Chapter 20
Reagan waited until the compound settled before she went to him.
The debrief had taken hours—Church running late, brothers talking strategy, everyone wired from the successful hit on Groves's staging house.
She'd sat in the corner and listened, part of the conversation now in a way that still surprised her, while the men who'd become her family planned how to end this war.
But now it was past midnight, and the lodge was quiet, and Channel was alone in his cabin.
She knocked once and let herself in.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the lake. Still dressed, still wound tight, the aftermath of violence rolling off him in waves. He'd killed a man tonight—several men—and she could see the weight of it in his shoulders.
"Hey," she said.
He turned. Something in his face eased when he saw her. "Hey."
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Not yet." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Takes a while to come down."
Reagan crossed the room and stopped in front of him. Close enough to touch, but not touching yet. Giving him space to decide what he needed.
"I could go," she said. "If you need to be alone."
"No." The word came out fast, almost desperate. "Stay. Please."
She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. His eyes closed, and she felt him lean into the touch like a man who'd been starving for something soft.
"I'm right here," she said.
"I know."
"And I'm not going anywhere."
He opened his eyes. The darkness in them was familiar now—the combat shadows, the things he'd done, the weight he carried.
She'd learned to see past it to the man underneath.
The one who found treasures in junk boxes and carried children on his shoulders and looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Come here," she said, and pulled him toward the bed.
He followed without resistance, letting her lead, letting her set the pace. She'd taken him hard and fast after the compound assault, both of them running on adrenaline and survival instinct. But tonight was different.
Tonight she wanted to know what he was like when the soldier stood down.
She pushed him onto the bed and climbed over him, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands on his chest. He looked up at her with an expression she'd never seen before—open, uncertain, completely vulnerable.
"Reagan—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Let me."
She undressed him slowly. Took her time with buttons and zippers, mapping the skin she uncovered with her mouth. He had scars she hadn't noticed before—a puckered line across his ribs, a jagged mark on his shoulder, the faint remnants of violence she'd never ask about unless he offered.
She kissed each one.
His hands came up to touch her, but she caught his wrists and pressed them to the mattress.
"Not yet. Just feel."
He made a sound—half protest, half surrender—but he didn't fight her. Didn't try to take control the way he had before. He let her lead, let her explore, let her learn every inch of him without rushing toward the finish.
When she finally shed her own clothes and lowered herself against him, skin to skin, he shuddered.
"God, Reagan—"
"I know." She kissed him, slow and deep. "I've got you."
She took her time with that too. Moved in slow waves, watched his face, learned what made his breath catch and his hands clench. He was gentler than she'd expected—all that training, all that violence, and underneath it a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"You're so careful with me," she murmured against his mouth.
"Always." His hands found her hips, steadying without controlling. "You're everything, Reagan. I can't—" His voice cracked. "I can't lose you."
"You won't."
She moved faster, pulling him with her, watching the control he wore like armor finally start to crack. When he broke, she followed, both of them falling together into something that felt less like release and more like homecoming.
Afterward, she lay sprawled across his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His hand traced lazy patterns on her back, and the silence between them was comfortable. Earned.
"Stay," he said quietly.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I mean after." His hand stilled on her spine. "When this is over. Farris gone, the threat handled. Stay with me."
Reagan lifted her head to look at him. His expression was uncertain again—the vulnerable boy underneath the warrior, still afraid that good things didn't last.
"You want me to live in your prospect cabin?"
"I want you to live wherever I am." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Could be the cabin. Could be somewhere else. Could be that apartment above your store when you rebuild."
"When I rebuild." She tested the words. They felt different now than they had when she'd said them in her head. More real. More possible.
"You will rebuild. The folding table's already waiting." His mouth quirked. "And I figure I'm pretty good at carrying furniture."
Reagan laughed, surprising herself. "Is that your pitch? Manual labor?"
"That's part of it." He pulled her closer, settling her against his side.
"The rest is everything else. The way you look at me like I'm worth something.
The way you fight beside me instead of waiting to be saved.
The way you—" He stopped, his voice going rough.
"The way you said you'd rebuild and you wouldn't do it alone. "
"I meant that."
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "Nobody's ever meant it before. That's why I need you to stay."
Reagan was quiet for a long moment, her hand tracing the scars on his chest. Three weeks ago, she'd been a woman alone, fighting to keep a thrift store alive, determined to never need anyone. Now she was lying in a biker's cabin, planning a future she'd never let herself imagine.
"The patch vote," she said. "When is it?"
"Soon. Still says I've earned it. The brothers agree." She felt him tense slightly. "It'll change things. More responsibility. More danger."
"More of what you're already doing."
"Yeah." He turned his head to look at her. "You okay with that? Being an old lady? It's not an easy life."
"Tyler." She used his real name deliberately, watching his eyes soften at the sound. "I've never had an easy life. I've had hard and harder. At least this way, I've got someone standing beside me."
His arms tightened around her. "Always."
"That's the thing, though." She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. "You say always. You mean it. But I've heard always before. I've heard promises before. They usually expire when things get difficult."
"I'm not—"
"I know you're not." She pressed a finger to his lips before he could protest. "That's what scares me. Because if you mean it, really mean it, then this is real. And real means I have something to lose."
Channel reached up and cupped her face. "You had things to lose before. Your store. Your independence. Your life."
"Those were things I built. Things I could rebuild if I had to." Her voice caught. "This is different. You're different. If I lose you, I can't just... start over with a folding table and stubbornness."
"Then don't lose me." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "And I won't lose you. We don't lose each other."
"That simple?"
"That hard." His smile was crooked, self-aware. "Every day, we choose this. Choose each other. Choose the life we're building. It won't be easy. But nothing worth having ever is."
Reagan stared at him. At this man who'd walked into her store looking for a jacket and found her instead. Who'd claimed her, protected her, killed for her. Who looked at her like she was the answer to everything he'd been searching for since he came home to an empty house.
"I've rebuilt from nothing before," she said slowly. "My store, my life, my whole sense of self. Every time someone destroyed what I had, I started over. Alone."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not doing it alone." She kissed him, soft and slow, sealing the words. "Whatever comes next—Farris, the rebuild, your patch, all of it—we do it together."
Channel's arms came around her, pulling her down against his chest. She felt his breath shudder, felt the emotion he was trying to contain.
"No one's ever said that to me." His voice was rough. "Not and meant it. My parents said it, but they sold the house while I was overseas. My unit said it, but they scattered when the deployment ended. Everyone who's ever promised to stay..."
"Left."
"Yeah." He buried his face in her hair. "They left."
Reagan held him tighter. She understood this particular wound—the betrayal of people who should have been permanent, the lesson that nothing lasted, the wall you built to survive.
"I'm not leaving," she said. "And I'm not selling any houses. All I've got is a folding table and a lot of stubbornness, and you've already got both."
His laugh was watery, thick with emotion. "That's all I need."
"Good. Because that's all I've got to offer."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wet, but he didn't try to hide it. Didn't pretend he was too tough for tears.
"It's enough," he said. "You're enough. More than enough."
Reagan kissed him again, slower this time, feeling the truth of it settle into her bones. She'd spent nine years refusing to need anyone. Refusing to trust that anyone could be permanent.
Now she was lying in a prospect's cabin, planning a future with a man who killed for her, and it felt more like home than any place she'd ever lived.
"Tell me about the store," Channel said, his hand resuming its lazy path along her spine. "What it'll look like when you rebuild."
"Bigger." She smiled against his chest. "The old location was too small. I want a real floor space. Better lighting. Room for furniture pieces, not just clothes."
"Where?"
"Don't know yet. But somewhere in Ridgerunner territory." She lifted her head. "Seems like I've got protection now. Might as well use it."
"Damn right you do." His grin was pure satisfaction. "My woman's store, in our territory. Nobody touches it."
"There you go with that 'my woman' stuff again."
"You complaining?"
Reagan considered. Two weeks ago, the possessive language would have made her hackles rise. Now it just made her warm.
"No," she said. "I'm not complaining."
"Good." He rolled them over, settling his weight against her, pinning her to the mattress. "Because I'm not stopping."
She laughed and pulled him down to kiss her, and for a while they didn't talk about futures or stores or patch votes at all.
Later—much later—she lay in the dark with his arm heavy across her waist and his breath warm against her neck.
"Tyler?" she murmured.
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For meaning it." She found his hand, laced their fingers together. "For being someone who stays."
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and his arm tightened around her.
"Always," he said.
This time, she believed him.