Chapter 14 Penelope
Penelope
The bliss of the night before felt like a dream, but it’s a fragile one, incapable of smothering the ever-present stress of Judge’s goal to reclaim his hometown.
The clubhouse has returned to its familiar, chaotic rhythm.
On one side of the room, prospects are admiring their new patches, their voices loud with celebration.
Nearby, Warden is healing, with Leah keeping him company in a quiet, sweet moment that feels separate from the noise.
I drift back to my favorite spot at the bar, content just to watch it all play out.
“Seriously, this is junk,” Hex scowls at Ghost’s laptop, looking like she wants to launch it across the room. “Though I have to admit, it’s impressive how far you’ve gotten on such poor equipment.” The insult and compliment, delivered in the same breath, earn her a scowl from Ghost.
While their bickering continues, my gaze shifts to the man with the wicked scar. He doesn’t flinch under Judge’s orders; instead, he questions every decision, challenging how things were run in Crimson Road. He still hasn’t given his name, still sore about Crimson Road’s downfall.
For a couple of days, these two ex-members have lingered among us, a tense yet mostly cooperative presence.
A taste of peace has returned, yet I see Raven can’t shake Jinx. He shadows her constantly, a persistent thorn in her eyes.
Judge and Ripper are always coming and going, managing the turbulent changes in town, and the whole world feels like one big, complicated mess.
In the midst of it, I find a little silver lining to the situation.
Haven is suffering, too, waiting for the love of her life to return.
Our shared loss draws us closer, and I’m realizing she’s becoming the best friend I never knew I needed.
Even when Trouble joins us, the siblings seamlessly include me, their company a temporary balm for the emptiness that lingers just beneath my skin.
But then, night falls.
The real loneliness starts to creep in, a physical ache seeping into my bones.
And just as it threatens to consume me, he always appears.
Judge flies back to the clubhouse as if he felt it from miles away, not letting a single club member delay him.
His presence is a tide that washes everything else away.
Once the dust settles, he’s promised to move me into his apartment. For now, we’ve made this borrowed room our own sanctuary. There’s a profound peace in falling asleep curled up alone, only to be gently pulled from dreams by the safe, solid weight of his arms curling around me in the dark.
I’m floating in that warm, weightless space between sleep and waking, the scent of Judge on the pillow the only thing that feels real, when a familiar creak from the hallway snags my consciousness.
It’s the third board from the door, the one that protests under the weight of his boot.
A slow, secret smile touches my lips in the darkness.
He’s here.
I crack my eyes open to nothing but shapeless shadows, the clubhouse silent beyond our door.
A little squirm works through me under the thick blanket, the soft, worn cotton of his shirt whispering against my skin.
I’m swimming in the fabric, the collar slipping off one shoulder.
I already know, with certainty, that he’s going to like what he discovers.
The door handle turns without a sound, a sliver of dim hallway light cutting across the floor before it’s swallowed again as he enters and closes the world out. His shape is a massive, moving darkness, more felt than seen.
The rustle of his cut is the first sound, placed with a soft thud against the ground. Then the heavier sound of his boots, one after the other, dropped carelessly. The quiet rip of his belt through the loops, the soft thump of his jeans following.
I can’t help but hold my breath and squirm. I love it when he tries to stay quiet, all to keep me from waking. Such care from a brute is addicting.
The mattress dips profoundly under his weight, a sigh of springs I’ve come to associate with home.
His body radiates a heat that cuts through the cool room air, and I can’t suppress a slight shiver as he settles.
His hand finds my hip first, a large, possessive palm squeeze to make me aware of his presence.
A slow, exploring stroke up my side stills as his fingers encounter not the thin strap of a nightgown or the bare skin he might have expected, but the distinct, thick ribbing of a crewneck t-shirt. His shirt.
His hand stills completely. I feel him shift, his head bending closer in the blackness, and then his breath hitches as he breathes me in. The scent of his soap on my skin, his laundry detergent on the cotton, and underneath it all, just… me.
A low, rough groan rumbles from his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction. When I giggle, he doesn’t hold back from breathing me in deeply.
“Pen,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.
His nose brushes the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and his arms band around me, pulling me flush against the solid wall of his chest. I melt into the hold, every tense muscle finally going liquid.
“Tomorrow,” he promises into my hair, the word a vow.
“I’m yours. No runs. No trips out of town. I’m taking the day off.”
The words are a gift I hadn’t dared to hope for.
A whole day. So much time with him, without the club as a looming shadow.
Excitement bubbles up, a fizzy, effervescent feeling that makes it impossible to lie still.
I wiggle in his grasp, turning in his arms until I can press my face into the strong column of his throat, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, night air, and him.
“Yeah?” I whisper against his skin, my heart hammering. I tilt my head back, trying to see his face in the gloom. “Can we… go out then? Just… you and me?” I take a small, nervous breath. “Maybe have a… first date… kind of thing?”
My crush has carried along so many first date fantasies.
The silence that follows is thick, but not tense.
I feel the shift in his muscles, the way his chest expands against mine with a deep, considering breath.
Then, that same rumbling sound, this time laced with clear, deep satisfaction, echoes from his throat.
“A date,” he repeats, as if tasting the word.
His hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. “Yeah, angel. We can have a date.”
His agreement is all the permission my excitement needs. I nod vigorously, my cheek rubbing against the ends of his beard. “Good,” is all I can manage to say, the word muffled by his skin.
He chuckles, and his hold tightens. One hand slides down from my hair, his palm skating over the cotton covering my shoulder, down the curve of my arm, coming to rest on the small of my back, pressing me even closer until not a sliver of space remains between us.
In here, there is only his heat, his scent, the steady, thunderous beat of his heart under my ear, and the slow trace of his hand against my body, memorizing something he has told me countless times is his.
As his lips find mine in the comforting darkness, the promise of tomorrow already feels like it’s begun.
Tonight’s dreams are going to be full of what-ifs when it comes to making up my mind of where to go. As long as I’m with him, I’m happy to go anywhere.
* * *
Epilogue
The late summer air is thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and a blanket of surrounding pine needles that settles over the clubhouse grounds.
I sway gently in the hammock, a slow, pendulum rhythm that matches the beat of my own contented heart.
Thanks to Eliza, she’s convinced Ghost to order a few of these to sunbathe.
The men here don’t have any issue with their women laying out to warm their skin. No doubt about that.
The ropes creak a soft, familiar song, a sound that has become the soundtrack to my peace.
Above me, the sky is a deep, endless blue, but my gaze isn’t fixed on the heavens.
It’s on my hand, held up against that clear canvas, where a band of platinum and diamond catches the light, fracturing it into a dozen tiny rainbows.
Penelope Foster.
The name still rings in my soul, a quiet, joyous chime. After all those years of being dead to the world, of erasing the girl I was, Hex’s deft fingers in the digital world didn’t just forge me a fake identity. She helped Judge make a marriage certificate possible.
A burst of laughter pulls my attention from the sparkle on my finger. My head lolls to the side, my cheek pressing against the woven rope, and I take in the view. There, in the heart of the garage, surrounded by gleaming chrome and the guts of a half-reassembled Harley, is my husband.
My husband.
The word is a warm stone in my chest, radiating heat through my entire body.
We’ve been back from our honeymoon for less than a week—two stolen weeks in a cabin on the other side of the state with no address and no noise except for the wind in the pines and the sound of our own breathing.
Judge, true to form, slid back into his role as President like he’d never left, but today feels different.
He’s not presiding over a table laden with maps and tensions.
He’s just one of the guys, a grease stain on his jeans and a wrench in his hand, holding court while they work.
He’s telling them about our trip. I can’t hear the specifics from here, but I see the broad, animated gestures as he describes the lake we found, the sheer face of the mountain behind our cabin.
Ripper’s cocky, making sure to remind everyone that it was his idea. From Judge’s eyeroll, I can only imagine what he’s thinking.
I roll the ring around my finger, the metal cool against my skin. I’m content to just watch him, to trace the familiar lines of his broad back, the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the intense focus on his face even when he’s just telling a story.
A soft hum vibrates in my throat, a tuneless melody of pure happiness. I let my eyes fall shut, soaking in the sun, the sounds of tree branches swaying. Everything feels right as it should be. If I stay like this, I’ll fall asleep in a matter of minutes and risk more than a simple tan.
Breathing in deeply, a new scent hits me up close. Motor oil.
The talking has stopped. I blink my eyes open, the world swimming back into focus, and find the reason for the sudden silence. He’s right here.
Judge stands over me, his frame blocking the sun, casting me in a welcome, protective shadow.
He’s wiping his hands meticulously on a dark rag, but his eyes aren’t on the grease.
They’re drinking me in, tracing the line of my leg draped over the side of the hammock, the way my hair fans out beneath me, the surely silly, lovesick smile I can’t seem to wipe off my face.
“Hey, you,” he rumbles, his voice a low thrum that I feel more than hear. “You just gonna lie there all day, looking like a dream?”
“I was planning on it,” I sigh, stretching lazily, making the hammock sway more violently. “The view is so much better from here.”
He knows I’m not talking about the sky. A small, hesitant smile plays on his lips. He’s a President, a force of nature, but at this moment, he’s just a man who wants to be near his wife. He glances back at the bike, then at me, the conflict endearing.
“You got room for me in there, then?” he asks, nodding toward the precarious nest of rope and me.
I laugh, the sound easy and light. “Absolutely not. This hammock and I have a very understanding relationship. It holds me, and I don’t test its limits. You are the very definition of a limit.”
“Worth a shot,” he grins, that cheeky, boyish grin that undoes me every time. He makes a show of leaning in, one hand coming down on the rope near my hip, pretending to try and climb in. The hammock jerks, and I let out a half-genuine, half-theatrical shriek, clutching the sides.
“Judge!”
He just laughs, pulling back before we both end up in a heap on the grass. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, full of mischief and adoration. He reaches out, his now-clean hand brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
“A kiss, then,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, taking on that intimate tone that is for me and me alone. “To hold me together while we’re apart. It’s only ten feet, but it feels like a mile.”
My heart swells, so full I think it might burst. “I suppose I can manage that.”
I tilt my face up, expecting a brief kiss, but his hand cups my jaw, and the kiss deepens. It’s a slow, reaffirming moment of belonging, with the world fading away into only his touch, the scent of motor oil, and summer.
Maybe I should try to let him join me on this deathtrap.
He is the one who pulls away, but only just, his lips hovering a breath from mine.
His expression is more cheeky than usual, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He knows exactly what that does to me. He knows the power he has to liquefy my bones and steal my breath with a single look, a single touch.
“I definitely needed that,” he whispers, his voice rough at the edges.
He straightens up, throwing the rag over his shoulder, and winks at me before turning back to his bike and his brothers.
I watch him go, my lips still tingling, my body humming with a happiness so profound it feels like a new form of gravity.
I let my hand fall back to my chest, the ring resting just over my steady, joyful heart.
He is my chaos, my sanctuary, my impossible, beautiful dream turned into reality. And this—this perfect, sunlit peace—is my forever.