Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Vance
Six weeks since Vegas. Six weeks since I claimed the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and made her mine.
The initial urgency—the constant need to possess, to mark, to ensure she wouldn't leave—has evolved into something deeper, more permanent.
She's not just under my skin anymore; she's in my blood, my bones, woven into the fabric of who I am.
The Vegas wedding was a tactical move, a way to secure what I knew was mine from the moment I saw her.
But now I want more. I want to give her the real thing—a ceremony she'll remember, vows she chooses with clear eyes and full knowledge of exactly what kind of man she's binding herself to.
The ring burns a hole in my pocket as I watch her move around our kitchen, humming softly to herself as she prepares dinner.
She's adapted to this life with a grace that still amazes me.
From small-town librarian to biker's wife, she's transformed without losing that essential sweetness that drew me to her in the first place.
The club respects her now, not just as my woman but as a force in her own right—gentle but steel-spined when necessary.
I've never been good with words unless they're whispered against her skin in our most private moments. But for this, I need to find the right ones.
"Wynter," I say, my voice rougher than intended. She turns, wooden spoon in hand, eyebrow raised in question. "Come here for a minute."
She sets the spoon down and approaches, a small smile playing at her lips. "What's wrong? You look serious."
I take her hands in mine, struck again by how small and delicate they appear against my scarred, tattooed mitts. "Nothing's wrong. Just thinking."
"Dangerous," she teases, but her eyes are attentive, focused on me.
"Our wedding," I begin, then correct myself. "The Vegas wedding. It wasn't fair to you."
Her expression shifts to concern. "Vance—"
"Let me finish," I cut in gently. "I don't regret it. Not for a second. Claiming you was the best decision I've ever made. But you deserve better than a drunken ceremony you can't remember."
Understanding dawns in her eyes as I drop to one knee before her, still holding her hands in mine. It's an absurd image—a man like me, with blood on his hands and darkness in his soul, assuming this traditional posture of supplication. But for her, I'd do far more ridiculous things.
"I want to marry you again," I tell her, pulling the ring from my pocket—a simple band of platinum with a single diamond, elegant rather than flashy. "Properly this time. With you fully aware of what you're getting into. Who you're getting into it with."
Her eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "Are you proposing to your own wife?"
"I'm proposing to the woman I love," I correct her, surprising myself with the emotion thickening my voice. "The woman who saw the monster in me and chose to stay anyway. Will you marry me again, baby doll? This time with your eyes wide open?"
She doesn't hesitate, dropping to her knees in front of me so we're face to face. "Yes," she whispers, cupping my face in her hands. "A thousand times yes."
I slide the ring onto her finger, above the simple gold band from Vegas. The two together look right—the impulsive beginning and the considered continuation of our unlikely union.
When I kiss her, it's with a tenderness I never knew I possessed before her. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding, and I gather her against my chest, overwhelmed by the miracle of her presence in my life.
"I love you," I murmur against her mouth, words that once would have seemed impossible coming from me.
"Show me," she challenges softly, eyes darkening with desire.
I lift her into my arms, dinner forgotten as I carry her to our bedroom. Tonight isn't about quick, urgent claiming. It's about worship, about proving with my body what my words can never fully express.
I lay her on the bed with uncharacteristic gentleness, taking my time undressing her. Each inch of skin revealed gets my touch, my kiss, my silent adoration. When she's finally naked before me, I step back to just look at her—this miracle I somehow convinced to be mine.
"So beautiful," I murmur, shedding my own clothes with less ceremony. "My wife. My everything."
When I join her on the bed, I move slowly, covering her body with mine, careful to keep most of my weight on my forearms. The contrast between us has always fascinated me—her softness against my hardness, her light against my dark, her innocence against my corruption. Yet somehow, impossibly, we fit.
"I need you," she whispers, hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, pulling me closer.
"You have me," I promise, positioning myself at her entrance. "Always."
I push inside with aching slowness, savoring every sensation—the tight heat of her body gripping me, the small gasp she makes as I fill her completely, the perfect joining that still feels like coming home every time.
"Perfect," I praise, beginning to move with deep, measured strokes. “You’re so motherfucking perfect, baby doll. Brings me to my knees every time.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, taking me deeper, her eyes never leaving mine. This connection between us—it's more than physical, more than the pleasure building with each thrust. It's a claiming of souls as much as bodies.
"I love you," she gasps, back arching as I hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. "God, Vance, I love you so much."
Those words—words I never thought would be directed at me with such sincerity—push me closer to the edge. I reach between us, circling her clit with my thumb, determined to take her with me.
"Come for me, baby doll," I encourage, feeling her body tightening around me. "Let me feel you."
She shatters beautifully, inner walls pulsing around my cock as she cries out my name. I follow her over the edge, emptying myself deep inside her with a groan of completion.
We lie tangled together afterward, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing patterns on her back. But the night is young, and the beast in me is only temporarily sated.
"You know what I thought the first time I saw you?" I ask, voice already roughening with renewed desire.
"What?" She props her chin on my chest, looking up at me with those innocent eyes that drive me wild.
"That you were made to be bred." The crude words make her breath catch, pupils dilating. "Made to carry my child. To be marked as mine inside and out."
A shiver runs through her, but it's not fear or disgust. It's anticipation.
"Is that what you want, Daddy?" she asks, the forbidden word falling easily from her lips now. "To breed your little girl?"
Something snaps in me at her words—the tenderness of before giving way to a more primal need. In one swift movement, I flip her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up while pressing her upper body down into the mattress.
"That's exactly what Daddy wants," I growl, positioning myself behind her. "To fill this sweet pussy until you're swollen with my seed."
I push back inside her still-sensitive channel, the new angle drawing a gasp from both of us. This position is deeper, more animalistic, letting me claim her in the most primitive way.
"Mine," I grunt, setting a harder pace than before, hands gripping her hips tightly enough to leave marks. "Every. Fucking. Inch."
Each word is punctuated with a thrust that makes her moan into the pillow, her body accepting me completely despite the rougher treatment.
"Yes," she gasps, pushing back against me. "Yours, Daddy. All yours."
I reach beneath her to play with her clit, wanting to feel her come around me again. "Such a good little girl," I praise, feeling her respond to the words. "Taking Daddy's cock so deep. Gonna put a baby in you tonight."
The breeding talk—what started as an instinctive expression of my most primal desires—has become our shared kink, the taboo nature of it heightening our pleasure. The thought of her round with my child, marked as mine in the most permanent way, drives me to the edge of control.
"You want that?" I demand, pace increasing as my own release approaches. "Want Daddy to breed you? Make that belly swell?"
"Please," she begs, voice muffled by the pillow. "Please, Daddy, fill me up. Make me yours."
I grip her hair, pulling gently to arch her back further, changing the angle to hit even deeper. "Already mine," I remind her, the possessive words flowing freely now. "Been mine since the moment I saw you. Will be mine until I'm in the ground."
The combination of my words and the increased stimulation sends her over the edge again, her body clenching around me in rhythmic waves. The feel of her coming apart beneath me triggers my own release, and I bury myself to the hilt, grinding against her as I fill her with my seed.
"Mine forever," I groan, collapsing beside her, pulling her sweat-slicked body against mine. "My wife. My baby doll."
She nestles against me, fitting perfectly in the curve of my body. "Forever," she agrees drowsily.
As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, I find myself planning the ceremony in my mind.
Nothing traditional—we're far from a traditional couple.
Something that honors the darkness and light between us, the unlikely bond we've formed.
Something witnessed by my brothers, by the family we've created here in this dangerous corner of the world.
Something real. Something permanent. Something worthy of the gift she's given me—her trust, her body, her heart.
“I’m gonna do right by you, baby doll,” I whisper against her hair, though she's already asleep. “I promise.”
It's a vow I've already made in my soul.
I drift off with my wife in my arms, her new ring catching the moonlight filtering through the blinds, a symbol of promises I intend to keep for all the days I have left.