Chapter 22 Claiming Rights
Chapter twenty-two
Claiming Rights
Zane
I was going to make her come until she admitted the truth—she was mine.
The van is quiet now, the Viper long gone, Tommy standing guard outside like the loyal soldier he is. Miguel's left, but his presence lingers like a threat in the air. And Lena? Lena's pressed against the medical cabinet, trying to pretend she doesn't want this as much as I do.
"We need to lock the doors," she says, her voice breathless.
"Already did," I tell her, having secured them the moment Miguel's bike faded into the distance. "Privacy protocol."
"That's not a real medical term."
"It is now."
She's still in those purple nitrile gloves that are more red than they should be—blood has a way of staining everything, including whatever's between us. Her scrubs are rumpled, her hair escaping from the ponytail she'd yanked it into, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"This can't happen," she says, but she's not moving away.
"It's already happening," I counter, caging her against the cabinet with my arms. "Has been happening since that first text."
"I treat your enemies," she reminds me, like I haven't spent weeks watching her patch up every rival MC member, every civilian, every person the system forgot about.
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Probably," I agree, leaning closer. "But here's the thing, Angel—I stopped caring about 'should' the moment you called yourself a disaster in that first message."
Her breath hitches. "That was supposed to be to Ray."
"Best mistake you ever made."
"Worst," she corrects, but her hands are fisting in my cut, pulling me closer even as she protests. "This is the worst mistake."
"Then let's make it worth it."
The kiss is violent, desperate—weeks of texts and tension exploding into something that feels more like claiming than kissing. She tastes like coffee and chaos, like salvation and damnation mixed into something addictive.
I lift her onto the exam table—perfect height, I note with satisfaction—and she wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer. The table creaks under our combined weight, probably not designed for this particular medical procedure.
"Someone could come—"
"Then you better be quiet," I tell her, my hand sliding under her scrub top, finding skin that's fever-hot.
She bites her lip, and fuck if that doesn't make me harder. Everything about her makes me harder—her competence, her chaos, the way she saves lives while barely holding her own together.
My hand slides lower, past the waistband of her scrubs, and she gasps.
"Zane—"
"Tell me to stop," I challenge, my fingers finding her already wet. "Tell me you don't want this."
She doesn't. Instead, she rocks against my hand, chasing the pressure, and I nearly lose it right there.
"Good girl," I murmur against her neck. "Taking what you need."
She whimpers—actually whimpers—and I slide one finger inside her, then two, setting a rhythm that has her clutching at my shoulders.
"Say it," I demand, adding a third finger, feeling her stretch around me. "Say you're mine."
"I'm—I'm—"
Her phone rings.
Miguel's ringtone.
"Don't answer," I growl, not stopping my movements.
But she's reaching for it anyway, because of course she is. She's nothing if not self-destructive.
"I have to—he'll come back—"
"Then you better be very quiet," I say, increasing the pressure, finding that spot that makes her eyes roll back.
She answers on the third ring, her voice remarkably steady for someone currently three fingers deep in disaster.
"H-hello?"
"You okay, hermana?" Miguel's voice is tinny through the speaker. "You sound strange."
I curl my fingers, and she bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood.
"F-fine. Just tired. Cleaning up still."
"Torch says the van's locked."
"Safety protocol," she manages, stealing my earlier lie. "After the Viper."
I lean down, whispering directly in her ear: "Come for me, angel. Right now, while you're lying to him."
Her free hand flies to her mouth, muffling the sound as she shatters around my fingers, her whole body shaking as she comes completely apart. I work her through it, drawing it out, making sure she feels every second of this betrayal.
"Lena?" Miguel's voice, concerned now.
"Sorry," she gasps. "Dropped something. I'm—I'm heading home soon."
"You sure you're okay?"
"Perfect," she lies, still pulsing around my fingers. "Just need sleep."
She hangs up and immediately slaps my chest. "You absolute—"
I kiss her again, swallowing her protest, tasting her fury and shame and want all mixed together.
"You just came while talking to your brother," I remind her against her lips. "On your medical equipment. In your sanctuary."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I should."
"But you don't."
She pulls back, and there are actual tears in her eyes. Not from sadness—from intensity, from the impossibility of this, from orgasm that was as much betrayal as it was pleasure.
"I need to clean up," she says, looking at the exam table like it's committed treason.
"Let me help."
"You've done enough."
But I'm already grabbing the antiseptic wipes, helping her sanitize the table with the same precision she uses to save lives. There's something intimate about it—cleaning up the evidence of our disaster together.
Her phone buzzes. Another text from Miguel.
Miguel: I know you're with him. His bike's outside. I'm coming in.
The blood drains from her face. "Your bike—"
"Fuck."
"He'll kill you."
"Let him try."
"This isn't a joke!" She's panicking now, shoving me toward the back door. "Go. Now. Please."
I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "This isn't over."
"It has to be."
"No. It doesn't. And next time? You're going to say it. You're going to admit you're mine."
"There won't be a next time."
I smile, dark and certain. "There's always a next time with us, angel. We're too broken to quit."
I slip out the back just as Miguel comes around the front, but I don't go far. I wait in the shadows, listening to her lie to her brother, protecting me even as she probably still has my fingerprints on her soul.
My phone vibrates.
Angel: He's gone. Don't come back.
You still wet from coming on my fingers?
Angel: I'm a disaster.
My disaster.
Angel: Never yours. This ends now.
You're already mine. Have been since that first text. Next time, you'll admit it.
She doesn't respond, but she doesn't block me either.
Because we both know the truth—this is inevitable. We're inevitable.
Two disasters colliding until there's nothing left but beautiful wreckage.
And I can't fucking wait to burn.