22. Stone
“Our?” she repeats.
I nod once. No hesitation. No instinct to soften it. “I don’t plan on living at the clubhouse forever. It’s home, yeah. But it’s loud. It’s heavy. And sometimes, when the noise gets too much, I want somewhere else to go.”
I gesture toward the trees, the quiet, the way the world seems held at arm’s length here. “I want my own place. Our own place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that isn’t touched by club business or blood or bullshit.”
Her throat tightens, and I know she hears the part I didn’t say — that nothing in my life stays untouched forever.
“I didn’t realize you thought that far ahead,” she says.
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I don’t. Usually.”
That’s the truth. I live in what’s right in front of me. In problems that need solving now. But with her, the future keeps intruding whether I invite it or not.
We step onto the porch together. The wood is warm under my hand as I rest it on the railing, the forest humming low and steady around us.
Inside, the dark wood floors gleam under the soft light streaming through the huge windows, which frame the forest outside instead of shutting it out. A low leather couch sits near the center, unsoftened by constant use, facing a fireplace built into a wall of black stone.
A solid table bears a few scratches, a journal, and a folded map or two, evidence of past planning, but there’s no clutter, no sign that anyone truly lives here. Shelves hold books, a helmet, a few small mementos — enough to feel human, but sparse, deliberate.
The air smells faintly of pine and clean linen, with just a trace of smoke from the fireplace, the kind of fire meant to last a single long night rather than heat a home. The space isn’t meant to impress, and it doesn’t need to. It’s meant to endure, to be useful, to be a place to retreat when the world presses too hard.
She looks around, taking it in. “This is where you come when things get too much,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer, watching her study the clean lines, the quiet order. It’s not home, not yet. But it’s mine when I need it, and that’s enough.
I show her the rooms slowly. The kitchen opens onto the woods, light pouring in through wide windows. The bathroom has a deep tub with a view of the trees. The bedroom is simple and quiet, dark linens neatly made, untouched in a way that feels intentional rather than lonely.
I stop in the doorway. “This is my room.”
She lingers there, aware of the weight of being invited into it. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I say, watching her carefully, “if I wasn’t sure.”
I let my fingers brush hers. Don’t grab. Don’t pull. Just wait.
She laces her fingers through mine.
The breath I let out feels like one I’ve been holding for years.
We sit there quietly, the world narrowing to this place, this moment, this fragile calm. I know better than to believe peace lasts untouched — but I also know this is worth fighting for.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m just surviving.
I feel like I’m building something.
And that terrifies me — how much I’m already willing to burn the world down to protect it.
“So,” Lex says finally, her voice light but edged with nerves, “where does this leave us?”
She’s standing in the bedroom doorway, arms folded loosely like she’s trying not to make it a standoff, eyes searching my face as if she’s waiting for me to say something reckless. Something too much.
“We move in here?” she adds, half-teasing, half-serious. “Because we’ve known each other for, what—four days?”
I look at her. This isn’t a moment to rush. I can feel the weight of it in my chest, the way one wrong word could turn certainty into pressure, intention into a cage. I won’t do that to her.
I cross the room but stop a step away. Close enough that she can feel me there. Far enough that she knows she still has space.
“It leaves us with each other,” I say quietly. “Here. There. Anywhere.”
Her brow furrows. “That’s… not actually an answer.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “It’s the only one that matters to me.”
She exhales, then shakes her head. “Cole, this is crazy. We just met. People don’t do this. Not like this.”
“I do,” I say simply. “And the men I ride with do.”
I hold her gaze, steady and honest. “I don’t need years to know when something fits. Some of us are built different. When we choose, we choose all the way.”
She watches me closely, like she’s looking for doubt. When she doesn’t find it, it unsettles her a little.
“I’m not asking you to decide everything tonight,” I continue, slower now. “I’m not asking you to give up your life or your plans. But what I want—” I pause, grounding myself, “—is you and me. Together. Not temporary. Not halfway.”
Her breath catches.
“Forever,” I add, quietly.
The word doesn’t scare me. It settles, heavy and right, like it’s always been waiting.
She lets out a soft, incredulous huff. “You really don’t do anything small, do you?”
“No,” I admit. “Never saw the point.”
She studies me, then asks, “And the club? Where does that fit into this very intense vision of forever?”
“It doesn’t disappear,” I say. “It just doesn’t own every part of my life. You don’t have to live in the noise unless you want to. This place—” I gesture around us, “—this is where we come when it gets too loud.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that.
“There’s one more thing…” I say, hesitant. Not because I don’t know what I want—but because I’m scared of her answer.
She raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I want you to be my old lady.” I keep my voice steady, calm, like she won’t be able to hear the nerves clawing at my ribs.
Her eyes go wide. Shocked.
“Cole…” She studies me for a long second. “Isn’t that basically marriage in your world?”
“Our world,” I correct. “And yeah. It is. Lex, I told you this morning. You’re mine. You’re it for me.”
“Jesus Christ, Cole… we’ve known each other for like four days. This is insane. People don’t do this.”
“You said that before,” I remind her. “And I love you, Lex. We could wait a few months, a few years, but the outcome would be the same—you as my old lady, wearing my property cut.”
Her forehead creases. “Property cut?”
I turn to the dresser and pick up the neatly folded leather, holding it out between us.
“Property of Stone,” she reads. Then looks up at me slowly. “Cole. Please tell me this means the cut is your property. Not me.”
A smile slips out before I can stop it. Of course my woman argues semantics.
“It means the club knows you’re with me,” I explain. “Mine. No one touches you, threatens you, or speaks for you without answering to me.”
She folds her arms. “Okay, wait. A few hours ago you let that club whore slip her tongue into your mouth so some wannabe gangsters wouldn’t know I was important to you—and now you want the whole world to know I’m yours? Your property. Like a fucking chair?”
My head falls back as a laugh punches out of me. I can’t help it—she’s all fury and fire, but there’s something else in her eyes too.
“First of all,” I say, amused as I pull her into my arms, “there was no tongue.”
“Funny,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Second, I’m sorry. For not telling you. For not trusting you with the plan. I’ll apologize for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes for you to say yes.” My voice drops, steadier now. “But I won’t apologize for keeping you safe. You’re mine, Lex. And I keep what’s mine safe.”
I tilt her chin up. “And lastly—you’re not a chair. In fact, if anyone sits on anyone, that would be you on my face.”
She bites her lip to keep from smiling.
“I love you too, Cole,” she says finally, softer. “Jesus. I don’t even know how, but I do.”
Relief hits so hard I almost feel dizzy.
I don’t wait—I kiss her, deep and desperate, cupping her face, the cut still hanging from my fingers. She’s the one who breaks it, stepping back just enough to breathe.
“But if I say yes,” she continues, eyes locked on mine, “I need the same thing you’re asking for. If I’m yours, you’re mine too. I don’t fucking share either, Cole. The last time a boyfriend expected me to share, I left the country.”
I almost tell her I’m not just a boyfriend—but now isn’t the time.
“I’m yours, baby. Body, mind, soul. For-fucking-ever.”
She searches my face, then nods once.
“Okay,” she says. “Then yes. I’ll be your old lady—which, by the way, is a ridiculous term. I’m twenty?one—”
I don’t let her finish. I pull her close and kiss her again, pouring everything I feel into it.
A few seconds later I help her slip the cut on, my hands steady but reverent, the weight of the moment pressing down on me as the leather settles against her back.
Mine.
And hers.
She looks up at me, close enough now that I can feel her breath, her heat.
“Come here,” I murmur.
Her hands are already on me.
Not tentative. Not asking.
She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down into a kiss that steals whatever breath I had left, her mouth warm and demanding, like she’s making good on the choice she just made. I answer immediately, one hand sliding into her hair, the other firm at her lower back, pulling her flush against me so there’s no space left to doubt.
“Say it again,” I murmur against her mouth. “Say you choose me.”
“I choose you,” she whispers, and the way she says it—steady, sure—goes straight through me.
I kiss her harder for that, slow and deep, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. My hands roam, greedy now, skimming her sides, her hips, the curve of her waist, feeling her lean into every touch like she wants to be claimed as much as I want to claim her.
My forehead drops to hers, breath heavy. “You have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?”
Her smile turns wicked. “I’m starting to.”
I slide my hands up her arms, down her back, fingers brushing the leather of the cut like a promise. My voice drops, rough and honest.
“I want to see you wearing nothing but that,” I tell her quietly. “My cut on your back. Just so there’s no confusion about who you belong to.”
Her breath hitches. Her hands tighten in my shirt.
“And who do you belong to?” she murmurs back, just as low.
I don’t hesitate. “You.”
That does it.
She kisses me again, all heat and intent, and when I lift her easily, like she weighs nothing, her soft laugh breaks against my mouth before turning into a sigh as I carry her toward the bed.
Her lips part. “Cole,”
And that’s when I lose what’s left of my control.