Chapter 25 Wren
WREN
I have to admit, waking up with Saint is a blessing. The safety of being tucked into the crook of his body is the best thing I’ve ever felt—including the mind-altering orgasms that I’ve learned are possible.
Safety has never been a given in my life, and it’s huge. So huge that it puts the rest of my life into perspective.
The way his hand sinks between my legs once he’s sure I’m awake is another revelation. I’ve never met a man so concerned with a woman’s pleasure over his own before I met these three. Saint takes the worship to another level.
How much of that is because of his first wife? Or was he always this way?
He doesn’t talk about her, but I can tell, sometimes, he goes somewhere else. Given everything else I know about his life from the scraps I’ve scraped together, I hope he’s with her and not sinking into some other kind of darkness.
I should probably be jealous, but I’m not. There’s no use in competing with someone who’s no longer here. Not when all I want to do is help him heal as much as he’s helped me.
After he gets me off, he slinks out of bed and tells me to rest.
I don’t plan to argue. I’m still exhausted.
But I’m not alone for long. Doc shows up with a tray of breakfast—melon, strawberries, and pineapple with a soft boiled egg and rye toast. So very specific. So very my preferences. The knowing glint in his eyes belies his otherwise calm demeanor.
I don’t know how he does that. If I let my eyes show my real thoughts, my body has betrayed me already.
He also has tea. In a pot. With a cup and saucer. For me.
Doc’s smile softens the rest of him as he sets the tray on the side table. He sits at my knees and strokes his fingers through my hair. It makes me want to purr. I stretch, drawing his attention down my body.
“No more tingling in your fingers and toes?” Doc’s voice is soft. Gentle. Calm.
I almost want to laugh, but I don’t. He’s being serious. “No tingling.”
A nod. “And your violin? Have you played?”
I shake my head. No, I haven’t needed to.
“You should. After breakfast.” He points at the tray and helps me sit up.
Usually, I’m self-conscious eating. The people in my world are all slender and petite. I am neither of those things, often hearing hushed comments about the size of my hips and ass. How I shouldn’t eat that tart or put sugar and milk in my tea because I’m big.
But the way Doc runs his palm up and down my thigh, measuring the width with his thumb, encourages me. He gives me a squeeze where my thigh meets my hip and drowns me with the lust in his dark eyes.
I have to force my breathing to slow. To stay even as I stir my tea. I use it as a barrier before Doc slides further down the bed, rubbing my shins and calves. It gives me enough confidence to eat. Before I’m done, he moves to my ankles, feet, and toes.
I groan when he pops them.
I’m on my second cup of tea when he finally stops.
“Your violin.” He makes a pointed gesture to where it sits on the dresser. Saint hasn’t moved it, so I’ve left it there.
“As the doctor prescribes.” I crawl out of bed, pausing in front of his knees to caress his rough cheek.
I’m hit with the emotion in his eyes again, making me step closer. I fall into his embrace, his hands coming around the backs of my thighs. I lean in for a kiss, enjoying him in this slow moment. We haven’t had many of those.
But after heat builds, he pats my ass and pulls back. A soft reprimand to obey him.
Who knew a little discipline would be such a turn on?
Still, I do as I’m told: taking out my violin, tuning it, tightening my bow, spreading rosin over it, and tucking it under my chin.
The song that flows is slow, calm, almost twinkling, reminiscent of my morning, of being accepted, of growing.
Almost unaware of the turn of my notes, it builds steam, and I remember the way the police car took turns too hard. How the cuffs bit into my wrists and made my shoulders sore when I fought to keep myself upright. How the zip ties were worse.
The terror of being ripped from my bed with so little to keep me modest. Being at those officers’ mercy.
The way I screamed for Sin until my voice was hoarse. How I hid my face from the dead bodies. How I didn’t care about how covered in blood he was.
When my thoughts hit a crescendo, remembering how my night ended. How Sin, Doc, Saint…how they took care of me after. My song comes full circle: calm, peaceful, happy.
Like I’m finally home.
I drop my arms and lean my head back with that acceptance before I put the violin away and turn back to Doc. He’s still where I left him, but his attention is more intense.
Kneeling on the other side of the mattress, I bask in the way his gaze blazes. Inching forward, my arms go out to balance, and Doc leans in, catching me with his shoulders under my palms and his hands at my waist.
Pulling him closer sparks something deep within me. Being bold has served me well so far, so I dip in for a kiss.
Everything in him changes, needy, like he’s suffocating, and I’m air.
What I really am is melting. Hot and slick.
I easily crawl into his lap, grinding against him. Doc doesn’t miss a stride, palms gliding along my bare legs, over my hips to my waist. Soft. Reverent.
He easily hands me control, so I have my way with him, taking what I want with the kind of confidence I’m only beginning to feel.
Doc feels better, in no rush to get me where I want to go.
Then, he has no problem grabbing hold of me when I do come, keeping me in place as he takes me beyond my own capabilities. I shatter so completely that I drop into sleep after he comes and cleans me up.
I dream of plastic binding my wrists, fear and degradation. Grant looming over me. The men coming to save me. It’s a back and forth that leaves me restless.
I’m at the third rendition of the same storyline when hands brace my shoulders, and I bolt awake, adrenaline coursing through me.
Sin stares down at me, a wild look in his eyes that others would probably find menacing, but I only see concern there. Care.
I brush my thumb over his cheek, my fear melting away. Because I know he’ll come get me if anything happens.
“Hi.”
His touch is gentle as he looks me over. “Hey.”
A smile breaks out on my face, and I’m beaming at him.
Sin’s fingers filter through my hair, spreading it across my pillow.
My touch falls down his shoulders and chest, resting there as he massages my scalp. Eyes closing automatically, I let him pamper me, working out the stress from my nightmares.
His mouth surprises me, a soft kiss jerking my body to life. “Roll over.”
The gravel tumbling through his command has me following his directions with anticipation.
On my stomach, I enjoy the heat of Sin’s hands on my back, my shoulders, my neck.
But slowly, the massage turns into light petting, kisses dropped on bare skin—through my t-shirt, until his body hovers over mine.
He sinks into me, and I lift against him until our bodies roll together with sweet promises.
It quickly becomes evident that what I learned I liked yesterday is certainly a new favorite position. Sin takes me from behind, deep and slow but never truly soft. He holds onto me firmly, digs into me when I fall apart, builds me back up, and knocks me down again.
As loose and weak as my muscles are, I’m not tired enough to sleep anymore.
Sin waits for me to shower, and I’m quick. Hunger takes over, and I’m dressed in minutes. My usual uniform feeling more comfortable than I ever expected.
The sly grin on Sin’s mouth is so sweet that I’m a little in love with how I seem to be the only person who gets one out of him.
“Work up an appetite?”
“I did. I’m ravenous.”
I get a kiss on my mouth, then my forehead, before Sin escorts me upstairs and deposits me at the bar with Pixie. She’s happy to see me, but her features sink into a grim expression almost immediately.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The grumbling in my stomach shifts to nausea. “What’s wrong?”
She grimaces. “Have you seen the news?”
My heart hiccups. “News?”
Why would I need to see the news? Suddenly, I feel disconnected from the world, because no, I haven’t had contact with anyone or anything but this club and its men for more than a week.
“Yeah, news channels? Any of the local ones? Wait. Do you not have a phone?”
I shake my head. I left that behind when I ran, and I haven’t missed it much. I don’t have anyone to contact outside of the club anymore anyway.
A plate of fries slides on the bar in front of me, and my men advance, surrounding me, shielding me as Pixie pulls up the local news on her phone. She taps the screen and spins her phone on the bar to face me.
A local news chyron scrolls beneath a familiar, polished anchor.
brEAKING: Senator Delaney Releases Statement on Missing Daughter
My stomach drops.
The anchor’s voice is calm. Measured. Practiced. “Earlier this evening, Senator Ronan Delaney addressed concerns surrounding his daughter, Wren Delaney, who fled town last week under what sources describe as volatile circumstances.
“According to the statement, Ms. Delaney has refused contact with her family and is believed to be under the influence—or control—of a known criminal organization.”
The word criminal feels like a slap.
“The senator emphasized that while he loves his daughter, he does not support her recent behavior and has fully cooperated with law enforcement to ensure her safe return.”
A pause. Then the blade sinks deeper.
“The family has asked the public not to aid or harbor Ms. Delaney and warned that doing so may interfere with an ongoing investigation.”
Silence swallows the room.
Saint mutters, low and furious, “He just put a target on you.”
Pixie scrolls, bringing up another clip. Another quote.
“Senator Delaney also clarified that his daughter’s engagement to businessman Grant Dalton remains legally intact and that recent reports of misconduct are unsubstantiated.”
My chest tightens.
One last punch to my gut lands before the video ends. “The senator concluded by saying he hopes his daughter will accept responsibility for the harm she has caused and return home willingly.”
Disowned.
He disowned me. My own father disowned me.
A strategic move to refuse taking any responsibility for what’s really happening. To save face.
And my engagement is still legally intact? I’m married. To someone else.
This…this is bullshit.
A honest fucking dick move on Dad’s part. Especially the way he pulled Mom and Robbie in for his short spotlight in front of the house, like a family bonded by trouble.
Tears burn my eyes, even though I should have expected this from him.
A pair of hands smooth over my back. I don’t want to wallow, but I allow myself a few beats to come to terms with being cut loose from my family. As much as I’ve dreamed about my freedom, this isn’t the way I wanted it to happen.
“You’re ours,” Doc says.
“Completely ours. Our family,” Sin grumbles into my hair from behind.
The warmth of them fights off the chill of fear beginning to incite.
Saint catches the lone tear that slips free and shakes his head. “This doesn’t change anything for us, wife. We’re here to protect you.”
Pixie appears before me as my vision clears. “We got you, sweetheart. Pray he doesn’t come back here. I’ll crush a kneecap myself.”
That yanks a laugh out of me, and I give her hand a squeeze.
“Have to save some for the rest of us,” Reaper calls from across the bar. “Ain’t no one gonna come here and fuck with our queen.”
I press my lips together to keep more tears from spilling. A round of cheers joins his proclamation.
Turning, I peer at Reaper from between Saint and Doc’s shoulders. He lifts his beer to me, and I flash him my best smile.
Yet, the nagging dread won’t let me loose. The public attack makes me feel like I’m more trouble than I’m worth. How many more times are they going to come for me before they accept that I make my own choices?
A life that’s never been my own, and they want to squeeze every drop out of it that they can.
Slowly, Saint gets me to eat, piling little bits of this and that onto my plate. Taking small bites with me.
His mouth presses to my ear. “You’re all ours now. That’s all this means.”
Somehow, that’s reassuring.
I lean back against his chest and take the comfort he’s offering me. The reassurance I never imagined I’d gain here.
When my mind finally starts to settle, one of the lookouts comes running, bursting into the clubhouse yelling, “Sheriff’s on his way!”