Chapter 14
Forge woke to warmth.
Not the cold sweat of Graterford nightmares, not the hypervigilant snap to consciousness he'd grown used to since his release. Just warmth—Dana's body curved against his, her breath soft and even against his chest, her hair spread across his pillow like something precious.
He lay still for a long moment, taking inventory. Sunlight through the window. The compound quiet outside. No threats, no violence, no immediate danger. Just a woman in his arms and a morning that felt almost normal.
He'd forgotten what normal felt like.
Dana stirred against him, a small sound escaping her throat as consciousness found her. Her eyes opened slowly, met his, and a smile spread across her face that hit him somewhere deep.
"Morning," she murmured.
"Morning." His voice came out rougher than he intended—five years of keeping it low, of never giving anything away. He cleared his throat. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." She stretched against him, her body sliding against his in ways that made his blood heat. "What time is it?"
"Early. Maybe eight."
"That's not early. That's sleeping in."
"For you, maybe." He traced his fingers down her spine, memorizing the curve of it. "I don't sleep past six. Not anymore."
She propped herself up on his chest, looking down at him with those intelligent eyes that saw too much. "Prison schedule?"
"Prison schedule. Five years of waking at the same time, going to sleep at the same time. Your body doesn't forget."
"There's a lot your body doesn't forget." She said it gently, without judgment. Her fingers found the scar on his spine, traced its length. "You flinch when doors slam. You always sit with your back to the wall. You count exits everywhere we go."
Forge tensed. He hadn't realized she'd noticed. Hadn't realized he'd been so obvious.
"I'm working on it."
"I know you are." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just saying—I see you. The real you. Not just the parts you want me to see."
Something cracked open in his chest. The armor he'd built over five years, the walls he'd constructed to keep everyone out—she'd found a way through without him even realizing.
"What do you see?" he asked quietly.
"A man who's still learning how to be free." She met his eyes, held his gaze with an intensity that matched his own. "A man who's terrified that prison changed him into someone who can't function in the real world. Who watches himself constantly, looking for signs that he's too broken to fix."
"You're not wrong."
"I'm never wrong." Her smile took the edge off the words.
"But here's what I see that you don't: a man who's already functioning.
Who's leading his brothers, who's protecting me, who's fighting a war and winning.
Whatever prison did to you, Forge—it didn't break you. It just made you harder to reach."
He was quiet for a long moment, processing her words. Five years of believing he was damaged goods, that Graterford had hollowed him out and filled the empty spaces with something cold and sharp. And here was this woman, looking at him like he was whole.
"I don't know how to be normal," he admitted. "Don't know if I ever will. The stillness—the watchfulness—it's not an act. It's who I am now. Who they made me."
"Maybe normal is overrated." Dana's hand came up to cup his face. "Maybe what matters isn't fitting into some template of how you're supposed to be. Maybe what matters is finding someone who fits with you."
"You fit with me."
"I do." Her smile was soft, real. "Rough edges and all."
Forge pulled her down and kissed her—slow, thorough, nothing like the desperate urgency of the night before. This was claiming of a different kind. The kind that said I choose you instead of you're mine.
When they finally broke apart, Dana resettled against his chest with a contented sigh.
"Tell me about it," she said. "Graterford. What it was really like."
Forge's first instinct was to deflect. To give her the sanitized version, the highlights reel that didn't include the worst parts. But she'd asked to see the real him, and this was part of it.
"The first year was the hardest," he said quietly. "Learning the rules. Figuring out who to trust—which was no one. Understanding that everything was a transaction, that nothing was given, that every conversation had an agenda."
"How did you survive?"
"By becoming invisible. Not literally—I couldn't hide my size. But mentally. I stopped reacting to provocations. Stopped giving anyone ammunition. When someone came at me, I handled it fast and brutal, and then I went back to being the guy nobody noticed."
"But they noticed you eventually."
"They noticed when I wouldn't break." His jaw tightened at the memories.
"There was a guy—Floyd Williams—who ran the protection racket on my block.
Decided the quiet guy who kept to himself must have money or connections, something worth squeezing.
He came at me three times. The third time, he brought a shiv. "
"The scar on your spine."
"He got me from behind. Almost took me down.
" Forge's hand moved unconsciously to his back, to the raised tissue that would never fully fade.
"But I didn't go down. I turned around and I—" He stopped.
"It wasn't pretty. But Floyd never came at me again.
Nobody did. Word got around that the quiet guy in Block D was more dangerous than he looked. "
Dana was quiet for a moment, processing. "Did you kill him?"
"No. But he wished I had, for a while." Forge met her eyes, letting her see the truth of what he was. "I'm not a good man, Dana. I've done things—things I'm not proud of. Things that were necessary to survive but ugly all the same."
"You're a good man who survived something terrible." Her voice was firm. "There's a difference between evil and necessary. You did what you had to do."
"Most people would be horrified."
"I'm not most people." She sat up, facing him fully, her expression fierce. "I grew up poor, Forge. I know what survival looks like. I know that sometimes you do things that haunt you because the alternative is worse. That doesn't make you evil. It makes you human."
He reached for her, pulled her across his lap, needing to touch her. Needing to ground himself in her presence.
"After the thing with Floyd, it got easier.
And harder." He kept talking, the words flowing now that he'd started.
"Easier because nobody bothered me. Harder because the stillness became permanent.
I stopped feeling things. Stopped wanting things.
Just existed, day after day, waiting for my time to end. "
"And then Patriot came."
"And then Patriot came." Something softened in his chest at the memory.
"Sat across from me in the visitor's room, told me the club had voted, told me my patch was waiting.
I—" His voice cracked, just slightly. "I didn't know what to do with that.
Didn't know how to process that someone still wanted me. That I still belonged somewhere."
Dana's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "That's when you cried."
"Only time in five years. And even then, I waited until I was back in my cell. Couldn't let anyone see."
She leaned forward and kissed him—soft, reverent, tasting of acceptance. When she pulled back, her cheeks were wet.
"You belong somewhere now," she said. "Here. With your brothers. With me."
"I know." He wiped her tears with his thumbs, gentle despite the calluses. "For the first time since I got out, I actually believe it."
They talked through the morning.
Not about the war, not about Ray or Grimes or the violence still to come. About themselves. About what they were building and what came after.
Forge learned that Dana's mother had died three years ago, that she'd worked two jobs while building her store inventory, that she'd never had a relationship last more than six months because she always chose work over romance.
"I thought I didn't need anyone," she admitted. They'd moved to the small table by the window, coffee cups between them, the intimacy of morning settling around them like a blanket. "Thought independence was the same as strength. Turns out I was just scared of needing someone who might leave."
"I'm not leaving."
"I know." Her smile was soft. "That's what terrifies me."
He reached across the table, took her hand. "Tell me about the store. Why thrift? Why second chances?"
Dana's expression shifted, something wistful creeping in.
"My mom was a seamstress. Alterations, mostly—taking in wedding dresses for rich women who didn't notice the woman with the pins in her mouth.
But she could look at anything—a piece of fabric, a broken lamp, a chair with a missing leg—and see what it could become instead of what it was. "
"She taught you that."
"She taught me that value isn't about what something costs.
It's about what it means." Dana's fingers tightened around his.
"When she died, I used her sewing machine to start alterations on the vintage clothes I was collecting.
Built the store from there. Every time I restore something, every time I find a home for something someone threw away—that's her.
That's proof that she mattered, that what she taught me mattered. "
Forge understood. The store wasn't just a business. It was a memorial, a philosophy, a way of keeping her mother alive.
"That's why Ray's threat hit you so hard," he said. "It wasn't just about the money."
"It was about everything I'd built. Everything she taught me." Dana's jaw tightened. "He wanted to turn my second chances into his profit margin. Wanted to take the thing that meant the most to me and corrupt it."
"He won't." Forge's voice was steel. "Whatever happens, Dana—when this is over, you rebuild. Bigger, better. And I'll be there, holding tools or fetching coffee or whatever you need."
She laughed, surprised. "Can you even use a hammer?"
"I spent two years in the Graterford workshop. I can build furniture from scratch."
"Really?"
"Really." He allowed himself a small smile. "What, you thought I just lifted weights for five years?"
"I didn't think about it at all until I met you." She leaned across the table and kissed him. "Now I can't stop thinking about it. About you. About us."
"Us." He tested the word, found he liked the weight of it. "Is there an us?"
"You asked me to stay."
"I asked. You didn't answer."
"I kissed you. That was my answer."
"I need words, Dana." He met her eyes, letting her see the vulnerability underneath. "I spent five years without them. Without anyone saying what they meant, without truth or honesty or anything real. I need you to tell me."
Her expression softened. She stood, circled the table, settled herself in his lap like she belonged there.
"I'm staying," she said clearly. "Not because I have nowhere else to go—I do.
Not because you're protecting me—though you are.
I'm staying because you look at me like I matter.
Because you see value in broken things too.
Because when I'm with you, I feel like I finally found the person I was waiting for without knowing I was waiting. "
Forge's arms tightened around her. His chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
"I don't know if I can give you normal," he said. "Picket fences and PTA meetings and whatever people do in the regular world."
"I don't want normal." Dana's hand found his jaw, tilted his face up to meet her gaze.
"I want you. The man who survived five years of hell and came out strong enough to protect me.
The man who sees me—really sees me—for the first time in my life.
The man who's rough and intense and sometimes scary, but who touches me like I'm made of glass even when he's falling apart. "
"I'm not falling apart."
"You were last night. And you let me see it." Her thumb traced his cheekbone. "That's worth more than normal. That's worth everything."
By noon, they'd said all the things that mattered.
They'd talked about rebuilding her store, about what role she might play at the compound, about whether she wanted to meet the rest of the brotherhood properly or ease in slowly.
They'd talked about his fears—that he'd never stop scanning rooms, never stop expecting violence, never fully shake the prison out of his bones.
They'd talked about her fears—that she'd lose herself in this world, that she'd become dependent, that loving him would mean giving up the independence she'd fought so hard to build.
And through it all, she never flinched.
Not when he told her about the things he'd done to survive. Not when he admitted he sometimes dreamed of the men he'd hurt, woke up with their blood on his hands even though it wasn't real. Not when he confessed that some days he wasn't sure where Graterford ended and freedom began.
She just listened. Asked questions. Touched him like he was worthy of gentleness.
Forge had spent five years believing he was damaged beyond repair. That prison had carved out the parts of him that could love, could trust, could hope.
Dana proved him wrong in a single morning.
She saw what prison had made him—the steel and the scars, the violence and the vigilance—and she didn't run. She didn't flinch. She looked at all of it, all of him, and chose to stay anyway.
It was more than he'd ever thought possible.
And he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure she never regretted that choice.