Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Helle
I wake up in a bed that's not mine.
For a second—just a second—panic flares.
Wrong room, wrong bed, where the fuck am I?
Then I feel the sheets against my bare skin, smell leather and something distinctly male, and remember.
The woods. Bravos. Dawn breaking through the trees while we—
My face heats even thinking about it.
After, we stumbled back to his room like teenagers sneaking in past curfew.
We couldn't keep our hands off each other.
Made it as far as the door before he was kissing me again, backing me inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
We'd had sex again, slower that time.
Taking our time to learn what made the other gasp, moan, beg.
And then we talked.
Really talked.
Lying tangled in his sheets while the sun came up, sharing truths we'd kept buried for years.
I'd asked about Phantom—what his Prez had really said about me.
Bravos had been quiet for a moment, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. "He asked if I was getting involved with someone I shouldn't be. Said if I'm going to stay somewhere, I should prospect for that club, not his."
"He thinks I'm going to steal you away from Shotgun Saints."
"Something like that. His problem is if you wanted to stay here—in Florida—you'd pull me away from the club. Make me less of a Nomad."
I'd tensed at that. "I'm not staying here."
"I know. That's what I’ll tell him." His hand had stilled on my shoulder. "You're in Texas. Which means I'd actually be around home base more. Not less. Actually present instead of constantly on the road running from shit."
"So, it could work."
"Yeah. It could work."
I'd fallen asleep after that, his arm around my waist, feeling safer than I had in years.
Now I'm alone in his bed, wearing his t-shirt that smells like him, and sunlight is streaming through the window at an angle that suggests it's late morning or early afternoon.
I slept. Really slept. Dreamless and deep.
When's the last time that happened?
The door opens and I tense automatically—old instincts—but it's just Bravos.
He's wearing jeans and nothing else, holding two paper coffee cups like they're precious cargo.
"You're awake," he says. "Good. I wasn't sure how much longer I could wait before drinking both of these myself."
"You got coffee."
"Figured you'd need it." He sits on the edge of the bed, hands me one of the cups. Then he starts pulling things out of his pockets—tiny creamers, sugar packets, a handful of those little wooden stirrers. "I'm not sure how you take it."
The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet it makes my chest tight.
"Black is fine," I say, watching him arrange the condiments on the nightstand like he's setting up a shrine. "But thank you. For thinking about it."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, but there's something soft in his expression. "Seemed like the thing to do."
He takes his own coffee—black, like mine—and settles back against the headboard beside me.
We sit there drinking in silence, the kind that only comes after really good sex and really honest conversation.
I study him in the daylight.
The scars on his knuckles.
The tattoo on his ribs—Shotgun Saints patch, but also something else underneath.
Names, maybe? His sisters?
"What are we doing here?" I ask finally.
He raises an eyebrow. "Drinking coffee?"
"No, I mean—this. You. Me." I gesture between us. "You're treating me like I'm your ol' lady."
The words hang there.
He takes a slow sip of coffee, considering. "You could be."
My heart stutters. Stops. Starts again too fast.
"Nomads don't have ol' ladies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "They have women in different cities."
"Maybe I'm tired of being that kind of Nomad."
The weight of that statement settles between us.
"What does that mean?" I ask quietly.
"It means—" He sets his coffee down, turns to face me fully. "It means I've spent eighteen years keeping everyone at arm's length. Never staying. Never letting anyone matter. And it worked. Until you."
"Bravos—"
"I'm not saying I have all the answers. I don't know what this looks like long-term. But I know I don't want to walk away from you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
I can't breathe. Can't think.
"I'm in the Austin area," I hear myself say. "You're in Sharp. That's forty-five minutes."
"That's nothing. I ride farther than that for breakfast sometimes."
I laugh—can't help it. "But you travel. You're on the road constantly. That's what Nomads do."
"Yeah. Which means I wouldn't suffocate you by being around all the time." He reaches over, takes my hand. "I get it, Helle. You need space. Need freedom. Need to not feel trapped. And I can give you that. But when I'm not on the road—"
"You'd come to me. Or I'd come to you."
"Yeah. We'd figure it out."
I turn the idea over in my mind.
It could actually work.
He'd be gone enough that I wouldn't feel smothered.
But present enough that I wouldn't feel abandoned.
And we'd both be in Texas.
Close enough to matter. Far enough to breathe.
"What about Phantom?" I ask. "Last night you said he's not happy about this."
His jaw tightens. "Phantom doesn't control my personal life."
"But he controls your club life. And if being with me means problems for Shotgun Saints—"
"It won't. Because you're not asking me to leave Texas. You're not pulling me away from the club." He squeezes my hand. "If anything, I'd be home more. Around Sharp more. Actually present instead of constantly on the road running from shit."
"You think he'll see it that way?"
"Eventually. He's stubborn, but he's not stupid. He'll understand that this—you—you make me better. Not worse."
I want to believe that.
I want to believe that this broken Nomad and this broken racer can somehow make something whole together.
"So, we're doing this?" I ask. "For real?"
"For real. No running. We see where this goes."
"I'm still leaving Florida as soon as Dad's stable."
"I know. I'm still leaving in a few days too."
"But we'll—what? Call each other? Meet up?"
"Yeah. And more than that." His voice is rough with emotion. "I want to try. Actually try. Not just hook up when it's convenient. I want—fuck, I want you to be mine. And I want to be yours."
Tears prick my eyes. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"It's also the dumbest. We barely know each other."
"I know you well enough." I set my coffee down, cup his face in my hands. "I know you followed me into hell. I know you fight like a demon and kiss like you're trying to save me. I know you've been dead inside for eighteen years and somehow I make you feel alive." I kiss him softly.
We kiss until the coffee gets cold.
Eventually, we have to face reality.
We can't stay in this room forever, as much as I might want to.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor—jeans, tank top, bra, underwear creating a trail from the door to the bed.
Evidence of last night's desperation.
Bravos watches me get dressed with an intensity that makes me blush.
"What?" I ask, pulling on my jeans.
"Nothing. Just—you're beautiful."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling.
I find my leather jacket draped over a chair, pull it on.
Armor. Protection.
The version of myself I show the world.
But something's different now.
I'm not alone anymore.
"I should check on Dad," I say, finger-combing my hair into something resembling order. "Make sure he's okay."
"I should probably show my face at the alliance meeting today anyway." Bravos pulls on a shirt—black, stretched tight across his shoulders. "Let Runes and Damon know I'm still alive."
We leave his room together.
I'm aware that people will notice. Will talk. Will speculate.
It turns out I don't care as much as I thought I would.
We make it maybe ten feet down the hallway before Elfe appears.
She's leaning against the wall like she's been waiting.
One look at us—coming out of Bravos' room together, both rumpled and obviously satisfied—and her eyebrow raises.
She says nothing.
Just watches.
"I'll catch up with you later," Bravos says, squeezing my hand once before heading toward the stairs.
I watch him go, then turn to face my sister.
"Don't start," I say.
"I'm not starting anything. Just observing."
"Observe quietly."
But she's already grabbed my arm, pulling me into an empty room—looks like someone's office, currently unused.
She closes the door behind us.
"So," Elfe says, crossing her arms. "The Nomad."
"His name is Bravos."
"I know his name. I also know you spent the night with him. Possibly two nights, technically, since you never came back yesterday."
My face heats. "And?"
"And you look different. Happier." She studies me. "You're glowing. It's disgusting."
Despite myself, I laugh. "I had a good night."
"I can see that." Her expression softens. "You're really doing this? With him?"
"I think so. Yeah. We're going to try."
"Even though you're both leaving?"
"We'll figure it out. We're both going back to Texas anyway." I lean against the desk. "He's in Sharp. I'm in Austin. That's forty-five minutes. Close enough to make it work."
Elfe is quiet for a moment, thinking. "You deserve this, you know. To be happy. To have someone."
"I don't know about deserve—"
"You do." She moves closer. "And he looks at you like—like you're the only person in the room. Like you matter more than anything else."
My throat tightens. "He makes me feel like I could stay. Not here, but—somewhere. With him."
"Then maybe you should."
"It's complicated."
"It's always complicated. That's life." Elfe reaches out, squeezes my shoulder. "But Helle? Be careful. Nomads are nomads for a reason."
"I know."
"Do you? Because I've seen you fall before. For Andrés." The name still hurts to hear. "And that almost destroyed you."
"This is different."
"Is it?"
"Yes." I meet her eyes. "Andrés was using me. Pretending. Playing a role. Bravos isn't like that. He's just—he's damaged like I am. Broken in the same ways. And maybe that's what makes it work."