Chapter Twelve
Ace
The Broken Spoke roared back to life the second we opened the doors.
Packed tables, bodies three deep at the bar, air thick from heat and laughter spilling over the country track humming through the speakers.
I planted my palms on the rebuilt counter, breathing in beer, whiskey, pine, sawdust, while my world filled with leather, denim, and the kind of joy born from surviving hell as one unit.
Three months since Mercer tried to burn us out of existence, and here we stood -- rebuilt, reopened, and busy enough no one questioned whether we’d risen from the ashes.
Amber light from the hanging lanterns washed over the room, softening the rough edges but highlighting everyone I cared about. Brothers in cuts. Old regulars. New faces. White lights wrapped the new support beams.
General poured beer like a machine. Prospects hustled under Rebel’s command, eager to prove they belonged on a night this big. Sound swelled around me, conversations weaving together as the room pulsed from a deep gratitude.
Through all of it, my attention kept finding her.
Marci moved through the chaos like she owned the place.
One hand balanced a tray of drinks, the other free to skim someone’s arm in passing.
Her patched jacket carried Property of Ace across her shoulders, bold and undeniable, and my pulse kicked every time a gaze paused on those words.
Possession didn’t strike the hardest, though.
Freedom did. She no longer flinched at raised voices.
No more tracking exits. No bracing for impact.
She leaned into the noise, thrived in the noise, belonged in the noise.
Wildcard cracked a joke at his table and she laughed, tossed her head back, genuine sound cutting through everything around us.
Three months ago she would’ve folded in on herself, waited for danger.
Now she touched the back of Knuckles’ chair while taking orders, relaxed and smiling, trusting the room instead of anticipating harm.
I poured beers without looking down, observing her cross the floor. She paused at the server’s station, checked her notes, tapped Madison’s shoulder in greeting, and let a Prospect carrying a full tray slip past without a flicker of alarm. Confidence had settled into her bones, quiet and solid.
“Your woman is a damn natural.” General lined up foaming pints with perfect precision.
My gaze locked on her. “She fits.”
Words failed to measure her place in my world. She had become essential. Watching her laugh among the same men who once terrified her felt like witnessing healing in real time.
The crowd surged again. Orders stacked. Bills dropped onto the wood. Ice rattled. Bottles hissed.
Three brothers showed a college kid how to line up a pool shot. Someone arm-wrestled near the stage. An old man nursed a whiskey like this wasn’t the biggest night The Broken Spoke had ever seen. Normal. Beautifully, perfectly normal. The kind of normal Mercer tried to take.
A flash of that bastard’s face crossed my mind, followed by the satisfaction of knowing he’d never walk free again. Trial coming. Maximum sentence likely. Justice, for once, doing what justice was supposed to do.
I shook loose the thought and grabbed three shot glasses.
Salt. Lime. Tequila. A celebration for something -- a birthday, an anniversary, a Tuesday -- didn’t matter.
The room shifted when I straightened, clearing just enough I could see her across the crowd.
Empty tray under her arm. Soft smile already aimed at me.
The hit landed straight to the chest.
Three months. Three months of watching her learn she didn’t have to survive everything alone. Three months of watching her grow roots instead of fear. Three months of falling harder than I meant to.
I tilted my head toward the back, silent question. Her answering nod came without hesitation. She started moving, weaving through bodies, hair swinging against the collar of her jacket. My voice told General I needed five. My feet had already stepped away from the bar.
She met me near the server’s station, tray down, blue eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” My palm found the small of her back, heat through leather. “Need to show you something.”
“Now?” Her eyebrow lifted, playful curiosity hiding something softer.
“Now.”
The room parted enough for us to pass. Brothers noticed, but nobody interfered. We reached the new office, and when the door closed, the noise fell away, leaving quiet pulsing between us.
I didn’t drum my fingers. Didn’t shift my stance. Didn’t show nerves. But she read them under the surface anyway.
“Ace.” She stepped closer, voice soft but sure. “What’s going on?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
And stopped there.
The office smelled new. Timber, varnish, fresh start.
Bigger than the cramped space we’d used before, built to last instead of barely holding together through stubborn will.
A nicer desk and cabinets. A window opening to the back lot.
Soft light from a single lamp warmed the wood grain while I stared, as if answers waited in those lines.
Marci ran a fingertip across the desk. “Turned out nice. Better than before.”
“Yeah.” My voice sounded rougher than I meant. I cleared my throat.
She turned. Curiosity shifted into worry fast. “Ace… what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” My fingers started tapping against my thigh anyway, traitorous nervous energy I couldn’t hide. I forced the movement to stop. Forced myself to breathe steadily. “Just need to show you something.”
Her head tilted. Months of sharing space had taught her the shape of every feeling I didn’t speak. “You’re nervous.”
“No.”
“You drum your fingers when your brain spins too fast.” She stepped close, palm settling over my chest. “Talk to me.”
That hand burned through my shirt. My heartbeat hammered under her touch. We hadn’t been together long, but she could read me better than brothers I’d known for years.
“Give me a second.” I crossed to the desk, pulled open the drawer. Smooth hardware. No squeak. No hesitation. The velvet box waited under pens and notepads, edges worn from the number of times I’d carried it, considered moments, backed out.
Her breath caught behind me. She recognized the shape in my hands.
“Not what you’re thinking.” I spoke fast. “Or maybe kinda what you’re thinking. I don’t know.”
She stayed frozen, hands clasped in front of her, posture braced for impact instead of surprise.
“Let me do this before I screw everything up.” I opened the box.
The silver key on a delicate chain shone under the lamplight. Real metal. Real lock. Real future. Confusion replaced whatever fear she’d braced for.
“I bought land. Outside town, fifteen minutes past the compound. Twenty acres. Woods, clearing, a creek along the back line.” The chain slid through my steadying fingers.
“Enough room for a house. A real house. Not an apartment or a small home inside the compound. And enough sun for whatever gardens you’d like to plant. ”
Silence locked her in place. No blink. No breath. No movement.
“I know we didn’t talk about this. Know it might feel fast.” Words rushed anyway. “But seeing you build those planters outside, watching you make this place beautiful…” I motioned roughly toward the patio she’d brought to life. “You deserve room to grow. A home that’s yours. Ours.”
“You bought land.” Her voice barely reached the air. “For me.”
“For us.” I stepped close enough to see her eyes fill.
“No house yet. The key doesn’t unlock anything now.
But the land is ours. We can start when you’re ready.
Or I can get a jump on it, if that’s what you’d prefer.
Design everything however you want. As many beds as you want.
Enough space for whatever life hands us -- whether it’s a bunch of animals or you want a houseful of kids. ”
Her shaking fingers touched the key without taking it. Her lips worked around words that wouldn’t form. “I don’t understand.”
“What part?”
Tears spilled fast, unrestrained. “You’re giving me a future. A home. After everything I dragged to your doorstep -- danger, fear, fire -- you’re telling me I get to stay. I know I told you I wanted to be with you, that I chose you, but this takes things to another level.”
The hit landed deep. Despite her previous words, it was clear some part of her still believed she was temporary. I knew the psychological and emotional wounds Mercer had engraved on her wouldn’t heal overnight, but I thought we’d made more progress.
“Marci. You were staying from the second you walked into my bar.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t need to buy land or prove anything.”
“I needed you to have something you could hold when the fear shows up again.” The key swayed between us, bright and clear. “Something real. Something no one can take. A place to put down roots. A place where your life gets built instead of repaired.”
She stared at the key again. Then at me. Then at the key. Her hands rose slowly, gathering the chain like she held something fragile enough to break under the wrong breath. “Where is it?”
“Old Miller Road. Wooded on three sides, state forest on the back, so no neighbors creeping into our lives. Clearing faces south. Sun all day for your garden. Creek stays clean enough to swim in during summer.” I pictured the land again -- walks I’d taken imagining her there, hair blowing in the breeze.
“An oak near the western edge. Huge. Maybe two centuries old. Thought we could build near it so we’d get shade in the evenings. ”
Her voice sounded reverent. “An oak. A creek. Roses.”
“As many roses as you want.”
Her head lifted. “When did you get it?”
“Two weeks ago.” I tucked her hair behind her ear gently. “Waited for the right moment. Probably not the most romantic location.”