6. Bella #2
Preston's face twists into something ugly. "You think this biker trash is better than me? You're giving up everything — the house, the money, the life you were born into — for what? Some thug in leather? He'll get bored of you in a month, and then where will you be?"
"That's enough." Rogue's voice cuts through like a blade.
"She's making a mistake—"
"The only mistake she made was staying with you as long as she did. Now get the fuck off my property before I let Lock finish what he started."
Preston looks around the room one more time.
At Lock, still standing over his fallen man, who at this point has given up trying to get out from under Lock's boot.
At Ghost and Diesel and all the others, silent and waiting.
At King in his armchair, watching with those cold eyes that promise violence if necessary.
And finally, at me. Standing in front of them all, no longer hiding.
Something in him breaks. I see it happen — the moment he realizes he's lost. That there's nothing he can do to threaten or buy or manipulate his way out of this.
"This isn't over," he says, but there's no conviction in it.
"Yeah, it is." Rogue puts his arm around my shoulders, casual and possessive. "Don't come back. Don't call. Don't send your boys. If I see your face again, or hear you've been making trouble for Bella, I'll come find you. And I won't be as polite as I've been today."
Preston holds his gaze for one long moment. Then he turns, snaps his fingers at his men — the one on the ground scrambles up, clutching his ribs — and walks back to his SUV.
The doors slam. The engines start. And just like that, they're gone.
The room exhales. For a moment, nobody moves.
Then Diesel lets out a low whistle. "Well. That was entertaining."
The tension breaks. Someone laughs. Ghost shakes his head and heads toward the bar, muttering something about needing a beer.
But I'm not paying attention to any of them.
I'm looking at Rogue, who's looking at me like I just moved the earth.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." I take a shaky breath. "Yeah, I think I am."
"You were incredible." His hand cups my face, tilts it up toward him. "Standing up to him like that. Telling him off. You know how much guts that takes?"
"I had backup."
"You didn't need it. You were ready to take him on all by yourself." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "That's the woman I fell for. The one who's stronger than she knows."
I lean into his touch. "What happens now?"
"Now?" He glances around the room, at the brothers who are pointedly not watching us, and then back at me. "Now I take you somewhere private and show you exactly how proud I am of you."
"That sounds promising."
"It's more than promising." He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "It's a guarantee."
Later — much later — we lie tangled together in his bed, sweat-damp and satisfied.
"I'm not going back," I say into the quiet. "To that life. To any of it. My father, my mother, the expectations — I'm done."
"You don't have to go back to anything." His arm tightens around me. "You've got me."
He rolls me onto my back, bracing himself over me, and looks down at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"I'm not good at promises, Bella. I've been burned before, and I spent a long time thinking I'd never trust anyone again. But you—" He shakes his head. "You make me want to try."
"So we're doing this?"
"We're doing this." He kisses me, slow and deep. "I'm yours."
"And I'm yours."
He smiles against my lips, and for the first time in my life, I believe I deserve this.
ONE MONTH LATER
The clubhouse is packed.
It’s someone's birthday — I've lost track of whose — and the music is loud, the beer is flowing, and I'm sitting on a picnic table in the courtyard with Demi, watching Diesel attempt to flip burgers on a grill that's seen better days.
"He's going to burn them," Demi says, taking a sip of her beer.
"He's going to burn himself," I counter.
We both laugh, and I catch myself marveling at how easy it is. How natural. A month ago I didn't know this woman. Now she's the closest thing I've had to a real friend in years.
I'm wearing jeans and one of Rogue's t-shirts, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. No heels. No carefully curated outfit designed to impress people I didn't even like.
My mother would be horrified.
The thought makes me smile.
I feel him before I see him — that prickle of awareness that tells me Rogue is nearby. I look up and find him leaning against the clubhouse wall, beer in hand, watching me. That look in his eyes — possessive, proud, heated — still makes my stomach flip.
He crosses the courtyard and pulls me off the table and into his arms in one smooth motion. I laugh, startled, and he kisses me like we're alone instead of surrounded by fifty people.
"Get a room!" someone shouts.
Rogue pulls back just enough to grin at me. "Want to?"
"Later." I loop my arms around his neck. "I'm enjoying this."
"Yeah?" He looks around at the chaos — the smoke billowing from the grill, the prospect trying to break up an argument over the music, Ghost glaring at anyone who comes near his chair. "This is what you're enjoying?"
I think about champagne flutes and string quartets. Silent dinners in enormous rooms. Smiling until my face ached at people who didn't give a damn about me.
Then I look at this — loud, messy, real. People who say what they mean. A man who looks at me like I'm everything.
"Yeah," I say. "This is exactly what I'm enjoying."
He pulls me closer, his lips brushing my ear. "I love you, you know."
It's the first time he's said it. The words hit me square in the chest, cracking something open.
"I love you too."
He kisses me again, slower this time, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into this life I never expected and wouldn't trade for anything.
My mother's voice echoes in my head, distant and fading: This is just how it is. You smile and you endure.
No, Mom. This is how it is.
You find someone worth fighting for. And you choose them.
Every single day, you choose them.