Chapter Twenty-Two
The common room had never held this many people.
Bedrock stood at the front, watching brothers file in and take their places along the walls.
Old ladies clustered near the bar, Rachel and Beth and the others who'd walked this path before.
Prospects hovered by the doors, trying to look useful while sneaking glances at the ceremony they'd one day hope to witness for themselves.
And in the front row, seated in a chair that someone had brought specifically for her, sat Mrs. Patterson.
The widow had arrived two days ago, thinner than Bedrock remembered but with the same sharp eyes that had assessed him the first time he'd seen her in Opal's store.
She'd walked through the compound like she owned it, thanked every brother she met for what they'd done to the men who'd destroyed her home, and promptly informed Sledge that his foundation plans needed adjusting.
Now she sat like royalty, a woman surrounded by people who'd burned down the men who'd burned down her house, waiting to witness the claiming of someone she loved like a daughter.
"You ready?"
Slag's voice, low at his shoulder.
"Been ready for weeks."
"That's not what I asked." The VP studied him with knowing eyes. "Ceremony's one thing. Living with it is another. You sure you know what you're taking on?"
Bedrock thought about Opal—her stubborn spine and warm eyes and the way she'd stood in a room full of killers and told them exactly what she needed.
Thought about the store they'd planned together, the life they were building, the future that stretched out ahead full of possibilities he'd never imagined.
"I know exactly what I'm taking on," he said. "And I'd take on twice as much if it meant keeping her."
Slag's mouth twitched. "Good answer."
The room quieted as Reaper moved to the front, his presence commanding silence without a word. The president's eyes swept the assembled crowd—brothers, old ladies, one elderly widow who'd somehow become part of their story—and something like satisfaction settled into his expression.
"Brothers," he said. "We're here to witness a claiming. Bedrock has chosen. The woman has accepted. Tonight, we make it official."
A murmur of approval rippled through the room.
"Bring her in."
The door opened, and Bedrock's breath caught.
Opal walked through the crowd like she'd been doing it her whole life—spine straight, chin lifted, eyes fixed on him with a certainty that made his chest ache.
She wore a simple dress that somehow managed to look both soft and strong, and her hair was loose around her shoulders the way he liked it best.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Mrs. Patterson reached out as Opal passed, squeezing her hand briefly. The old woman's eyes were bright with tears she wasn't quite shedding, and Opal's smile in return was sunrise breaking through clouds.
Then she was standing in front of him, and the rest of the room faded away.
"Opal Whitaker," Reaper said. "You've been chosen by one of our brothers. You understand what this means?"
"I do." Her voice was steady, clear. "I belong to him. He belongs to me. We protect each other, and the club protects us both."
"And you accept this freely? No coercion, no obligation, no debt to be repaid?"
"I accept this because I love him." She met Bedrock's eyes, and what he saw there made his heart stutter. "Because he's the best man I've ever known. Because he taught me that family isn't just blood—it's the people who show up and stay."
Reaper nodded slowly. "Bedrock. You have something for your woman."
Bedrock reached into his cut and pulled out the patch—leather and thread, the Reaper emblem surrounded by the words PROPERTY OF BEDROCK. It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't delicate. It was a statement, plain and permanent, declaring to anyone who saw it exactly who this woman belonged to.
"Opal." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "This patch means you're mine. Publicly. Permanently. Everyone who sees it knows you're under my protection, part of my life, the most important thing in my world."
Her hands came up to accept it, and they weren't shaking. Her eyes didn't waver. The certainty in her expression didn't need words.
"I accept it," she said. "And everything that comes with it."
He pressed the patch into her hands, and when their fingers touched, something electric passed between them—the same charge he'd felt the first time they'd met, amplified a hundredfold.
"Then it's done." Reaper's voice cut through the moment. "Brothers—welcome Opal Whitaker as Bedrock's old lady. She's one of us now. Treat her accordingly."
The room erupted.
Brothers whooped and cheered. Old ladies rushed forward to embrace her. Mrs. Patterson was crying openly now, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief someone had pressed into her hands. Even Reaper's cold expression had thawed into something that might have been a smile.
Bedrock pulled Opal against him, one arm locked around her waist, claiming her publicly in front of everyone who mattered.
"Mine," he said, low enough that only she could hear.
"Yours," she agreed. "Always yours."
The celebration that followed was loud and long and exactly what he'd expected from his brothers—crude jokes, endless toasts, Sledge threatening to build them a house whether they wanted one or not.
Opal handled it with the grace of someone who'd spent her whole life managing difficult customers, laughing at the right moments and deflecting the more inappropriate comments with practiced ease.
But beneath the celebration, anticipation built.
By the time they finally escaped to his room—their room, now—Bedrock felt like he was going to explode from wanting her.
"That was..." She leaned against the closed door, breathless. "A lot."
"Too much?"
"Perfect." She held up the patch, studying it in the dim light. "Property of Bedrock. That's what I am now."
"That bother you?"
"Ask me that again." She moved toward him, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. "After I show you how much it doesn't bother me."
She kissed him first—claiming him back, taking what was hers with the same certainty he'd taken what was his.
Her hands found the buttons of his shirt while his found the zipper at the back of her dress, both of them undressing each other with the unhurried confidence of people who knew they had forever.
"I've been waiting for this," she murmured against his throat. "Through the whole ceremony. Counting the minutes until I could get you alone."
"We've got all night."
"Good." She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, her palms flat against his chest. "Because I plan to use every minute of it."
They moved to the bed together, tangled and urgent and somehow still patient. This wasn't the desperate fire of their first times—the nerves, the adrenaline, the frantic need to prove they'd survived. This was something different.
This was celebration.
"You're officially mine now," he said, pressing her into the mattress, covering her body with his. "In front of everyone. No take-backs."
"No take-backs," she agreed, arching into him. "Curtis. I'm yours. I've been yours since you noticed my fence wasn't right."
Her use of his real name—the name he'd given her like a gift, the name nobody else was allowed to use—sent heat flooding through him. He captured her mouth, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say next, and felt her smile against his lips.
They took their time. Savoring each touch. Learning each other all over again, even though they already knew every curve and scar and sensitive place. The claiming patch lay discarded on the nightstand, a silent witness to what they were building in this bed.
"You're the first thing I've let myself keep," he said afterward, both of them tangled in sheets that had seen better days. "Since I lost everyone. The first thing I've let myself believe might actually last."
Opal propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with eyes that held no judgment, no pity—just love, pure and certain.
"That's the thing about keeping," she said. "It's not passive. You don't just keep something by wanting it hard enough. You keep it by choosing it. Every day. Every moment. Through the hard parts and the easy parts and everything in between."
"Is that what we're doing?"
"That's exactly what we're doing." She traced the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light. "I'm choosing you. Right now. Tomorrow. Every day for the rest of our lives. And you're choosing me. That's what keeping means."
He pulled her down, kissed her soft and slow, and felt something settle into place that had been waiting his whole life to find its home.
"I choose you," he said against her lips. "Today. Tomorrow. Every day until I die."
"And I choose you." She smiled, and it was sunrise and homecoming and everything he'd ever wanted. "Keeping is a choice we're both making, Curtis. Don't ever forget that."
He wouldn't.
After losing everyone who shared his blood, after years of expecting nothing to last, after building walls so high he'd forgotten what it felt like to let someone in—he'd found her. Found this. Found a future worth fighting for.
And he was going to keep it.
Every day. Every moment. For the rest of his life.
That was a promise he intended to keep.