Chapter Ten
The compound transformed on cookout days.
Angela watched from the kitchen window as the parking lot filled with people who didn't look like they belonged to an outlaw motorcycle club.
Families from the marina district. Neighbors with covered dishes and folding chairs.
Kids in bright clothes racing between the bikes while brothers shouted at them to watch the chrome.
"Happens every couple weeks," Rosa said, appearing at her elbow with an armful of tablecloths. "The Outlaws aren't just a club. They're part of this neighborhood."
"I didn't expect..."
"Barbecues and birthday parties?" Rosa smiled. "Neither did I, at first. But these men protect this community. The community shows up for them in return."
Angela took half the tablecloths and followed Rosa outside.
The late afternoon sun was warm on her skin, the salt air mixing with the smell of charcoal and grilling meat.
Block stood at an enormous smoker, wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK OR I'LL brEAK YOUR FACE.
His daughter Lily—wearing the flower crown Angela had made, slightly wilted now but still intact—ran circles around his legs.
"Angela!" Lily spotted her and came running. "Daddy said you made my crown! It's the best crown ever! I've been wearing it for two whole days!"
Angela crouched to the little girl's level. "I'm glad you like it."
"Can you make another one? For my friend Sofia? She said it's not fair that I have one and she doesn't."
"Lily." Block's voice was firm but patient. "Don't hassle the lady."
"It's fine." Angela found herself smiling—a real smile, the kind that came from somewhere genuine. "I can make another one. Do you know what Sofia's favorite color is?"
Lily's face lit up. "Purple! She loves purple!"
"Then purple it is."
The little girl hugged her with the fierce, uncomplicated affection of a child who hadn't learned to be guarded yet. Angela hugged her back and felt something crack open in her chest.
She hadn't thought about having children in years. Hadn't let herself want things that felt impossible for a woman working eighty-hour weeks alone. But holding this fearless little girl in a flower crown, watching her race back to her father with excitement sparking in her eyes—
It made Angela want things she'd stopped believing in.
"You're good with her."
Edge materialized beside her, and Angela wondered if all the Outlaws moved like ghosts or if it was just him.
"She's easy to be good with." Angela straightened, brushing dirt from her borrowed jeans. "Kids that age haven't learned to hide what they're feeling yet."
"Most people don't like kids."
"Most people haven't spent four years making flower girl baskets and ring bearer boutonnieres." She found herself smiling again. "You learn to appreciate the honest ones."
Edge's expression shifted. Something warmer crept into those dark eyes. "Come on. Rosa needs help with the tables."
They worked side by side for the next hour, setting up folding tables, arranging flowers Angela had scrounged from the compound's surprisingly overgrown garden, helping Grace unload trays of food from her bakery van.
The work was simple and physical and exactly what Angela needed—something to do with her hands while her mind processed everything else.
And Edge stayed close.
Not hovering. Not crowding. Just... present. Passing her supplies before she asked for them. Clearing space when she needed it. His hand finding her back when someone walked too close, a casual claim that shouldn't have made her pulse jump but did.
By the time the cookout was in full swing, Angela had almost forgotten she was hiding from drug dealers.
Almost.
"The pier," Edge said, nodding toward the water. "Walk with me."
It wasn't a question, but Angela didn't mind. She wiped her hands on her jeans and followed him through the crowd, past the smoker where Block was now holding court, past the row of bikes where prospects were demonstrating something to wide-eyed neighborhood kids.
The pier extended into the bay, weathered wood and salt-crusted railings. They walked to the end, where the sounds of the cookout faded to background noise and the water spread out dark and endless.
"You fit here."
Angela glanced at him. "What?"
"The compound. The women. Lily's flower crown." Edge leaned against the railing, his body angled toward her even as his eyes watched the water. "You fit here like you were always supposed to be here."
"I'm just making myself useful."
"No." He turned to face her fully. "You're making yourself part of something. There's a difference."
Angela didn't know what to say to that. She looked out at the bay, at the shore town lights beginning to flicker on in the distance, at the world that had seemed so threatening a week ago and now felt impossibly far away.
"My grandmother used to say that home isn't where you're born," she said quietly. "It's where you decide to stay."
"Smart woman."
"She was." Angela's throat tightened. "She died when I was nineteen. I was in my second year of community college, working two jobs, trying to figure out how to become something other than my parents' failed experiment. She left me enough money to make a down payment on the shop."
Edge was silent. Listening.
"That's why Shore Blooms matters so much." Angela's voice cracked, and she let it. "It's not just a business. It's her. It's everything she believed I could be. And now these men want to take it and turn it into something ugly, and I—"
She broke off. Blinked hard against the burning in her eyes.
Edge's hand found her face. Cupped her cheek with a gentleness that seemed impossible from hands that had crushed a man's throat.
"We're going to get it back."
"You don't know that."
"I know I'm not going to stop until we do." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I know Vitale made a mistake when he went after you. I know the Outlaws don't lose fights we decide to win."
Angela searched his eyes for doubt. Found none.
"Why does it matter so much to you? My shop. My problems. You didn't even know me a week ago."
Edge was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than before.
"I told you about my grandmother. How she died in an apartment that wasn't home.
" He exhaled slowly. "What I didn't tell you is that I could have stopped it.
I was already patched by then. Had brothers who would have helped.
But I thought I could handle it on my own.
Thought I had time to figure out the legal routes, the proper channels. "
His jaw tightened.
"By the time I realized none of that would work, she was already gone. Heart attack in a building she hated, surrounded by boxes she never unpacked because she kept hoping she'd find a way back."
Angela's heart cracked. "Edge..."
"I can't save her. But I can save what you built. I can make sure Vitale doesn't take from you what the developers took from her." His eyes burned into hers. "That matters. You matter."
She didn't think. Didn't plan.
She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him.
For a heartbeat, he went rigid. Then his arms came around her, pulling her against his chest, holding her like she was something precious and breakable and worth protecting.
They stood like that while the bay turned to black glass and the cookout sounds faded to nothing but laughter and music. Angela breathed in leather and salt air and the warm, solid presence of a man who'd killed for her and would do it again without hesitation.
A week ago, she'd been a florist with a business loan and an empty apartment and a future that looked exactly like her past.
Now she was standing in the arms of a dangerous man, surrounded by his brothers and their families, feeling more at home than she had in years.
You're not staying for safety, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Not anymore.
You're staying for him.
The realization should have terrified her. Should have sent her running back to the guest room to pack her things and find another way.
Instead, she pressed closer to Edge's chest and let herself want something she'd stopped believing she could have.
His arms tightened around her.
Like he knew. Like he felt it too.
Like he had no intention of letting go.