Chapter 7
W hy ruin it with questions? God, it's crazy. Stupid. Insane. Necessary. I tell Trace I'd be his lady no matter what. But part of that is the passion speaking. The woman who worried that she'd met the prince only to lose the shoes. Now, the prince is offering the shoes on a velvet pillow. Swearing the shoes don't fit any foot but mine. But Jelena proves that isn't entirely true.
I rub my hand across his chest and waist, enjoying the differences in his body. There's more hair than he'd had as a younger man. His chest is broader. Good God, I could park one of his trucks on his ribcage and still have plenty of room. He strokes my back, his actions mirroring mine.
"Trace," I whisper his name and wait. I made assistant principal three years ago. And if I've learned anything from recalcitrant students, it's—ask and wait. People tend to jump in and fill silence like it's an empty bowl, ladling words instead of teaspooning it.
When he shifts under me, I raise up so that he can have his space. But I don't allow his retreat. "Don't turn away. Talk."
"What version do you want?" he asks, looking at the ceiling. "The sanitized one that I'd share in court or the one where you slice me open, and I leave my guts on the ground."
Sighing, I kiss his chest, lean forward to claim his perfect coral-colored lips, and snatch his gaze. "Just your truth, whatever, and however much you want to share. I don't want to eviscerate you. You said we should get to know each other. We put the cart before the horse, but I still want that— need what you offered yesterday. But only if you want to share."
"Just remember," he says in a half-growl. "You asked for it. You don't get to walk away if it's something you don't want to hear. My life hasn't been pretty or fair."
I trace a scar on his chest with my lips, and he sucks in a quick breath. "All I want is you. All of you."
"You'll get more than a little bit of me if you keep that up," he offers with a wry grin. "But here goes... Within a year of leaving you, I was locked up. Jailed for three years. I guess I was determined to prove everything your father said about me was true."
"It wasn't," I say when he stops and seems to wait for either my judgment or condemnation. When I offer nothing other than my ear, he continues.
"It was." His voice is rough, like he's dragging the words from the bottom of his soul. "I was drunk most days. Lost my job for showing up wasted first thing in the morning. Then I did something stupid. Broke into a shoe store. Tried to steal the latest sneakers. Who does that? I didn't even need them. Could've earned them if I'd tried. But I was so angry, so hurt..." He trails off, his hand stilling on my back.
I stay quiet, letting him find his way through the story.
"That's where I met Bandit in lockup. We patched into the Desperadoes together after I got out. With a felony for assault and robbery, plus a history of being drunk on the job, legitimate work wasn't exactly falling into my lap."
We both freeze. He's waiting for my rejection, and I'm still processing. "Okay," I say shakily, as if I've read a book written between the lines of what he didn't say.
"Like I said before. There are excuses and reasons. I'm not making any excuses for what I've done. By rights, I should be in prison for the crimes I've committed. But I'm giving the reasons. I was an angry, mixed-up kid for a long time." I pull back, but he holds me to his side. "Not just because of you. I'm not blaming us. I'm not blaming your father. I lost my mom when I was young. She didn't die. But my father started migrating from farm to farm, working from sunup to sundown; she stayed behind. She raised my younger sisters. My father didn't want that work for them. Migrant life is hard. Men's work , he would tell me. We take care of the women in our family. He was always so proud to tell me that. Drilled it into me. I was still a child, twelve or thirteen years old. I can't even remember how old I was when I started. I remember going from farm to farm, working as hard and fast as possible to provide a better life for our women."
"I'm sure your mother was proud."
She was. "My father died while I was in jail. And that killed me. Because he died thinking his oldest boy was a drunken thug. It also meant that my mother and my sisters had to work the farms because I wasn't there to send them any money. When I got out, I was desperate to earn.
"I get it."
"No, you don't. You can't. But I'm glad you didn't have that experience growing up. I'm glad you were safe, healthy, and happy. I just wish every child could have that..."
His chest rises and falls under my cheek. His heart picks up speed like the next part is harder to tell.
"Like I said, I joined the Desperados. And before you ask, yes, we did illegal things. Small shit. But still wrong. Still illegal." He shifts under me, trying to get comfortable with his confession. "I told myself it was okay because we also protected people. Did good things, too. We weren't monsters."
His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers lacing together like he needs an anchor.
"Then Marisol came to me. My sister. My mother had put her out when she started hanging with a rough crowd. By the time she found me, she was pregnant and running from her boyfriend—a real piece of work who used her as a punching bag. The Desperadoes, we didn't stand for that kind of thing. Different MCs have different rules, but we protected our own."
I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue. "She had Jelena and got a job waiting tables. Was doing good. Then that bastard came crawling back, saying he'd changed." His jaw clenches. "She believed him. Said she didn't want her baby growing up without a father. Like not having a father was worse than having a monster for one."
The bitterness in his voice makes my heart ache. I think about all he's said about his own father, about providing for the women in his family. About failing them while he was in jail. "But he hadn't changed. Not one bit." His voice catches. "Marisol didn't make it. But Jelena did."
I press closer to him, understanding flooding through me. "You couldn't save Marisol."
"No. But I could save Jelena. Can save her. Give her the life Marisol wanted for her. The kind of life my father wanted for my sisters." He lets out a shaky breath. "That's when I knew I had to change. Really change. Not just talk about it. The club life wasn't sustainable. Not with a little girl depending on me. Not if I wanted to be the kind of man my father raised me to be."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything he's shared. I think about the layers of this man—the angry boy who lost his way, the son who failed his father, the cousin who couldn't save Marisol, the father who's trying to save her daughter. The man who came back for me.
"So now you know," he says quietly. "Everything I am. Everything I've done. Still want to be my lady?"
How do I answer? I think about the foul deck he was dealt as a child. Did he have a choice? No. Then, when he was old enough to make his own choices—what choices did he make? He said he had no excuses, but how do I view his reasons? I could waste the rest of the night pondering these tough philosophical questions. But the question is really about choices, and I've made mine.
I lean over him and whisper against his lips, "Every day."
His response is immediate and fierce. He pulls me on top of him, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip. The kiss differs from our earlier ones—deeper, rawer like he's trying to pour his gratitude into it. Like he can't believe I'm still here, still wanting him.
"Say it again," he growls against my mouth.
"Every. Single. Day." I punctuate each word with a kiss, trailing them down his jaw, his throat. His hands tighten on me when I rock against him, and I smile against his skin, loving how responsive he is to my touch.
He flips us suddenly, pressing me into the mattress. His eyes are dark with desire and something deeper—love, possession, need. When he kisses me, he's claiming me, marking me as his. My body arches into his touch as his hands and mouth map my skin, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot.
"Mine," he whispers between kisses. "Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," I gasp as his mouth finds my breast. "Always yours."
Our bodies move together with increasing urgency; every touch is electric, every kiss is an inferno. He worships me with a desperate reverence, like a man wandering in the desert, finally finding water. When we finally come together, it's with an intensity that steals my breath.
Later, wrapped in his arms, I trace the tattoo over his heart—a small cross with Jelena's birthdate. He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm.
"Can I stay?" he whispers into the darkness.
I lift my head from his chest, suddenly remembering. "Jelena—"
"Rosalee's with her," he assures me, stroking my hair. "She watches her sometimes when I need to work late."
The fact that he has childcare arrangements and is such a responsible father makes my heart swell. "Then yes," I whisper, settling back against him. "Stay as long as you want."
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Careful what you offer, sunshine. I might never leave."
The thought makes me smile against his skin. "Every day," I promise again, and his arms tighten around me in response.