Chapter Fifteen
Seven days had passed since the raid on Whitaker's estate, and Silverlake carried a different energy now.
The air felt lighter without the weight of constant threat hanging over every street.
Locals nodded at Bastard Kings as they rode through town instead of crossing to the other side of the road.
Jackson Reed leaned against the clubhouse porch railing and watched the celebration unfold in the garden below.
Music drifted from speakers someone had dragged outside, and the scent of grilled meat mixed with the smoke from the fire pit.
His brothers moved among the crowd with an ease he hadn't seen in months.
Larkin stood near the bar with Haven and Annabelle, all three women laughing at something only they could hear.
Jackson's gaze stayed on her. The bruises on her neck had faded to faint shadows, but he still noticed every mark she carried from that night.
She wore a simple black tank top and jeans, her auburn curls loose around her shoulders.
When she looked up and caught him watching, she smiled and raised her drink in his direction.
The gesture pulled something tight in his chest, a feeling he still didn't have a name for but was learning to accept.
He pushed away from the railing and crossed the grass toward her. The garden lights cast warm circles across the ground. Around them, the voices blended into a comfortable hum. Jackson stopped beside her and rested his hand at the small of her back. She leaned into the touch without hesitation.
"You ready to get some air away from all this noise?" he asked.
Larkin nodded. "Lead the way."
They walked past the fire pit and through a gap in the hedge that bordered the property.
The clubhouse garden opened into a smaller, quieter space where string lights hung between two old oaks.
A wooden bench sat beneath the branches, and the sound of the party faded to a distant murmur.
Jackson guided her toward the bench and waited until she sat before lowering himself beside her.
The wood creaked under their combined weight.
He reached into his cut and pulled out a small patch. The leather square held the words "Property of Jackson" stitched in clean white thread above the Bastard Kings insignia. He held it out between them, and Larkin stared at the patch for a long moment without speaking.
"This means you're choosing to stay," Jackson said. "Not just for now. For good. The club will protect you the same way they protect me. You'll have a voice here if you want one, and a place that won't disappear when things get hard."
Larkin took the patch and ran her fingers over the stitching. Her eyes lifted to meet his. "I already chose you when I climbed your perimeter fence. This just makes it official."
Jackson cupped her face and pressed his forehead to hers.
The contact steadied him. "There's more.
I bought a house two blocks from here. Close enough that the brothers can get there in under a minute if anything happens, but far enough that we won't hear every bike that starts up at three in the morning.
It's got a yard and a kitchen that doesn't smell like beer and motor oil. "
She laughed softly. "You really thought this through."
"I've been thinking about it since the night Hawk grabbed you. I don't want to raise a family in a room above a bar if I can help it."
Larkin went still. Her hand found his and squeezed. "A family."
"Yeah. If that's something you want too."
She answered by kissing him, slow and deep, her fingers threading through his short hair. The patch stayed pressed between them until she pulled back enough to tuck it carefully into her jacket pocket. "Show me the house later. Right now I want to go inside and celebrate in private."
Jackson stood and offered his hand. She took it, and they walked back through the garden without drawing attention from the others.
The hallway inside the clubhouse was quieter, lined with closed doors and the low thump of music from outside.
Jackson led her to his room and unlocked the door with one hand while the other stayed at her waist. The space was simple, a bed, a dresser, a desk covered in maps and notes from the investigation that had finally ended.
He kicked the door shut behind them and turned the lock.
Larkin faced him in the middle of the room.
The light from the single lamp on the nightstand caught the edges of her glasses and the curve of her mouth.
Jackson stepped close and ran his hands down her arms, feeling the tension that still lived in her muscles even after the danger had passed.
He slid the leather jacket from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
The old lady patch stayed safe inside the pocket.
"You fought beside me when most people would have run," he said. His voice stayed low. "You trusted me with your life out there on that roof. I won't forget that."
She reached up and traced the scar above his eye, the one that had formed after Hawk's final punch. "I trust you with more than my life now. I trust you with my future."
Jackson kissed her again, harder this time, and she met him with equal force.
Their hands moved in practiced rhythm, removing barriers of clothing until skin met skin.
He backed her toward the bed and lowered her onto the mattress, following her down without breaking the kiss.
His body covered hers, one knee nudging her legs apart.
The weight of him pressed her into the sheets, and she arched up to meet every point of contact.
He took his time exploring the places he already knew by heart.
His mouth moved along her throat, careful around the fading bruise, then lower to the curve of her breast. Larkin made a soft sound and threaded her fingers through his hair, guiding him where she wanted him.
Jackson responded with a low rumble in his chest and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking gently until she gasped.
His hand traveled down her stomach, and she arched her pelvis upward with a soft, needy whimper, pressing herself directly into his palm as his fingers found her already slick and burning for him.
He slid two fingers inside her and worked them slowly, learning the rhythm that made her hips lift off the bed.
"Jackson," she breathed. The name came out half plea, half command.
He answered by adding his thumb against her clit, circling with steady pressure while his fingers curled inside her.
Her thighs trembled around his wrist, and he felt her getting closer.
He pulled his hand away before she could tip over the edge, and she let out a frustrated sound that made him smile against her skin.
"Not yet," he said. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
Larkin reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his length.
She stroked him once, twice, her grip firm and sure.
Jackson groaned and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
The sensation threatened to undo him too quickly.
He caught her wrist and pulled her hand away, then positioned himself at her entrance.
He pushed inside with one long, deliberate thrust, filling her completely.
They both stilled for a moment, adjusting to the connection, the heat, the perfect fit.
When he began to move, he kept the pace measured.
Each withdrawal was slow, each return deep and controlled.
Larkin's legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
Her nails dug into his back, leaving marks he would wear with pride.
Jackson braced himself on one forearm and used his free hand to pin her wrists above her head.
The position gave him leverage and control, and she surrendered to it with a soft moan that went straight to his spine.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes. The green was darker now, clouded with need.
He held her gaze while he drove into her harder, faster, finding the angle that made her breath catch every time.
The bed creaked beneath them. Sweat slicked their skin.
Larkin met every thrust, her body rising to match his rhythm until the tension coiled too tight to hold.
She came with a broken cry, her inner walls pulsing around him in rhythmic waves.
Jackson followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt as release crashed through him.
He stayed inside her through the aftershocks, his breath ragged against her neck.
Minutes passed before he rolled to the side and pulled her against his chest. Her head rested over his heart, and her fingers traced idle patterns across his ribs.
The room smelled of sex, the sharp tang of leather mixing with the faint trace of her shampoo.
Jackson ran his hand up and down her back in slow strokes until her breathing evened out.
"The promotion came through this morning," he said quietly. "Sinner wants me running the security side of the operation full time. No more midnight raids unless something goes seriously wrong. The club is turning the protection work into a legit business. Contracts, insurance, the whole thing."
Larkin lifted her head to look at him. "That's huge. You built that."
"We built it. The whole club. And your articles helped. People trust us now because you showed them what we actually do instead of what the old rumors said."
She smiled and settled back against him. "The paper offered me a permanent column. Weekly. I can write about whatever I want as long as I keep digging into the stories that matter. They want the first piece to be about the theft ring and how it ended."
"You going to write it?"
"Only if you're okay with it. I won't put the club at risk for a headline."
Jackson pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Write what needs to be written. The truth is on our side this time."
They lay together in the quiet that followed, listening to the distant sounds of the party still going on outside.
The old lady patch rested on the nightstand beside the lamp, a small square of leather that carried more weight than most people would understand.
Jackson felt the steady rise and fall of Larkin's breathing and realized the peace settling over him was real.
It wasn't the absence of danger. It was the presence of someone who chose to stand with him anyway.
Larkin shifted and propped her chin on his chest. "I love you, Jackson Reed. In case that wasn't clear before."
He touched her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "I love you too, darlin'. More than I ever planned to."
She kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then tucked herself back into the curve of his arm.
The celebration outside would continue for hours, but inside this room the future stretched out ahead of them with the promise of steady ground beneath their feet.
The house waited two blocks away. The patch waited on the nightstand.
And the woman who had walked into his world with a notebook and questions now held the center of everything that mattered.
Jackson closed his eyes and let the quiet fill the spaces where violence had lived for too long.