Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Wynter
A week after the attack, the compound bears few visible scars.
Bullet holes patched, broken windows replaced, bloodstains power-washed from concrete.
If only healing people were as straightforward as fixing buildings.
We lost three men that day—Ripper, Snake, and a prospect whose name I never learned.
Their absence leaves a palpable hole in the fabric of the club.
I didn't know them well, but I mourn them anyway, these men who died protecting me as much as defending their territory.
Vance hasn't said much about what happened, about what he did to the Nighthawks' leader, but I see the shadows in his eyes sometimes, glimpses of the darkness he carries so I don't have to.
And somehow, impossibly, it only makes me love him more.
The club holds a memorial, a somber affair with too much whiskey and stories I can tell are heavily censored for my benefit.
I sit beside Vance, his arm a constant weight around my shoulders, anchoring me to this strange new family I've become part of.
Diesel raises a toast to "our president's old lady, worth fighting for," and the others echo it, raising their glasses to me with newfound respect in their eyes.
I've been baptized in fire now, proven worthy of their protection, their sacrifice.
That night, lying beside Vance in our bed, I make my final decision. The one I've been circling since Vegas, since the wedding I don't remember, since waking up to find myself claimed by this dangerous man who loves with the same ferocity he fights.
"I'm staying," I tell him, voice clear in the darkness.
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow to look down at me.
"You were planning to leave?" There's humor in his gaze. And I get it. Like I could ever really get away if he didn’t want me to. But still, I need him to know that I want to be here now. That he’s not keeping me here against my will anymore. Because underneath Vance’s gruff exterior is a big teddy bear. My big teddy bear.
"I think I was always keeping that option open," I admit. "Some part of me thinking this was temporary. That eventually I'd go back to my real life."
"And now?"
I reach up to trace the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, a mark from some past battle. "Now I know this is my real life. You are. For better or worse."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise breaking over the desert—rare and breathtaking in its beauty.
Two days later, Vance announces he's taking me out for dinner—a celebration of sorts, now that the Nighthawk threat has been eliminated. The peace treaty was signed with blood; no rival club will dare approach Devil's Claim territory for a long time.
"Where are we going?" I ask, sorting through the limited wardrobe I've accumulated since Vegas.
"It's a surprise." He watches from the doorway, eyes darkening as I hold up a simple sundress against my body. "Wear that one. Easy access."
His crude suggestion sends heat flooding through me, but I pretend to be scandalized. "We're going to dinner, not a quickie behind the restaurant."
"Who says we can't do both?" His grin is wolfish, reminding me how quickly this man can shift from dangerous president to playful lover.
The "surprise" turns out to be a small plateau overlooking the desert, accessible only by the rough dirt road we take in his truck.
As we crest the rise, I gasp at the sight waiting for us—a table set for two, illuminated by strings of lights powered by a portable generator.
The table is draped in actual linen, set with real china and silverware that gleams in the fading daylight.
A bottle of champagne chills in an ice bucket.
"Vance," I breathe, genuinely touched by the effort. "This is..."
"Too much?" He looks suddenly uncertain, this man who faces down armed enemies without flinching, worried about a romantic gesture.
"Perfect," I assure him, reaching for his hand. "Absolutely perfect."
Diesel appears from behind the truck, dressed in something approximating waiter attire—black jeans and a clean button-up shirt. He gives Vance a thumbs-up, then retreats to a discreet distance where I can see a small cooking station has been set up.
"You got Diesel to cook for us?" I ask, amused by the gruff biker's transformation into chef.
"Best cook in the club," Vance confirms, leading me to the table. "Don't tell him I told you, but he trained at some fancy culinary school before finding his true calling as a mechanic with a criminal record."
The meal is surprisingly excellent—steak cooked to perfection, roasted vegetables, even a chocolate dessert that melts on my tongue. Diesel serves each course, then disappears, giving us privacy between rounds. As the sky darkens and stars appear, Vance reaches across the table for my hand.
"Happy?" he asks, something vulnerable in his expression.
"Very," I say truthfully. "I never thought I could be this happy in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bikers, married to a man who terrifies most people who meet him."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through the night air. "Yet here you are."
"Here I am," I agree, squeezing his hand.
Diesel serves coffee, then packs up his equipment and drives off in a second vehicle I hadn't noticed parked behind some scrub. The distant sound of his engine fades, leaving us truly alone under the vast desert sky.
Vance pulls me from my chair and into his lap, his hands immediately finding their way beneath my sundress. "Finally," he growls against my neck. "Been wanting to touch you all night."
"You've been touching me all night," I point out, already breathless as his fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh. "Under the table during dessert, if I recall."
"Not enough," he insists, finding me already wet through my underwear. "Never enough."
His kiss is hungry, possessive, tongue claiming my mouth the way his hands claim my body. I melt against him, still amazed at how quickly he can reduce me to need and want and heat.
"Stand up," he orders, voice rough with desire.
I comply, watching as he clears the dishes to one side of the table with a sweep of his arm. The fine china teeters dangerously close to the edge, but I can't bring myself to care as he lifts me onto the table's edge.
"Lie back," he commands, and I do, the linen tablecloth cool against my bare shoulders as he pushes the sundress straps down.
He works methodically, stripping me with practiced ease until I'm naked on the table, exposed to the night air and his hungry gaze. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but all I feel is powerful—the ability to reduce this dangerous man to desperate need is a heady thing.
"Look at you," he murmurs, hands skimming up my sides to cup my breasts. "Spread out for Daddy like a feast."
The word still sends illicit thrills through me, making me arch into his touch. "Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
"Please what?" he teases, thumbs brushing over my nipples. "Tell Daddy what you need."
"Your mouth," I manage, bolder now in expressing my desires. "I need your mouth on me."
He grins, pleased with my directness. "Where, baby doll? Here?" He bends to flick his tongue over one nipple. "Or here?" His mouth travels lower, pressing kisses down my stomach.
"Lower," I gasp, beyond embarrassment now. "Please, Daddy."
He rewards my begging by settling between my thighs, draping my legs over his broad shoulders. The first touch of his tongue has me gripping the tablecloth, hips rising to meet him.
"That's it," he praises, hands holding my thighs apart. "Let Daddy taste his good little girl."
He devours me with single-minded focus, alternating between broad strokes and precise attention to my clit until I'm writhing on the table, coherent thought impossible.
When he adds two thick fingers, curving them to hit that perfect spot inside me, I shatter with a cry that echoes across the empty desert.
Before I can recover, he's standing, unbuckling his belt, freeing his cock. He pulls me to the edge of the table, positioning himself at my entrance.
"Such a perfect little girl for Daddy," he praises as he pushes inside, stretching me deliciously. "Taking me so well."
The table rocks with the force of his thrusts, the remaining dishes rattling ominously. I don't care if everything crashes to the ground—all that matters is this connection, this claiming, this man who has become my entire world.
"Mine," he growls, pace increasing as his control slips. "All mine."
"Yours," I agree breathlessly, legs wrapping around his waist, urging him deeper. "Only yours, Daddy."
He reaches between us, finding my still-sensitive clit, circling it with practiced skill. "Come again for me," he demands. "Let me feel that sweet pussy squeeze my cock."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the forbidden thrill of being taken on a dinner table under the stars pushes me over the edge again. I convulse around him, nails digging into his forearms, his name a prayer on my lips.
He follows immediately, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his release pulsing hot inside me. For long moments we stay joined, panting, the night air cooling our overheated skin.
When he finally pulls out, he gathers me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I might break.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs into my hair, a rare moment of vulnerability from this mountain of a man.
"You don't get to decide that," I tell him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I do. And I say you deserve every bit of me."
Later, dressed again and wrapped in a blanket he produced from the truck, we lie on the tailgate and watch the stars. His arm around me feels like home—not the small town I left behind, but a new home, one I've chosen with eyes wide open.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"For what? The dinner? The orgasms?" His chest rumbles with quiet laughter beneath my cheek.
"For finding me in Vegas," I clarify. "For being stubborn enough not to let me run away."
He's quiet for a moment, his hand stroking my hair. "Knew from the moment I saw you," he says finally. "Some things you just know."
And lying there under the vast desert sky, wrapped in the arms of a man who kills for me, who loves for me, who would burn the world down to keep me safe, I realize I know it too.
Some things are fated, written in the stars now glittering above us.
This unlikely love—a librarian and an president, beauty and beast—is one of them.
Against all odds, against all reason, against all my careful plans for a quiet, ordinary life, I have found my place. And it's right here, in the arms of the most dangerous man I've ever known.