Chapter 18
The surveillance camera sat on the table like a trophy.
Delaney had set it there after Float brought it back—the same camera Ingle had mounted on her studio wall, the one that had watched while her life's work burned. It was dead now, wires cut, lens cracked from when Float dropped it on Ingle's chest.
She stared at it while Float showered off the blood and exhaustion of the night's work.
Three men had destroyed her studio, her equipment, her print archive. Three men who'd taken pleasure in watching her while they did it.
All three were dead now.
The water shut off. A moment later, Float emerged from the bathroom in clean jeans, toweling off his hair, the tension finally gone from his shoulders.
He stopped when he saw her looking at the camera.
"Should've thrown it in the river." His voice was quiet. "You don't need a reminder of what they did."
"It's not a reminder of what they did." Delaney picked up the camera, turning it over in her hands. "It's a reminder that I spent weeks being watched without knowing it. Without consenting. Without any control over who saw me or when."
Float crossed to her, but he didn't take the camera away. Just stood close, waiting.
"Tonight," she said slowly, "I want to watch you."
Something flickered in his expression. Understanding. Desire.
"Okay."
"I mean it." She set the camera down and turned to face him fully. "No rushing. No desperation. I want to see every part of you, the way they tried to see every part of me. But this time, I'm the one in control."
Float's hands came up to frame her face—the gesture that had become theirs, the touch that grounded them both.
"Then take control."
Delaney pulled him toward the bed.
This time was different.
The first time had been about teaching him to be still. The second time had been about burning through adrenaline, surviving the aftermath of violence together.
This time was about knowing.
She knew his body now. Knew the scar on his ribs from a knife fight three years ago. Knew the calluses on his palms from years of paddling. Knew exactly where to touch to make his breath catch, exactly where to kiss to make him groan.
And he knew hers. Knew the places that made her shiver, the words that undid her, the rhythm she needed to fall apart.
There was power in being known. Not the invasive, non-consensual knowledge that Garvey's cameras had stolen—but the intimate, earned knowledge that came from choosing someone and letting them choose you back.
Delaney undressed him slowly, her hands tracing every inch of skin she uncovered. Float stood still and let her look, let her touch, let her take the control she'd asked for.
"You're beautiful." The words came out soft, almost wondering. "Do you know that?"
"Men aren't beautiful."
"You are." She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Dangerous and restless and so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes."
His hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach for her but holding back. Giving her the control she needed.
"Delaney—"
"Shh." She kissed the word away. "Let me have this."
She mapped him with her mouth, her hands, her eyes. Every scar. Every muscle. Every line and angle that made him who he was. She photographed him without a camera, committing every detail to memory because this—this was something no one could steal.
When she finally pulled him down onto the bed with her, Float's restraint cracked.
"My turn," he growled, rolling them until she was beneath him. "You've been watching long enough. Now let me show you."
He undressed her with the same deliberate attention she'd given him. Hands steady, eyes dark, touching her like she was something precious and powerful all at once.
"Mine." The word came out like a vow. Not desperate, not questioning—a simple statement of fact. "Every inch of you. Mine."
"Yours." She arched into his touch, letting him see how he affected her. "But you're mine too."
"Always have been." He kissed the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the places that made her gasp. "Since the moment you told me to get out of your studio. Since you looked at me with fire in your eyes and absolutely no fear."
They moved together without urgency. This wasn't about release—it was about connection. About choosing each other with clear heads and open hearts, knowing exactly what they were building and what it would cost.
Float took his time. Slow strokes, deep kisses, his body covering hers like armor. Delaney matched his rhythm, her hands in his hair, her legs wrapped around him, holding him close because she could.
Because he was hers. And she was his. And nothing anyone did could change that.
"Jesse." His name slipped out in a moment of overwhelming tenderness. The name she only used when they were like this—tangled together, walls down, nothing between them but breath and heat.
He groaned against her neck. "Say it again."
"Jesse." She pulled his face up to look at her, holding his gaze as they moved together. "I love you. I chose you. And when this is over, I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it."
Something cracked open in his expression—the last wall, the final defense. The boy who'd been robbed of everything, finally believing he could keep something.
"When this is over," he said against her lips, "I'm going to give you everything I have. The studio rebuilt. The life you wanted. Whatever you need to feel safe and happy and whole."
"I don't need things to feel whole." Delaney held his face in her hands. "I need you. Just you."
Float kissed her like she'd given him the world.
Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat and satisfaction, her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her back.
The surveillance camera still sat on the table, visible from the bed. Delaney looked at it and felt nothing but contempt.
"I'm going to rebuild the studio."
Float's hand stilled on her back. "Yeah?"
"When this is over." She traced a circle on his chest, watching the goosebumps rise under her fingers. "New equipment. New prints. A whole new start."
"Insurance will cover some of it."
"Some." She smiled against his skin. "The rest I'll earn. Golden hour on the lake. Engagement shoots. Family portraits. All the beautiful things I started photographing when I stopped documenting corpses."
Float was quiet for a moment. His heartbeat was steady under her ear—calm, present, still in a way that used to be impossible for him.
"Still's been talking about my patch vote."
Delaney lifted her head to look at him. "Yeah?"
"After this is done. After Garvey's handled and the club's secure." Float met her eyes, something vulnerable in his expression. "He thinks I've earned it."
"You have." She kissed his jaw. "You've more than earned it."
"It's not just about earning it." Float sat up slightly, pulling her with him so they were face to face. "Taking the patch means committing to this life. Permanently. The club, the brotherhood, everything that comes with it."
"I know."
"Do you?" His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Because if I take that patch, I'm not just a prospect helping out with club business. I'm a Ridgerunner. For life. And you—if you stay with me—"
"I become an old lady." Delaney smiled at the worry in his eyes. "Float, I held a rifle on the lodge perimeter while men tried to kill me. I photographed the aftermath without flinching. I watched you come home covered in other people's blood and pulled you into bed anyway."
"That's different—"
"It's not." She silenced him with a kiss, soft and sure. "I chose this. I chose you. And I'm not scared of what that means."
Float stared at her like he still couldn't quite believe she was real.
"I want to photograph something permanent," Delaney said quietly.
"For years, I documented things that disappeared—operations that never happened, people who would never be identified, moments that had to be forgotten.
When I started Ozark Light, I thought I was photographing something different.
But those prints burned. That work is gone. "
She touched his face, his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth.
"You're permanent. This—what we're building—is permanent. And I want to spend my life capturing moments that last. Starting with you."
Float's throat worked. She watched him swallow down emotion he didn't know how to name.
"I want to build something no one can steal.
" His voice was rough. "My partner took the business.
The debt took everything else. The club gave me a chance to start over, but I was still running.
Still hustling. Still afraid that if I stopped moving, someone would take whatever I'd managed to hold onto. "
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"You make me want to stop running. You make me want to stand still and build something real. Something that belongs to us—not the club, not the past, just us. Something no one can take because we built it together."
Delaney felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back.
"Then let's build it." She kissed him softly. "After Garvey's done. After your patch ceremony. We'll rebuild the studio together. You'll help me set up lights, and I'll photograph you actually smiling for once."
Float laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him. "I smile."
"You smirk. It's not the same thing."
"I'll work on it."
They settled back into the bed, bodies intertwined, the future stretching out ahead of them like a road they'd walk together.
The surveillance camera sat on the table, broken and powerless.
Delaney didn't look at it.
She looked at the man beside her instead—the man who'd stopped running, who'd learned to be still, who wanted to build something permanent with her.
"Two more days," she murmured against his chest.
"Two more days." Float's arm tightened around her. "Then Garvey's done and we start the life I promised you."
"The life we promised each other."
"Yeah." He kissed the top of her head. "That."
Outside, the compound hummed with the quiet activity of a community at peace. Brothers on patrol. Families in their cabins. The normal life that existed in the spaces between violence.
Inside, Delaney closed her eyes and let herself dream about golden hours and rebuilt studios and a man whose hands were finally, perfectly still.
The war wasn't over yet.
But the future had never felt more real.