Epilogue
KEELEY
THREE WEEKS LATER…
The apartment is full of boxes. They’re piled high in the dining area, my neat scrawl on the side of a few. His are unlabelled and packed like he did it drunk.
I know he’s going to be asking in an hour where something is.
Riot drops the last box and straightens his back like he’s ninety and not built like a wall in human form. “I need hazard pay for those last boxes. What you got in them?”
“Bodies,” I say offhand.
He stares at me for a beat, then shakes his head. “I’m out of here. Tell Prez he owes me.”
The other guys are already waiting by the car, so I lock the door behind him and turn back into the room.
Our room.
And not just a bed and bathroom. We have a couch. A kitchen. Even a little balcony I’ve already bought a bistro set for.
The large windows overlook the city, and for a second I let myself get lost in the view.
I sense him before his arms slip around my waist and his chin rests on my shoulder. Every part of me relaxes back into him, just like I always do.
“They gone?” he asks.
“Riot’s going to extort you for favours,” I tell him cheerfully.
He exhales a laugh. “Of course he is.”
I lean back against him, careful not to put too much weight on his still healing ribs. “It’s quiet,” I say.
“Hm.”
“Dash and Dayna are having a boy.”
“I heard,” he says into my hair.
“I wasn’t sure if you boys talk about that kind of stuff,” I say, running my hands over his arms wrapped around my middle.
“We talk. Just not for six hundred messages.”
I snort. That’s a valid observation. Our group chat does get a little long winded. “I told King we’d visit him tonight.”
He’s recovering so well, but he still has a long way to go. Too long, really. Nic’s never explained what caused King’s injuries, but all the guys visit him every week.
“Babe, you don’t have to come with me to the hospital. I’ll go myself.”
I frown, twisting a little to look up at him. “I want to.”
“I know, but—”
I cut him off before he can try to talk me out of it again. “No buts. I like him. He’s funny, and he matters to you.”
He stills for a second, his breath rushing out of him. Then Nic turns me in his arms, as if he needs to see my face.
I peer up at him as soon as we’re chest to chest, my hands spanning over his stomach under his t-shirt.
The bruises on his face are still stark, though they’ve faded a lot over the last few weeks. It’s like a road map of the things Morozov and his men did to him.
He hasn’t complained once about his injuries, but he moves slower and more careful. Three cracked ribs will do that.
“You’re amazing.”
I’m not, I just like his world and I want to be in it.
I trail a finger over his cheek, then press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “So are you,” I say, meaning it.
He is. I’ve never had anyone look after me the way he does, never had someone care if I eat or sleep. If I’m happy.
What’s the version of Stockholm syndrome where you’d chain your partner to the bed before you let them leave you?
Since Morozov was taken care of—murdered—life has fallen into a routine. Everyone eventually left the clubhouse after lockdown lifted and went back to their own homes. I miss having the women down the hall, but now we have a chaotic group chat instead.
And I like this part. The one where Nic comes home to me and our home.
He kisses me so softly it makes my chest ache. He doesn’t rush. He never does, just claims my mouth like it never belonged to anyone else but him.
I don’t hesitate when I kiss him back. My fingers curl into his shirt, holding him while I deliberately slide my tongue against his. As always, he steals my breath, but I know now that I do the same to him.
His fingers rest around the back of my neck, thumb stroking in that way that calms the noise in my head. I love kissing him.
I love him. It slips out before I think about it. Just three words while he’s rearranging everything I thought I knew. “I love you.”
At first, I don’t realise I’ve said it aloud. But he freezes, his thumb stilling against my skin. Then he pulls back to look at me.
Shit.
I mean, of course I love him and I’m pretty sure he has to know that considering how well I’ve taken care of him over the last few weeks. But he’s looking at me like I just handed him his own heart.
“Sunshine, fuck.”
“It’s not exactly news, Nic.”
He kisses my temple, his hand still on my nape. “It’s different hearin’ it.”
“I love you,” I repeat with a smile.
“Keeley—”
“I love you, Phoenix. I. Love. You.”
His mouth crashes against mine, urgent, like he’s pouring every feeling into it. “I love you too.”
I already knew that. The man has moulded his entire life around me from the moment he pulled me out of that cage.
He’s still doing it.
But sometimes he lets me do the same for him.
“You happy?” I don’t know what makes me ask it, but I want the answer the moment I do.
“Yeah, sunshine,” he says. “I’m happy.”
I kiss him again because I need to feel his mouth, him. Things aren’t perfect, but we’re getting there, strengthening the club every day. New members, new prospects, Nic’s rebuilding out of the ashes of what was left behind.
This is where I belong.
Right at his side.