Chapter 13
Karen was waiting at the clubhouse door when Diesel walked through.
She didn't give him time to speak. Her hands found his cut, fisted in the leather, and she pulled him inside with a force that surprised them both.
"Karen—"
"Don't talk."
She kissed him like she was trying to climb inside his skin.
The last twelve hours had been the longest of her life. Sitting in that radio room, headset pressed to her ear, listening to gunfire and shouted coordinates and the sound of men she'd come to care about fighting for their lives. Counting the brothers who checked in. Waiting for the ones who didn't.
Waiting to hear if Diesel was among the living or the dead.
Now he was here. Alive. Solid. His hands coming up to grip her waist, his mouth opening under hers, his body warm and real against her shaking frame.
"Inside," she gasped. "Now."
They barely made it to his room.
The hallway was a blur—her hands tearing at his cut, his fingers tangling in her hair, both of them stumbling against walls and doorframes. Someone called out a comment she didn't hear and didn't care about. The only thing that existed was him, alive, breathing, whole.
The door slammed behind them. Karen shoved Diesel against it and kissed him again, harder this time, teeth and tongue and desperation.
"Karen." His voice was rough. "Slow down—"
"No." She yanked his shirt over his head. "I've been slow for twelve hours. I've been calm and professional and steady while you were out there getting shot at. I don't want to be slow anymore."
Something shifted in his expression. The easy-going warmth flickered out, replaced by something darker. Hungrier.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He spun them around, pressing her against the door, and suddenly she was the one pinned. His mouth found her throat—not gentle, not tender. Claiming. His hands stripped her shirt with an efficiency that said patience was the last thing on his mind.
Good. Patience was the last thing she wanted.
"I heard the gunfire," she gasped as his teeth grazed her collarbone. "Through the radio. I heard everything."
"I know."
"I didn't know if you were alive or dead for twenty minutes. Scout's radio cut out, and I thought—"
"I know." He pulled back just enough to look at her, and his eyes were blazing. "I'm here. I'm alive. And I'm going to make sure you feel every second of it."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed. They fell together in a tangle of limbs and need, and Karen pulled him down with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
This wasn't like the first time.
The first time had been discovery. Exploration. Learning each other's rhythms with care and curiosity.
This was war.
Karen clawed at his back as he stripped away the last of her clothes. Diesel's hands were rough, demanding, leaving marks she'd feel tomorrow and didn't care about tonight. The fear she'd been holding back all night came pouring out, transmuted into something fierce and physical.
"Mine," she said against his mouth, and it came out like a snarl. "You hear me? Mine."
"Yours." His voice was gravel and gunpowder. "Always."
He drove into her without preamble, and she arched off the bed with a cry that was half relief and half raw need. No buildup. No patience. Just the overwhelming sensation of being filled, claimed, possessed by a man she'd almost lost.
"Harder," she demanded.
He gave her what she wanted.
The bed frame slammed against the wall with every thrust. Karen dug her nails into his shoulders and met him stroke for stroke, refusing to be gentle, refusing to be careful. The fear of the last twelve hours burned out of her body and transformed into something primal.
She was alive. He was alive. And she was going to prove it with every breath and moan and cry.
"I thought I lost you," she gasped. "I thought—"
"Never." His forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged. "Never going to happen. You hear me?"
"Promise."
"Promise." He pulled back, changed the angle, and drove deeper. "You're stuck with me, Karen. I don't die easy."
"Better not." She pulled his mouth back to hers. "Because I'll kill you myself if you leave me."
He laughed against her lips—rough and breathless and beautiful.
They moved together like they were fighting, not loving. Pushing, pulling, challenging each other to keep up. Karen refused to let him take the lead, rolling them over until she was on top, setting her own pace, watching his face go tight with pleasure.
"God," he breathed. "Karen—"
"Say my name again."
"Karen." His hands gripped her hips, pulling her down harder. "Karen. Karen."
She shattered with the sound of her name on his lips, the orgasm crashing through her like a wave breaking against rocks. He followed seconds later, fingers bruising her thighs, his whole body shuddering beneath her.
Afterward, they lay in a heap of tangled limbs and sweat-soaked sheets.
Karen's heart was still racing. Her body ached in places she'd forgotten could ache. But underneath the physical exhaustion was something else—a bone-deep relief that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"That was—" Diesel's voice was hoarse.
"Yeah."
"Different."
"Very different." She lifted her head to look at him. His face was flushed, his hair a disaster, scratch marks visible on his shoulders. "Sorry about the—"
"Don't." He caught her hand before she could touch the marks. "Don't apologize. I earned those."
"You did." She let her head fall back to his chest. "I spent twelve hours being terrified. I needed somewhere for it to go."
"I noticed." His arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer. "For what it's worth, I was scared too."
"You?"
"Not of the fight. The fight was easy—we had better positions, better intel, better brothers. I've been in worse situations." His hand stroked through her hair. "I was scared of not coming back to you."
Karen's throat tightened. "Ryan—"
"I've been doing this for years," he continued, like he hadn't heard his name on her lips. "Running with the pack, taking risks, putting myself in danger. Never thought twice about it. What's life worth if you're not living it, right?"
"Right."
"But tonight—" He exhaled slowly. "Tonight I had something to lose. Someone waiting for me. And that changed everything."
She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him properly. In the dim light from the window, his face was soft, unguarded. The mask of easy-going charm stripped away, leaving just a man who'd realized what he had to lose.
"I didn't know I could want something this much," he said quietly. "I didn't know I could be this scared of losing it."
"Now you know."
"Now I know." His eyes found hers. "And I'm not going to lose it. Not you, not this. Whatever it takes."
Karen didn't have words. So she kissed him instead—soft this time, gentle, the tenderness they'd both needed but hadn't known how to ask for.
When she pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"Stay," he said. "Not just tonight. After this is over. Stay."
"Where else would I go?"
"Your diner. Your life. Everything you built before Dale Berkman came along." His hand cupped her face. "I know this started because you needed protection. But I need you to know—that's not why I want you to stay."
"I know why you want me to stay." She turned her head to kiss his palm. "Same reason I want to stay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She settled back against his chest. "So stop asking stupid questions and let me sleep. Some of us have been running a radio room all night."
He laughed, low and warm, and pulled her closer.
The compound was quiet around them. The battle was over, the brothers were home, and somewhere out there Dale Berkman was running out of options. Tomorrow would bring planning and strategy and the final push toward ending this.
But tonight, there was only this. Two people who'd almost lost each other, holding on tight.
Karen closed her eyes.
Sleep pulled her under fast—the bone-deep exhaustion of fear finally released. She drifted against Diesel's chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from racing to steady.
At three in the morning, she woke.
The room was dark. Diesel was still asleep, one arm thrown across her waist, breath slow and even. Outside, the compound hummed with its nighttime sounds—a distant engine, voices from the bar, the eternal rumble of the city that never quite went silent.
Karen's body was awake, confused. Twenty years of overnight shifts had wired her internal clock to think three a.m. meant the start of work, not the middle of rest.
She should get up. Make coffee. Find something to do with her restless hands.
Instead, she turned into Diesel's warmth and let herself breathe.
The fear was gone. The adrenaline had burned itself out. What was left was simpler—the weight of his arm across her body, the sound of his breathing, the knowledge that she'd found something worth fighting for.
Her body still thought it was time for the overnight shift.
But for the first time in twenty years, Karen didn't want to get up and work.
She wanted to stay exactly where she was.
So she did.