
Fuck no.
Not when I’ve tasted her and watched her come apart under my touch. Not when I’ve had these lazy mornings and easy nights. Not when I sleep better than I have in years because she’s tucked up beside me.
Keeley tips her head to the side so she can scrunch her hair into the towel. Our eyes lock from across the room, and every part of me reacts to her sweet smile, including my pulse, which kicks hard in my chest.
“You okay?” she asks.
I hum in the back of my throat. “Just admirin’ the view.”
There it is—that flush she gets every time she’s flustered by me. This woman is gonna be the ruin of me and I’ll open my arms to every fucking wound she inflicts.
I’ve had a lot of shit in my life. A lot of good too, but never anything like this.
Like her.
I grab the first aid kit off the top of the dresser before I cross the room—another one of our little morning rituals. She showers, and I redress her wound after.
I sink into a crouch in front of her, my free hand resting on her knee as I scan her face. The bruises have faded now, not even a smear of yellow or brown left behind. Good. She’ll never wear the marks of violence again. I’ll make sure of it.
“You keep it out of the spray?” I ask, letting her go so I can open out the kit.
Keeley rolls her eyes at me, but I notice the hint of something else beneath it. She’d never admit it, but she likes that I worry about her. I don’t think she’s had that before.
“I did exactly what you told me to do. No scrubbing, no soap near it, and I didn’t touch it.” She counts the three things off on her fingers before muttering something that sounds like ‘bossy’.
Before I can ask, she lifts the hem of her sweater for me so I can see the wound. I lean in for a closer look. It’s ugly, and not because it’s bad or deep. It just shouldn’t be marring her skin.
I warm my hands before I touch her, and then I’m careful as I examine around the site. There’s no redness or oozing and the stitches are holding the edges together. I notice some bruising around the site that wasn’t there yesterday, adding to the mottled stain around the top edge.
All normal healing markers.
“Any pain?”
“A little,” she admits.
My head snaps up so fast she flinches, but the moment she said that, a switch flipped inside my head. “You should’ve said.” It comes out sharper than I mean.
“A little doesn’t mean I’m dying, Nic. It’s not that bad. It’s stinging a little, that’s all.”
“You don’t need to hide this stuff from me, Keeley,” I say, forcing my voice into a calm I don’t feel—not about this. “I wanna know if you’re hurtin’.”
“It’s itching more than painful.”
I search her face. Every micro-expression mapped and filed away before I unclench my shoulders. She’s not wincing or gritting her teeth to hide her pain. Stitches feeling itchy is normal.
“Means it’s healin’,” I tell her. “Don’t scratch it. You’ll—”
“Undo your stellar work?”
There’s that smart mouth I love. I brush my thumb over her cheek. “Some of my finest stitchin’ right there.” I breathe easier on the next inhale.
“Well, your finest stitching is driving me crazy.”
If I could take this for her, I would. “This is the worst part, babe. It’ll feel better in a few days.”
I pull away reluctantly and go back to her wound. My touch is light, afraid to cause her even the smallest amount of pain.
Once I’ve cleaned it, I cover it again with gauze, carefully taping the edges down. Her stomach quivers where my fingers graze over her skin, and as soon as I’m done, I press a kiss to her temple.
“Thanks,” she says, letting her sweater fall back down. “I’d have probably caught some disgusting infection by now if I was taking care of it myself.”
She’ll never have to find that out. Not now, not in the future. Firstly, she’ll never get hurt like this again, and secondly, even if she did, I’d be there to take care of it.
The thought of her being hurt again means I reach for her. I can’t help it. I need her in my arms.
I kiss her fully this time, claiming her like a vow. The moment our lips touch, everything in me quietens. There’s no noise, no thoughts. Just Keeley.
I slide my tongue against hers, chasing every sound she makes as we tangle together. She’s small in my arms, and it makes all my protective instincts surge to the surface while I keep the illusion of control.
My hand moves to her nape and a full body shiver goes through her, but I keep my grip light as I hold her where I want her and slant my head to deepen the kiss.
I could take her like this all day long, but I’m already breathless and she’s pulling back to gulp air. I stroke my thumb over that spot on the back of her neck until she goes loose under my touch, her eyes glassy and dazed as they meet mine.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it and keep brushing over her skin. “You hurt today, you find me. Don’t tough it out. No one expects you to be a hero.”
Her expression is a mix of exasperation and affection. “Don’t suffer in silence. Got it. I’m definitely not a hero, Nic.” Her hands cup my face, scraping over my stubbled jaw. “I’m fine, I promise.”
My phone goes again and I know our time is up. I hate that I have to leave her, that this small window is all the time we get before I’m rushing off—probably until tonight.
“Make sure you eat somethin’.” I tuck a piece of damp hair behind her ear as I say it.
“You do know that I managed to eat three square meals a day before I met you, right?”
“That was before.”
She barks a quiet laugh, her fingers tangling in my shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“About you? Yeah, sunshine, I am.”
Her hands smooth over the front of my kutte, fingers brushing over the leather almost reverently, as if she’s checking everything sits right.
“I feel the same about you,” she murmurs, eyes on her task, not me. “I worry about you from the second you leave this room until you’re back in it.”
Her eyes narrow on my shoulders, as if she’s measuring the angles of the leather. It cracks my chest open. It’s like she’s recognising the man I am—and the one I have to be outside this room.
And accepting both.
It makes me feel ten feet fucking tall, and it centres me completely. All the chaos, all the noise, is shoved into a steadier place. Her and the club—that’s what matters.
Her fingers stop on my president’s patch. She traces the embroidered letters, like she’s burning it into her mind. Then she lifts her head to peer up at me. “I’ll see you tonight.”
My thoughts scatter at the way she’s looking up at me. Hope tangling with that small hit of fear I might reject her.
I kiss her forehead softer than I have any right to, given the things I’ve done over the years. “I won’t be late.”
Then I step back and the only reason I’m able to walk away is because I know I’m coming back to her.