Chapter Eleven #2
I looked down at Marci, at her tear-streaked face and bright eyes, then back at the plans showing her vision for the future.
Behind us, brothers returned to work, the sounds of construction resuming -- hammers and saws and the steady progress of rebuilding.
Overhead, new pale joists crossed against the October sky.
And tucked in the corner, barely visible, a single charred plank had been reframed and mounted like art.
A reminder of what we’d survived. A memorial to what had almost been lost.
I found Marci’s hand, our fingers lacing together over her garden plans. Around us, family built something new from ashes and determination.
* * *
Golden light slanted through the windows, painting everything in shades of amber and rose.
I stood at the sink, running water over hands that refused to stop shaking after a full day of labor, watching Marci move through the space we shared.
Her space. My space. Our space -- lines blurred somewhere between her first night here and this moment, gardening tools folded neatly on a shelf beside my small stack of books, paint cans in the corner waiting for the weekend project she planned.
She set takeout containers on the small kitchen table -- Thai from the place on Main Street, the smell of pad thai and curry mixing in the air.
Her movements looked careful, deliberate, the kind that showed exhaustion had sunk in far enough to make simple tasks demand focus.
I dried my hands and joined her, pulling out chairs that scraped across linoleum worn smooth by years of use.
We ate in a silence that felt earned. Days spent rebuilding side by side had carved out a level of comfort where words no longer mattered.
My body ached in a way only overwork created -- shoulders burning, back tight, fingers cramping around chopsticks.
Across from me, Marci showed the same strain, a faint tremor in her fork hand as she lifted noodles to her mouth.
“You worked too hard today.”
She shook her head. “Felt good. Being useful. Contributing to something instead of just taking.”
“You’ve never been just taking.”
“Haven’t I?” She set down her fork, her blue eyes finding mine across the scarred table. “You gave me a job, a place to stay, protection. Put yourself and your club in danger. Let your bar get burned down because you wouldn’t let me go. That’s a lot of taking, Ace.”
I wanted to argue, to tell her she had it backward. But the look on her face stopped me -- vulnerable and honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. So instead, I reached across the table and took her hand, my calloused palm rough against her softer skin.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. Really thinking.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her thumb tracing patterns against my knuckles.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I still flinch. When doors slam or engines backfire or someone moves too fast in my peripheral vision. My body expects violence even though my brain knows Mercer’s locked up. Even though I’m safe here.”
“That’s normal. After what you went through, what he put you through for all those years --”
“But I want it to stop.” Her grip on my hand tightened. “I want to not be broken anymore. Want to be able to exist without constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“You’re not broken.” The words came out fierce, certain. “You survived. That’s not the same thing as broken.”
“Then why do I still wake up reaching for a bag no longer here? Why do I have to remind myself every morning I’m allowed to stay? Why can’t I accept I’m safe?” Her eyes shone, tears threatening but not falling.
I pushed back my chair and moved around the table. Lifted her from her seat and pulled her against my chest, her body going rigid for a heartbeat before softening into me. My hand slid through her hair, strands carrying the combined scent of smoke and shampoo.
“You will,” I said against the top of her head. “Give yourself time. Give us time.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her hands framing my face.
“I was so scared when I left. When I climbed into Mercer’s car thinking the choice would save you.
Fear slammed into me -- not fear of dying, but fear of never getting to tell you --” A pause, a swallow.
“Never getting to tell you that somewhere between you giving me a job and your brothers placing this jacket on my shoulders, I fell in love with you.”
The confession struck like a punch to the chest, breath gone in an instant. I tried to speak, but she kept going, words spilling fast, unstoppable once released.
“And when you walked into the warehouse, when you came for me even though every sign pointed to a trap, I realized I’d been running the wrong way. I should have been running toward you instead of away from every good thing that scared me.”
“Marci --”
“I love you.” No break in her voice this time, no hesitation. “I love you, and I’m done being afraid. Done letting what he did dictate how I live.”
I kissed her then -- no choice left in me, no room for restraint.
My hands tangled in her hair as I hauled her closer.
A small sound escaped against my mouth, surprise shifting into need, her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
The kiss turned reckless, fueled by months of fear, tension, wanting, and every word we’d never spoken.
When we finally pulled apart, breath coming fast, her eyes burned bright.
She backed me toward the table, hands already working my shirt buttons, and I let her push me down into the chair I’d abandoned moments earlier.
She climbed into my lap, legs straddling my hips, her weight settling across me in a way that shredded every last thought in my head.
“Marci.” I tried to slow things down, to make sure this was what she wanted. “We don’t have to --”
“I know we don’t have to.” Her fingers traced my jaw, my neck, the collar of my half-unbuttoned shirt. “I want to. Need to. Need to feel something other than scared and broken. Need to feel you.”
My hands locked around her hips, grip firm enough to leave a reminder in the morning alongside every construction ache. “I’ve got you. Whatever you need.”
Urgency answered. Our mouths crashed together again, harder, her teeth catching my lower lip before her tongue eased the sting.
I slid my hands under her shirt, meeting bare skin -- warm, soft, real.
She arched into the contact, gasping against my mouth, and somewhere in the frantic tangle of bodies and desire, I rose to my feet, her legs tightening around my waist.
The bedroom was three steps away, yet distance felt doubled by the hunger driving us forward.
We stumbled through the doorway, her back striking the frame hard enough to pull a surprised laugh from her -- a bright, breathless sound that hit straight in the chest. Then we dropped onto the bed together, the mattress groaning under our combined weight.
Her fingers flew to my belt while I dragged her shirt over her head and tossed it aside.
Clothes vanished in a trail from door to bed.
Her jeans. My shirt. Her bra -- fumbling hands until she reached back and unhooked the clasp herself, a smile forming across her mouth, no shadows anywhere in her expression.
Once we were skin to skin, nothing separating us, I forced myself to slow down.
Forced myself to see her fully. It had taken time, but the bruises along her collarbone, the rope marks around her wrists, and the fear in her eyes, had all faded until they’d disappeared, and were now a thing of the past.
“You’re beautiful.” The words came out rough.
“I’m covered in bruises and scars.”
“Still beautiful. Always beautiful.”
My mouth found every mark Mercer’d left behind -- gentle devotion against violence, reverence against harm.
She trembled under me, her hands sliding through my hair, down my back, mapping every ridge and plane of muscle, learning me as thoroughly as I learned her.
When I finally lowered my body over hers, when we joined in a shared gasp, her eyes stayed on mine, holding steady, no fear anywhere in her gaze.
We moved together in a rush of need tempered by tenderness.
Her nails dug into my shoulders, my name spilling from her lips in broken gasps and low moans driving me closer to the edge faster than I wanted.
I needed the moment to stretch, needed to prove through touch she was safe and wanted and home.
Her urgency matched mine, her body demanding more, faster, harder, until both of us disappeared into sensation and connection.
When she broke beneath me, back arched and my name ripped from her throat, I followed seconds later. We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, sweat-slick skin pressed tight, breath coming hard, hearts hammering against each other.
After the storm passed, we lay twisted in sheets scented like us -- soap, smoke, sex.
The golden sunset had faded to purple twilight, the room dim except for a streetlight outside throwing shifting shadows across the ceiling.
I traced slow lines along her bare shoulder, following the collarbone to fading bruises marking her skin.
“No one will ever hurt you again.”
She turned her head to look at me, and for the first time since I’d met her in the bar that morning she’d asked for work, her eyes held no shadows. No fear lurking at the edges. No calculation about escape routes or worst-case scenarios. Just peace. Trust. Home.
“I believe you,” she whispered.
She shifted closer, fitting herself against my side like she belonged there -- because she did.
Her breathing slowed, evening out, her body relaxing completely in a way I’d never seen before.
No tension in her shoulders. No readiness to bolt if danger appeared. Just soft, trusting surrender to sleep.
I watched her drift off, committing this moment to memory. The way her hair fell across the pillow. The slight curve of her lips like she was dreaming of gardens and roses and futures we’d build together. The absolute stillness of her body that said she finally felt safe enough to truly rest.
Outside, the compound was quiet. Inside, the woman I loved slept peacefully in my arms.