Chapter 4 Jett
JETT
Two weeks. She's been here two weeks, and I'm losing my goddamn mind.
She's everywhere. In the kitchen every morning, chatting with Mama Rosa while she helps prep lunch.
In the storage room every afternoon, surrounded by boxes and spreadsheets, humming under her breath while she works.
In my bar every evening, learning to pour drinks, laughing at Whiskey's terrible jokes, fitting into this world like she was born for it.
And in my head every second in between.
She brings me coffee now. Learned how I take it without asking: black, scalding hot, strong enough to strip paint.
She appears in my office doorway around ten every morning with two cups, sets one on my desk, and settles into the chair in the corner with her own.
She doesn't need to talk. Just sits there reading one of Preacher's books while I work, her presence filling the room like sunlight.
I find myself looking up constantly. Checking that she's still there. Looking forward to those moments when she catches me watching and smiles.
When she laughs at something Whiskey says, her whole face lighting up with genuine joy, I feel something hot and possessive curl in my chest. Something that wants to march across the bar and remind everyone that she's mine.
But she's not. Not really. I told those suits she was mine because it was the fastest way to make them back off. The club believes it now. The lies we're telling have started to feel true.
Except they're not lies. Not for me. Somewhere in the past two weeks, claiming Sparrow stopped being a strategy and started being the only thing I want.
She looks at me differently too. Less afraid. More curious. Sometimes, when she thinks I'm focused on paperwork, I catch her staring at my hands. My tattoos. The scar through my eyebrow.
She's not scared of what she sees. That might be the most dangerous thing of all.
She stays late in my office tonight.
The bar closed an hour ago. Everyone else has gone to bed or headed home. But she's still curled in her chair, book abandoned in her lap, watching me work with those bright blue eyes.
"How'd you get the scar?"
I don't look up. "Which one?"
"The eyebrow."
I pause, pen hovering over the invoice I was signing. Most people don't ask. Most people take one look at me and fill in their own stories. Bar fight. Prison. Some kind of violent past they'd rather not know the details of. She's not most people.
"Bar fight," I say. "I was nineteen. Stupid."
"What was the fight about?"
I look up. She's watching me with patient curiosity, no judgment in her expression. Just genuine interest. "A woman. Some asshole was hitting on her. She said no. He didn't listen."
"So you made him listen."
"Something like that."
She smiles, soft and knowing. "You've always been like this."
"Like what?"
"Protective."
I don't have a response to that. No one's ever called me protective before. Dangerous, yes. Violent. Ruthless. All the things that come with being president of an MC. But protective implies something gentler. Something that cares.
She unfolds from the chair, crosses the room. I tense, not knowing what she's doing, where this is going.
She stops in front of my desk. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something floral and sweet that doesn't belong in this world of motor oil and leather. Close enough that I can see the slight tremble in her fingers as she reaches out.
Her fingertips brush the ridge of my eyebrow, following the line of the scar from temple to brow like she's committing every millimeter to memory, learning the shape of the damage some drunk asshole's pool cue left behind.
Every nerve in my body ignites, heat spreading from that single point of contact down my spine, through my chest, settling low in my gut.
"Don't." I catch her wrist before my brain catches up with the movement, gentle enough not to frighten her, gentle enough that she knows she can break free if she wants, but firm enough to make my point crystal clear. "I'm not a good man, Sparrow."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. Just holds my gaze with those steady blue eyes that see straight through every defense I've ever built.
"You're a good man to me."
Something cracks. Some wall I didn't even know was still standing, some last defense I've been hiding behind for seven years. It crumbles like it was never there at all.
I'm on my feet before I decide to move. One hand buried in her hair, the other curved around her waist. Her back hits the edge of my desk and she gasps, but she doesn't push me away.
"Tell me to stop."
She pulls me closer. Fists her hands in the leather of my cut. "Don't you dare."
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. I've been holding back for two weeks, watching her, wanting her, and all that restraint burns away the second her lips touch mine.
I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air.
Like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
Like I've been waiting my whole life for this exact moment.
She gasps against my mouth and I swallow the sound. Her hands tighten on my cut, leather creaking under her grip. I lift her onto the desk without breaking the kiss, and she wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer.
Heat. Need. The desperate urgency of something long denied.
I bite her lip, gentle, testing, and she moans. The sound shoots straight through me, makes me want to lay her out on this desk and spend hours learning what other sounds I can pull from her.
But not like this. Not in my cramped office with the door unlocked and half the club lingering in the hallway, any one of them able to walk in and interrupt what should be private between us.
I pull back, breathing hard, forcing myself to break the kiss even though every instinct screams to keep going. I rest my forehead against hers, our ragged breaths mingling in the narrow space between us.
"Sparrow."
"Jett." My name, not my road name. Not the identity I wear like armor around everyone else. Something shifts in my chest when she says it, like a lock tumbling open. Something settles deep in my bones.
"If we do this..." I struggle to find the right words, my thoughts tangled and clumsy. I'm not good with words. Never have been. Action has always been easier than explanation. "I don't do casual. I don't do temporary. You need to understand that before we go any further."
She cups my face in her hands, and I lean into the touch despite myself. Her palms are warm against my jaw, anchoring me. Her thumbs trace the stubble I forgot to shave this morning, the gentle touch sending sparks across my skin.
"I haven't felt safe in two years," she says quietly, and there's a tremor in her voice that makes my chest ache. "You make me feel safe. That's not casual. That's not temporary."
I kiss her again, slower this time. Gentler.
Learning the shape of her mouth, the taste of her.
Claiming her in a way that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with protection.
Memorizing the taste of her mouth and the way she sighs when I deepen the kiss, the small sound of contentment that vibrates against my lips.
When I finally pull away, her lips are swollen and kiss-bruised and her eyes are dazed, unfocused.
"Okay," I say, my voice rough.
"Okay?" She blinks at me, still looking beautifully disheveled.
"Okay. We do this."
She smiles like the sun coming out after a storm. Like I've given her something precious instead of promising her a life tangled up with violence and danger.
I don't deserve that smile. But I'm going to spend every day trying to earn it.
We leave my office looking wrecked.
Her hair is mussed, her lips swollen. My cut is askew, and there's lipstick on my collar that I don't bother to wipe away.
Whiskey takes one look at us and bursts out laughing. "About damn time."
Gears nods like he expected this. Preacher looks between us, sighs, and mutters something about "complications" before heading for the door.
I don't care what any of them think. My hand is on her lower back, and everyone can see it. She's mine. The whole club knows it now.
"Get some sleep," I tell her, walking her to the stairs. "I've got church in the morning. We'll talk after."
"Church?"
"Club meeting. Officers only." I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. She's a few steps above me, which puts us almost at eye level. "I'm going to tell them about us. About Ashworth. About what we're going to do about it."
Her expression shifts—fear flashing across her features before she quickly tries to mask it. "Jett, you don't have to do this. You don't have to put the whole club on notice because of me—"
"Yes, I do." I reach up, cup her face in my hand, feel the warmth of her skin against my palm. "You're mine now, Sparrow. That means you're the club's too. And the club protects its own. That's how this works."
She leans into my touch, her eyes sliding closed as she absorbs my words. "I don't want to cause trouble for you. For any of you."
"You're not." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the delicate bone beneath soft skin. "You're worth every bit of trouble you might cause. Every sleepless night, every complication. And then some."
She opens her eyes slowly. They're shining with something I don't quite recognize—something soft and warm and terrifying all at once. Something that makes my chest feel too tight.
"Good night, Jett."
"Good night, little bird."
She turns and disappears up the stairs, one hand trailing along the railing. I watch her go until she's completely out of sight, already missing the warmth of her skin under my hand.
Church convenes at ten the next morning.
All my officers around the table. Gears on my right, Preacher on my left. Whiskey, Brick, Hatchet, the rest of the inner circle. They're all looking at me, waiting.
"The woman upstairs," I announce, my voice cutting through the low rumble of conversation. "Sparrow Delaney. She's mine now."
No one argues. No one even looks surprised—they've all seen the way I've been with her, the way she's gotten under my skin in a way no woman ever has before.
"Her ex is trouble," I continue, letting the weight of that sink in. "Garrett Ashworth, senator's kid out of Ohio. Rich, entitled, dangerous. He's been tracking her movements, hired multiple PIs to hunt her down across state lines. He'll come for her eventually—it's not a question of if, but when."
"What's the play?" Gears asks, leaning forward with his forearms on the scarred table.
"We wait," I say simply. "Let him come to us, on our turf where we have the advantage. Handle it properly when he does."
"And the girl?" Whiskey prompts from across the table.
"She's under club protection now. Anyone threatens her, touches her, looks at her wrong..." I let my gaze sweep around the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. "They answer to me. Then they answer to all of us."
Murmurs of agreement. Nods around the table.
"Any questions?"
Preacher leans back in his chair. "She know what she's signing up for? Being yours, in this world, it's not easy."
"She knows." I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "And I'm going to spend every day making sure she never regrets it."
Silence. Then Gears nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Alright then. Welcome to the family."
Church ends. The decision is made. She's Iron Saints now.
I find her in the kitchen, helping Mama Rosa with lunch. She looks up when I walk in, nervousness written all over her face. She's chewing her lip, probably imagining the worst.
I cross the room and pull her into my arms in front of everyone. Kiss her forehead. Hold her close.
"You're mine now, little bird," I murmur against her hair. "And I'm yours."
She melts into me, tension draining from her body. "What did they say?"
"They said welcome to the family."
A sound escapes her, something between a laugh and a sob. She buries her face in my chest, her arms wrapping around my waist.
Behind us, Mama Rosa starts crying. Tessa cheers from the doorway. Even Preacher cracks a smile.
For the first time in seven years, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Later that night, after the bar empties out and the last patron stumbles into the darkness, I find her waiting in my office.
She's perched in her usual worn leather chair by the window, but the book that's normally in her hands is nowhere to be seen.
Instead, she's watching the door with an intensity that tells me she's been counting every single minute until I walked through it, maybe even tracking the sounds of my boots on the stairs.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." I close the door behind me with a soft click. Lock it with deliberate slowness. Her eyes track every movement of my fingers on the bolt, her breathing shifting almost imperceptibly. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." She stands, crosses the scarred wooden floor to me with purpose in her stride. Slides her arms around my neck, her touch warm and certain. "Is this real? All of this? The vote, the acceptance, everything that just happened?"
"As real as it gets, little bird."
"And you're sure? About me? About us? About bringing me into this world?" The vulnerability in her voice nearly breaks me.
I cup her face in my hands, feeling the softness of her skin against my calloused palms. Tilt her chin up with my thumbs until she's looking me directly in the eye, until there's no space for doubt between us.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
She kisses me then. Soft at first, tentative, testing. Then deeper, with growing confidence. I let her take the lead, let her set the pace, let her hands wander and explore, let her show me exactly what she wants.
What she wants is more.
But not tonight. Tonight, I hold her. Tonight, I kiss her until we're both breathless. Tonight, I walk her to her room and leave her at the door with a promise of tomorrow.
There will be time for everything else. Time to learn her body the way I've learned her mind. Time to show her exactly how much I want her.
But first, I need to make sure she's safe. First, I need to deal with Garrett Ashworth.
And then, when the threat is gone and she's truly free, I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving that she made the right choice.
She chose me. The least I can do is be worthy of that choice.