Chapter Twenty-Two
Edge had faced down killers without flinching.
He'd walked into ambushes knowing he might not walk out. He'd watched men die by his hand and felt nothing but satisfaction. Violence didn't scare him. Death didn't scare him.
This scared him.
The compound had been transformed. Angela had spent two days working with the old ladies, turning the industrial space into something that looked almost soft.
Flowers covered every surface—arrangements she'd built from grocery store scraps and whatever she could salvage from the compound's overgrown garden.
Ribbons in the club colors hung from the rafters.
The bar gleamed with candles and bottles and the particular shine of a space that mattered.
Every patched member was present. Their women stood beside them, dressed for celebration, their eyes knowing as they watched Edge pace near the chapel door.
"Brother." Jackpot appeared at his elbow, a glass of whiskey in each hand. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."
"Feels like it."
"That's how it's supposed to feel." Jackpot handed him one of the glasses. "The fear means you understand what you're committing to. Means you're taking it seriously."
Edge downed the whiskey in one swallow. It burned all the way down, but it didn't calm the riot in his chest.
"What if I'm not good enough for her?"
The question came out before he could stop it. Jackpot's expression didn't change.
"You're not." His voice was matter-of-fact. "None of us are good enough for the women who choose us. That's not the point. The point is we spend every day trying to be worthy of them anyway."
Edge looked at his President—at the scar across his jaw, the eyes that had seen more violence than most men could imagine, the hands that had built this club from nothing.
"How do you do it? Balance the life with..."
"With love?" Jackpot almost smiled. "You don't balance it. You let them become part of the same thing. Rosa isn't separate from the club—she's woven into it. Your florist will be the same. Already is, from what I've seen."
Edge nodded. Took a breath.
"I'm ready."
"Good. Because she's been waiting for ten minutes and I think Molly is about to drag you out there by your ear."
The ceremony took place in the compound's main hall, beneath the neon signs and slot machine parts and all the history the Outlaws had built. Edge stood at the center with Jackpot beside him, facing the brotherhood arranged in a semicircle.
Then Angela appeared.
She walked through the crowd on Ghost's arm—Edge had asked his brother to escort her, since she had no family of her own to do the honor. She wore a simple dress in deep green, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and in her hands she carried a small bouquet of flowers she'd made herself.
White roses. Baby's breath. A single sprig of lavender for luck.
Edge forgot how to breathe.
She was beautiful. Not in the way models were beautiful, all angles and perfection. Beautiful in the way that mattered—the way that made his chest ache and his hands shake and his entire world narrow to a single point.
Mine, he thought. After tonight, officially mine.
Angela stopped in front of him. Ghost stepped back to join the circle. And for a moment, it was just the two of them, surrounded by everyone who mattered but somehow completely alone.
"Ready?" Edge's voice came out rougher than he intended.
"I've been ready." Angela's smile was small but real. "You're the one who kept me waiting."
Jackpot stepped forward. The room went silent.
"Brothers. Sisters. We're here tonight to witness a claiming." His voice carried the weight of ritual, of tradition, of all the ceremonies that had come before. "Edge has chosen Angela Basile as his old lady. She has agreed to stand beside him, to share his life, to be part of this family."
He turned to Edge.
"Do you claim this woman as yours? Do you swear to protect her, provide for her, and put her above all others except the brotherhood itself?"
"I do." The words came out steady despite the chaos in his chest.
"And do you, Angela, accept this claim? Do you swear to stand beside this man, to share his burdens, to be loyal to him and to the family he serves?"
Angela's eyes never left Edge's. "I do."
Jackpot nodded. "Then let it be witnessed."
Edge reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather cuff he'd had made—simple, elegant, with the Outlaws' crown tooled into the band and her name etched in small letters along the inside edge. He'd thought about a ring, but this felt more right. More them.
"This marks you as mine." He took her hand, fastened the cuff around her wrist. "To the world, to the brotherhood, to everyone who sees it. You belong to me now."
Angela looked at the cuff, then back at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"And this marks you as mine." She reached into her bouquet and pulled out a small bundle of leather cord, braided with threads in the colors of her arrangements—green and white and deep purple. "I made it from the same leather. So we match."
Edge held out his wrist. Let her tie the cord around it, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked the knot.
"We match," he repeated.
The room erupted.
Brothers cheered, bottles raised, the particular celebration of a family welcoming a new member. The old ladies descended on Angela immediately—Rosa with a hug, Grace with a glass of champagne, Molly with advice that made Angela laugh and blush simultaneously.
Edge watched from a few feet away, his chest so full he thought it might burst. His woman. His old lady. His partner in everything that mattered.
The party lasted for hours.
Brothers told stories—some about Edge, some about other claimings, some that had nothing to do with anything but made everyone laugh. Food appeared and disappeared. Music played until the neighbors would have complained, if they'd had neighbors who dared.
Angela moved through it all like she'd been born to this life.
She laughed at Block's crude jokes, debated flower arrangements with Grace, listened to Tamara's advice about handling a man who couldn't express his feelings in words.
She fit. Perfectly and completely, like she'd always been meant to be here.
Eventually, the crowd thinned.
Brothers drifted home with their women. Prospects began the cleanup. And Edge found Angela on the dock, staring out at the bay, the leather cuff gleaming on her wrist.
"Hey."
She turned to him. Smiled. Held out her hand.
"Take me home?"
Edge's heart stuttered. "Home?"
"Your room. Our room." Her fingers laced through his. "I want to celebrate. Just us."
He didn't need to be asked twice.
His room—their room now—was quiet after the noise of the party. Edge closed the door behind them and watched Angela move through the space, touching things, claiming territory in her own subtle way.
"It's official." She turned to face him, her eyes soft in the dim light. "I'm yours."
"You were always mine." Edge crossed to her, his hands finding her waist. "From the moment I walked into your flower shop and saw you fighting back with pruning shears. I just had to wait for you to realize it."
"Confident."
"Observant." He pulled her closer. "I knew what I wanted. I just had to convince you to want it too."
Angela's arms wound around his neck. "I didn't take much convincing."
"No?" He backed her toward the bed, slow and deliberate. "Because I seem to remember a lot of arguing. A lot of 'I can handle this myself.' A lot of—"
She kissed him.
The words died on his tongue, replaced by sensation. Her mouth, soft and demanding. Her body, pressed against his. Her hands, pulling at his shirt like she couldn't bear another layer between them.
Edge let her lead.
She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, worked the buttons of his shirt with fingers that had steadied since the ceremony. He stood still, letting her undress him, letting her take control of something for once. Her reward for trusting him with everything else.
When his shirt hit the floor, she pressed her palms flat against his chest. Felt his heartbeat beneath her hands.
"Ryan." She said his name like a prayer. "I love you."
"I love you too."
He reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. Drew it down slowly, giving her time to stop him if she wanted. She didn't. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooled at her feet, and Edge's breath caught at the sight of her.
"Beautiful." He traced the line of her collarbone, the curve of her waist, the leather cuff that marked her as his. "Every inch of you."
They came together slowly this time.
Not the desperate urgency of their first night, or the adrenaline-fueled intensity of the roof, or the deep emotional connection after the assault. This was something else entirely. This was celebration. Joy. The physical expression of a commitment they'd made in front of everyone who mattered.
Edge laid her on the bed and covered her body with his, taking his time, savoring every gasp and sigh and whispered plea. He'd spent weeks learning what she liked, what made her shatter, what made her beg. Now he used all of it, drawing out the pleasure until she was trembling beneath him.
"Please." Her voice was ragged. "Ryan, please."
"Please what?"
"I need you. All of you. Now."
He gave her what she asked for.
The joining was slow and deep, both of them savoring the sensation of finally, officially, permanently belonging to each other. Edge moved with deliberate patience, watching her face, reading every flicker of emotion that crossed her features.
"Mine." He said it against her throat, her jaw, her lips. "You're mine. Forever."
"Yours." She arched into him, meeting his rhythm, matching his intensity. "Always yours."
The climax built like a wave—slow, inevitable, unstoppable. When it broke, it broke them both, Edge burying himself deep inside her as the pleasure crashed through them in synchronized pulses.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, hearts gradually slowing. Angela's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing the leather cord around his wrist.
"We match," she said softly.
"We do."
"Is this what you imagined? When you thought about claiming someone?"
Edge considered the question. Thought about all the years he'd spent alone, convinced that his life didn't have room for love. Thought about the moment he'd walked into a flower shop and found a woman fighting back against three men with nothing but pruning shears and fury.
"No," he said honestly. "This is better."
Angela lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft, satisfied, full of a peace he'd helped put there.
"I'm glad I said yes."
"I'm glad you made me ask properly."
She laughed—that real laugh, the one that made his chest ache—and settled back against him.
They lay in the darkness, listening to the bay lap against the dock outside, the distant sounds of the compound settling into sleep. Claimed. Official. Permanent.
Edge held his woman in his arms and let himself believe, finally, that this was real. That he'd found something worth protecting more than territory. That the quiet man who guarded the shore towns had finally found a reason to come home.
Angela's breathing evened out as sleep took her.
Edge stayed awake a while longer, watching her, memorizing the way she looked in his bed—their bed—with his mark on her wrist and his future wrapped in her arms.
Claimed.
Official.
Permanent.
His.