Chapter 24
The compound celebration had spilled into every corner—music from the pavilion, laughter from the fire pit, brothers raising glasses to a threat eliminated and a territory secured.
Reagan had smiled through all of it, accepted congratulations, let the old ladies pull her into conversations about futures she was just starting to believe in.
But now it was past midnight, and she was done sharing.
She found Channel by the dock, standing alone at the edge of the water.
The party noise was muffled by distance, and the lake stretched out before him like black glass.
He'd changed out of the clothes he'd worn to kill Farris, but she could still see the tension in his shoulders—the weight of what he'd done settling in now that the adrenaline had passed.
"Hey." She stopped beside him. "You disappeared."
"Needed a minute."
"Need company?"
He turned to look at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. Not dark—not the haunted look she'd feared. Something softer. Something wondering.
"I keep expecting to wake up," he said.
"From what?"
"From this. You. The patch vote coming. Farris dead." He shook his head. "Three months ago, I was sleeping in a rental car wondering if I'd ever have a home again. Now I've got you. I've got brothers. I've got a future."
Reagan stepped closer, taking his hand. "You've got all of it. And it's not a dream."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm living the same one." She pressed his palm to her chest, over her heart. "Feel that? Real. Everything that's happening—real."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he pulled her against him and kissed her like the world was ending.
Reagan melted into it, wrapping her arms around his neck, letting herself feel what she'd been holding back all night. The relief. The triumph. The bone-deep certainty that the worst was over and everything from here was theirs to build.
"Take me home," she said against his mouth.
"The cabin?"
"Our cabin." She pulled back to meet his eyes. "It's ours now. Everything is ours."
Something shifted in his expression. The wonder hardened into heat.
"Then let's go."
They didn't run, but they didn't walk slowly either. By the time they reached the cabin door, Reagan's blood was singing with anticipation. Every brush of his hand against her back felt electric. Every step closer to privacy felt like a gift.
The door closed behind them, and she turned to face him.
"Tonight," she said, "I want to do something different."
"Different how?"
"You've been claiming me since the moment we met. My turn."
His eyebrows rose. "Your turn?"
"Sit down."
He didn't move. His eyes tracked her as she stepped closer, as her hands found his chest and pushed—not hard, but firmly. An instruction.
"Reagan—"
"Sit. Down."
Something flared in his eyes. He backed up until his legs hit the bed, then sat, looking up at her with an expression caught between amusement and arousal.
"Now what?"
"Now you watch."
She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. Slowly. Letting him see every inch of skin as it was revealed.
Channel's hands fisted in the sheets.
"Reagan—"
"No touching." She dropped the shirt on the floor and reached for her bra. "Not until I say."
His jaw clenched. She could see the battle playing out on his face—the desire to obey warring with the need to claim. But he stayed where he was, watching, as the bra joined the shirt.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
"I know." She smiled and hooked her thumbs in her waistband. "But you haven't seen the best part yet."
Her jeans slid down her legs. She stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but black cotton underwear that she'd specifically chosen because she knew it drove him crazy.
"Christ." His voice cracked. "You're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to celebrate." She stepped between his spread knees, looking down at him. "We won, Tyler. Farris is dead. My store will rebuild. You're about to get your patch. We survived."
"We survived," he echoed.
"And I want to show you what that means to me."
She straddled his lap.
The contact was immediate and overwhelming—her center pressed against the hard length of him, nothing between them but thin layers of cotton and denim. Channel groaned, his hands finally breaking, grabbing her hips with a grip that would leave bruises.
"So much for no touching," she said.
"Couldn't help it."
"Liar. You could." She rocked against him, watching his eyes roll back. "You just didn't want to."
"No." His fingers dug into her flesh. "I really fucking didn't."
She kissed him, controlling the pace, controlling the angle. Showing him that she could take as much as she gave. His hands roamed her back, her ass, every inch of skin he could reach, while she ground against him in slow, deliberate circles.
"Clothes," she gasped against his mouth. "Off."
He stripped his shirt over his head so fast she laughed. The laughter turned to a moan as he flipped them, pressing her into the mattress, his body covering hers.
"Thought you were in charge," he said.
"Changed my mind."
"Good." He kissed down her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. "Because I've got plans."
"What kind of plans?"
"The kind where I make you scream my name so loud the whole compound hears."
Heat flooded her core. "Promises, promises."
"Not a promise." He hooked his fingers in her underwear and pulled it down her legs. "A guarantee."
His mouth found her, and Reagan discovered he wasn't exaggerating.
The pleasure built fast and brutal, his tongue working her with relentless precision. She grabbed his hair, the sheets, anything she could reach as he drove her higher and higher.
"Tyler—God—please—"
He added his fingers, crooking them inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur.
"Come," he said against her. "Come for me, Reagan. Let me taste it."
She shattered with a scream that probably did reach the compound.
Before the tremors faded, he was climbing up her body, shoving down his jeans, positioning himself at her entrance.
"Now," she said. "I need you now."
He thrust home in one smooth stroke.
They both cried out. He was buried to the hilt, stretching her, filling her completely. For one perfect moment, neither of them moved—just breathed, adjusting, savoring.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too." She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Now move."
He moved.
Hard, deep strokes that drove the breath from her lungs.
Reagan met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking his back, her teeth finding his shoulder.
The bed slammed against the wall with every impact.
She didn't care. Didn't care about anything except the man inside her, the pleasure building again, the victory they were celebrating with their bodies.
"Mine," she gasped. "You're mine, Tyler. Say it."
"Yours." His voice broke. "I'm yours. Always—fuck—always been yours—"
"Then come with me."
She tightened around him, pulling him over the edge with her. They fell together, crying out, clutching each other through wave after wave of release.
When it finally ended, they lay tangled in sweaty sheets, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.
"Okay," Channel said eventually. "You can be in charge more often."
Reagan laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and joyful. "Noted."
"I mean it." He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him. "That was..."
"Victorious?"
"One word for it." He kissed her forehead. "Perfect is another."
She snuggled into his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Outside, the celebration was finally dying down—last calls being made, brothers heading to their own cabins, the compound settling into peaceful quiet.
"We did it," she said. "We actually did it."
"We did." His arms tightened around her. "And tomorrow, we start building the rest of our lives."
"Tomorrow." She yawned, exhaustion finally catching up with her. "Tonight, we sleep."
"Tonight, we sleep," he agreed.
But neither of them slept right away. They lay there in the darkness, wrapped around each other, listening to the lake lap against the shore and the last echoes of celebration fade into silence.
They'd survived a war. They'd found each other. They'd won.
And this—the quiet, the peace, the certainty of waking up together—was the best victory of all.