Chapter 8 Full Throttle
FULL THROTTLE
Morning light turned Axel's room golden.
I lay on my side, watching him sleep. The hard lines of his face had softened overnight, and for once, he looked peaceful.
No furrowed brow, no clenched jaw, no nightmares twitching behind his eyelids.
Just a man at rest, one arm thrown across my waist like he was afraid I'd disappear.
I traced the scar on his shoulder—the puckered circle of an old bullet wound. He had so many stories written on his skin. Someday, I wanted to know them all.
His eyes opened slowly, grey finding mine. For a moment, he just looked at me—soft, unguarded, so different from the soldier who'd reached for a weapon when I found him bleeding in that parking lot a week ago.
"Hey," he murmured.
"Hey yourself."
"You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
His hand found my hip, thumb stroking over the bone. "I half expected to wake up alone. Thought maybe I'd dreamed the whole thing."
"Does this feel like a dream?" I shifted closer, pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth.
"No." His arms tightened, pulling me flush against him. "Dreams were never this good."
We lay tangled together, trading lazy kisses, hands wandering with no urgency. The desperate hunger of last night had mellowed into something warmer—not less intense, just different. Like the difference between a wildfire and a hearth.
"Church is at noon," he said eventually, mouth moving against my temple. "The vote."
"Nervous?"
"For you?" He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. "No. You've already proven yourself ten times over. This is just making it official."
"What happens if they vote no?"
"They won't." His certainty was absolute. "But even if they did—you'd still be mine. Still be protected. The vote is about the club claiming you. I claimed you the night you put your hands on me."
Heat curled through my chest at his words. Claimed. It should have felt possessive, archaic. Instead, it felt like safety.
"We should probably shower," I said reluctantly. "Make ourselves presentable."
His smile turned wicked. "Shower. Together?"
"That's what I said."
"Just checking." He was already rolling out of bed, pulling me with him. "Wouldn't want to misinterpret."
The shower took longer than strictly necessary.
Axel pressed me against the tile, hot water cascading over us, and kissed me until I forgot my own name.
His hands mapped my body like he was memorizing it—every plane of muscle, every sensitive spot that made me gasp.
When he dropped to his knees, looked up at me with water streaming down his face, I nearly came from the image alone.
"I want to try," he said. "What you did for me."
"Axel, you don't have to—"
"I want to." His hands gripped my thighs, steadying me. "Tell me if I do something wrong."
He took me in his mouth, and my head fell back against the tile.
It was clumsy. Unpracticed. He used too much teeth at first, couldn't find a rhythm, pulled off twice to catch his breath. And it was still the hottest thing I'd ever experienced—watching this powerful man kneel for me, learning me, wanting to learn me.
"Like that," I managed, fingers threading through his wet hair. "Just like—fuck, Axel—"
He figured it out faster than I expected.
Found the spots that made me shake, learned to hollow his cheeks, discovered that humming sent vibrations through me that turned my vision white.
When I warned him I was close, he didn't pull away—just gripped my hips harder, took me deeper, and swallowed every drop.
I slid down the tile afterward, boneless, and he caught me. Pulled me into his lap on the shower floor, both of us breathing hard under the spray.
"Good?" he asked, and there was genuine uncertainty under the satisfaction.
"I can't feel my legs."
His laugh was surprised, delighted. "I'll take that as a yes."
By the time we made it downstairs, the common room was buzzing.
Word had spread about the vote. Members clustered in groups, conversations falling quiet as we entered before picking back up with knowing smiles.
Irish wolf-whistled. Tank just nodded, but there was something in his eyes as they tracked over us—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper.
His gaze lingered a beat too long on where Axel's hand rested at my lower back.
"You two look... refreshed." Blade appeared at my elbow, shit-eating grin firmly in place. "Good night?"
"None of your business."
"That good, huh?" He laughed, dodging my half-hearted swat. "Relax, hermano. I'm happy for you. Both of you."
Maria pressed coffee into my hands without being asked, followed by a plate of eggs and bacon that smelled like heaven. "You need to eat," she said firmly. "Big day."
"Thanks, Maria."
"Thank me by keeping that man of yours out of trouble." She nodded toward Axel, who was conferring with Hawk across the room. "He's been different since you got here. Lighter. It's good to see."
I watched him—the way he stood taller, smiled easier, touched the brothers who clapped his shoulder with genuine warmth instead of performed camaraderie. Had I done that? Or had he just been waiting for permission to be himself?
Maybe both.
Jake found me after breakfast, arm still in a sling but color back in his face. The bruises had faded to yellow-green, and his swollen eye had opened enough to see.
"Hey." He dropped onto the couch beside me. "Wanted to say thanks. Again. Properly."
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He met my eyes, and I saw the earnestness there—the foster kid who'd learned that gratitude was currency, that debts needed to be paid. "You came for me. You didn't have to. I'm just a prospect, I'm nobody, and you—"
"You're not nobody." I cut him off firmly. "And you're not just a prospect. You're family. That's what you told me my first day here, remember? Phoenix takes care of family."
His throat worked. "Still getting used to that being real."
"Yeah." I squeezed his good shoulder. "Me too."
Church was held in a room I hadn't seen before.
Heavy wooden doors, soundproofed walls, a long table scarred with decades of use. The officers sat in designated chairs—Hawk at the head, Axel at his right hand, Tank, Irish, Blade, and others whose names I was still learning arranged around the perimeter.
I stood at the far end, feeling absurdly like I was facing a tribunal.
"Kai Nakamura." Hawk's voice filled the space, commanding without being loud. "You've been brought before this table to determine your status within the Steel Phoenixes organization."
Organization. Such a formal word for a family.
"In the past week, you have provided medical aid to our VP under dangerous circumstances.
You have withstood attacks on your person and your home.
You have demonstrated loyalty, courage, and skill in the rescue of one of our prospects.
" Hawk's dark eyes held mine. "Several members have spoken on your behalf.
Do you have anything to say before we vote? "
I looked around the table. At Tank, solid and steady. At Irish, barely containing his grin. At Blade, who nodded encouragingly. At Axel, whose grey eyes burned with something that looked like pride.
"Just one thing." I straightened my shoulders.
"A week ago, I was alone. I had a job I loved and an apartment I tolerated and a life that looked fine from the outside but felt empty in all the ways that mattered.
" I swallowed. "Then I stopped to help a stranger in a parking lot, and everything changed.
You've offered me something I stopped believing in a long time ago—a place to belong.
People who have my back. A family." I met Hawk's gaze.
"Whatever you decide today, I want you to know that I'm grateful. For all of it."
Silence. Then Hawk nodded.
"All in favor of recognizing Kai Nakamura as family of the Steel Phoenixes, entitled to our protection and bound by our code, say aye."
"Aye." Axel's voice, immediate and fierce.
"Aye." Tank.
"Aye." Irish.
"Aye." Blade.
One by one, around the table. Not a single dissent.
"Motion carried." Hawk stood, and something like a smile crossed his weathered face. "Welcome to the family, Kai."
The room erupted. Suddenly I was being hugged, back-slapped, my hand shaken by men whose names I barely knew but whose acceptance I felt like a physical force. Irish lifted me off my feet—literally lifted me, the maniac—and spun me around while whooping loud enough to wake the dead.
Through it all, Axel stood back, watching with that soft expression I was learning was reserved for me. When the chaos finally subsided, he crossed to me, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me in front of everyone.
More whoops. A few groans. Someone—Irish, probably—yelled "Get a room!"
Axel pulled back, forehead against mine. "You're ours now."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He struggled for words, this man who fought so hard against them. "You're mine. And I'm yours. In front of everyone. No hiding."
I kissed him again, softer this time. "No hiding," I agreed.
The celebration lasted hours.
Someone distributed bottles of whiskey. Someone else started music—classic rock, heavy on the guitar riffs. The pool tables saw intense competition, and at some point, a poker game materialized that I was wise enough to stay far away from.
I floated through it all in a pleasant haze.
Talking to Maria about her kids—twin girls, nine years old, terrors according to her and angels according to everyone else.
Losing spectacularly at darts against Irish, who turned out to be some kind of savant.
Watching Tank teach Jake how to properly maintain his bike, their heads bent together over an engine.
Tank caught me looking at one point. Held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering through his expression.
"You good?" I asked.
"Yeah." He straightened, wiped his hands on a rag. "Just thinking."
"About?"