Chapter 26
The pavilion was full.
Every brother. Every old lady. Every family that called the compound home. They stood in a loose circle around the fire pit, flames casting orange light across weathered faces and leather cuts. The Ridgerunner banner hung behind Still's position, chrome and leather gleaming in the firelight.
Channel stood at the edge of the circle, his prospect cut heavy on his shoulders.
Tonight, that cut would change. Tonight, everything would change.
Reagan was somewhere in the crowd—he could feel her presence like a physical thing, steadying him, anchoring him to the moment. She'd helped him dress, smoothed his collar, kissed him before they'd walked to the pavilion.
You've earned this, she'd said. Now go get it.
"Brothers." Still's voice cut through the murmur of conversation. The compound went silent. "We're here tonight to welcome a new member into our family."
Channel's heart hammered. His hands wanted to shake, but he held them steady at his sides.
"Channel came to us three months ago looking for something he'd lost." Still's eyes found his across the fire. "A home. A unit. A place to belong. He's earned his place through service, through blood, through putting himself between danger and the people we protect."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Channel caught Cottonmouth's eye—the sergeant at arms nodded once, the same acknowledging gesture he'd given after the warehouse.
"He took point when we hit Farris. Cleared the room. Put down the threat." Still's voice carried the weight of judgment. "That's what earns a patch. Not the years, not the service—the willingness to stand at the front when it counts."
Channel felt the words land in his chest, heavier than any medal he'd ever received.
"Brother." Still stepped forward, something in his hands. "Come forward."
Channel walked into the circle.
The fire was hot on his face, the eyes of every person he cared about fixed on him. This was the moment he'd been working toward since he'd shown up at the compound gates with nothing but a duffel bag and a need to belong.
Still held out the patch—full colors, the Ridgerunner insignia gleaming in the firelight.
"Do you swear to uphold the code of this club? To protect your brothers, guard our territory, and honor the patch you wear?"
"I do."
"Do you swear to ride with us, fight with us, and die with us if the road demands it?"
"I do."
"Then by the authority vested in me as president of the Ozark Ridgerunners, I welcome you as a full patched member of this brotherhood."
Channel reached for the patch.
His hands were shaking.
He'd held rifles in combat without trembling. He'd killed men without his fingers wavering. But taking this patch—this symbol of belonging, of family, of everything he'd been searching for since he came home to nothing—his hands shook like a kid's on Christmas morning.
Still saw it. The old man's mouth curved, just slightly.
"That's the right reaction," he said quietly. "Means you understand what you're holding."
Channel pressed the patch to his chest, feeling the weight of it, the reality. When he looked up, the crowd was moving—brothers closing in to welcome him, hands on his shoulders, voices raised in congratulation.
"About damn time." Cottonmouth's hand was heavy on his back. "Thought we'd have to wait another month for you to stop being useful."
"Wouldn't want to make you miss me," Channel managed.
Limestone appeared, beer in hand, grinning wider than Channel had ever seen. "Drinks are on the new brother tonight."
"Like hell they are—"
"Club tradition. New patch buys the first round."
The celebration swirled around him—brothers he'd served with for months, now equals rather than superiors. The shift was subtle but profound. He wasn't a prospect anymore. He was one of them.
But there was one more thing.
Channel found Reagan's eyes across the crowd. She was standing with the old ladies, Maggie's arm around her shoulders, watching him with an expression that made his chest tight.
Still cleared his throat. The crowd quieted.
"We're not done." The president's voice carried across the pavilion. "Channel's got one more piece of business tonight."
Eyes turned toward Channel. He swallowed hard and stepped toward Reagan.
The crowd parted to let him through.
She watched him approach, her eyes bright in the firelight. She'd dressed up for tonight—nothing fancy, but cleaner than the work clothes she'd been wearing at the store. Her hair was down, the way he liked it.
Beautiful. His.
"Reagan." His voice came out steadier than he felt. "You came into my life when I wasn't looking for anything. I walked into your store for a jacket and walked out with everything I didn't know I needed."
She laughed softly, her eyes glistening.
"You stood beside me through a war. Held a back door against men who wanted to hurt you. Gave us the intel that ended Farris." He stopped in front of her, close enough to touch. "You've already proven you belong here. But I want to make it official."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cut.
It was smaller than his—sized for her, ordered from the same shop that made all the Ridgerunner cuts. The property patch was already sewn on the back: Property of Channel.
"I'm claiming you," he said. "In front of every brother I ride with, every family I protect, every person who matters to me. You're my old lady. My woman. My home."
Reagan's breath caught.
"Will you wear my patch?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Channel slipped the cut over her shoulders, settling it into place. The leather was stiff and new, but it looked right on her. Perfect. Like it had been waiting for her all along.
"This woman is mine," he said, loud enough for the whole compound to hear. "Anyone who threatens her, threatens me. Anyone who disrespects her, answers to me. She rides under Ridgerunner protection from this day forward."
"Damn right she does," someone called—Limestone, probably—and the crowd erupted.
Cheers. Whistles. Brothers pounding his back while old ladies swarmed Reagan, welcoming her into their ranks. The celebration doubled in intensity, music starting up, drinks flowing, the compound alive with the energy of a family that had just grown by two.
Channel pulled Reagan against him and kissed her, not caring who watched. She melted into him, her hands fisting in his new cut, kissing him back with everything she had.
"Mine," he said against her mouth.
"Yours." She pulled back, grinning. "But you're mine too. Don't forget that part."
"Never."
The celebration went on for hours. Channel lost track of how many beers were pressed into his hand, how many congratulations he received. Reagan circulated with the old ladies, wearing his patch like she'd been born to it. Every time he looked at her, she was smiling.
By midnight, the crowd had thinned. Families had retreated to their cabins, brothers drifting away in pairs and groups. The fire had burned low, embers glowing orange in the darkness.
Reagan appeared at his elbow.
"Take me home," she said.
Channel didn't need to be asked twice.
They walked to his cabin—their cabin now—hands tangled together, the compound quiet around them. The night air was cool, the stars impossibly bright, and Channel felt something settle into his chest that he hadn't felt since he was eighteen years old.
Home. He was finally home.
The cabin door closed behind them and Reagan was in his arms.
"You're shaking again," she said, her hands on his chest.
"Different reason this time."
She rose up and kissed him, slow and deep. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt while his hands found the zipper at the back of her dress. They undressed each other without urgency, taking their time, savoring the moment.
"The patch looks good on you," he said, trailing kisses down her neck.
"It feels good." She shrugged out of the cut, laying it carefully across the chair beside his. The two cuts side by side—his full patch, her property patch. "Like I finally belong somewhere."
"You do." He pulled her toward the bed. "You belong here. With me."
They fell together, skin against skin, the celebration they'd shared with the compound becoming something private. Something theirs alone.
She was different tonight. Playful in a way he hadn't seen before, grinning up at him as she pulled him down, laughing when he said something that made her blush. The weight of danger had lifted, and what remained was pure joy.
"Tyler," she breathed when he finally settled over her, her hands cupping his face. "We made it."
"We made it," he agreed.
He moved slowly, watching her face, memorizing every expression. There was no desperation tonight, no adrenaline driving them. Just two people who'd chosen each other, celebrating that choice in the most intimate way possible.
She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer, deeper. Her nails raked down his back. Her voice rose in sounds he'd learned to love, sounds he'd been the first to draw from her.
"Mine," she gasped. "You're mine."
"Always."
They crested together, holding on to each other, and Channel felt something click into place that had been waiting his whole life for this moment. This woman. This place. This belonging.
Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets that smelled like both of them. Reagan's head rested on his chest, her breath evening out toward sleep.
"Stay awake with me," she murmured. "Just a little longer."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "I just want to feel this. Both of us, here, together. No one trying to hurt us. Nothing between us and tomorrow."
Channel ran his fingers through her hair, watching the moonlight play across her shoulders.
"Tomorrow you've got a store to finish."
"Mmm. And you've got patch duties."
"Brotherhood duties." He smiled. "Different title now."
"Same man." She lifted her head to look at him. "That's what I love about you, you know. The patch doesn't change who you are. It just tells everyone else what I already knew."
His throat tightened. "What's that?"
"That you're worth keeping." She kissed him softly. "Worth fighting for. Worth staying for."
She settled back against his chest, and within minutes her breathing deepened. Sleep pulled her under, and Channel held her, watching her face in the moonlight.
His cut hung on the chair beside hers. His patch—earned through blood and fire and proving himself every single day. Her patch—his claim on her, his promise to the world that she was protected.
She shifted in her sleep, nestling closer, and his arm tightened around her automatically.
This was what he'd been looking for. The unit that didn't scatter. The home that didn't get sold. The family that stayed together no matter what.
The word settled into his chest like an anchor dropping into deep water.
Home.
He was finally home.
Channel pressed a kiss to Reagan's hair and closed his eyes, letting sleep take him. Tomorrow there would be work—compound duties, store rebuilding, the endless rhythm of club life.
But tonight, he was a patched brother with his woman in his arms, and for the first time since he was eighteen years old, everything was exactly where it belonged.