Epilogue — Natalie
Three Years Later
I hear the bike before I see him pull into the driveway.
It's after ten. Later than he said, but club business doesn't run on schedules. I learned that the first month.
I'm at the kitchen table with my laptop, reconciling accounts for the hardware store on Main, when the front door opens.
"Kitchen," I call out.
He appears in the doorway. I look up.
Blood on his right hand. Split knuckles, two of them, still seeping.
"Sully?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"He win?"
"No."
I close the laptop and stand. "Bathroom."
He doesn't argue. Just turns and walks down the hallway. I follow.
Same bathroom where I treated his knife wound three years ago. Same mirror. Same folded towel with corners that look measured. The first aid kit is still in the cabinet under the sink, still organized like someone's preparing for combat.
What's different is my makeup bag sitting next to his shaving kit. My hair ties in the dish by the faucet. The fact that I don't have to ask where anything is anymore because this is ours.
He sits on the toilet lid. I pull out hydrogen peroxide and gauze.
"Hold out your hand."
He does. I turn it to see the damage in better light. Clean splits, no debris. Just impact damage.
"Sully's face worse?" I ask.
"Definitely."
"Good."
I pour hydrogen peroxide over the knuckles without warning. He doesn't flinch. Just watches me work like he's been doing for three years.
The ring on my left hand catches the light when I reach for gauze. He notices. I see his mouth curve slightly.
"Still wearing it," he says.
"You only asked me four months ago."
"Asked you in this bathroom."
"I remember. I was putting the kit away."
"You said yes before I finished."
"You were taking too long."
He almost smiles. Actual smile, not just the curve. Rare enough that I notice.
I start cleaning the wounds. His hand is rough against mine, scarred in places I know by heart now. The burn on his palm from Ray's shop. The knife scar across his thumb from two years ago. The crooked pinky that didn't set right when he was sixteen.
"You're thinking something," he says.
"I'm always thinking something."
"About?"
"About how the first time I did this, I didn't know your last name. Didn't know what the club was. Didn't know you were going to ask me to stay."
"You stayed anyway."
"I did."
"Regret it?"
I look up. He's watching me with that steady attention that used to make me nervous and now just makes me want to climb into his lap.
"Do I look like I regret it?"
"No."
"Then why ask?"
"Wanted to hear you say it."
"No regrets. None. Not one." I go back to his hand. "Even when you come home bleeding because Sully can't keep his mouth shut."
"He called Ray a has-been."
My hands still. "What?"
"At church. Said Ray should retire instead of taking up space in his shop. Said it where I could hear it."
Ray is sixty-six now. Still runs the bike shop. Still doesn't ask questions. Still the only person outside the club Tate spends time with voluntarily.
"How bad did you hit him?" I ask.
"Not as bad as I wanted to."
"Clint stop you?"
"Didn't need to. I stopped myself." He pauses. "You would've been pissed if I'd broken his jaw."
"Probably."
"Definitely."
I finish cleaning, start wrapping. "You're learning."
"What?"
"Impulse control."
"Had it before."
"You have more of it now."
"Because of you."
"Because of you deciding I matter more than Sully's face."
"You do."
Simple. Direct. The way he says everything that matters.
I tape the gauze down, then don't let go of his hand. Just hold it. Look at the bandaging I just did and the bandaging I did three years ago in this same bathroom when I didn't know him at all and wanted him anyway.
"What do you want?" he asks.
The question. Our question. The one he asked me on the first night when I didn't have an answer.
I look at him. "Right now?"
"Right now."
"You. Here. No waiting."
Something in his eyes goes dark. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Thought you wanted me to keep still while the bandage sets."
"Changed my mind."
"You do that a lot now."
"I do. Problem?"
"No."
He stands. The movement brings him close enough that I have to tilt my head back.
"You sure?" he asks.
I reach for his belt. "Stop asking me that."
His uninjured hand fists in my hair. "Good answer."
We don't make it to the bedroom. Don't make it past the counter.
His hands are rough. His mouth is rougher. The bandaged hand grips my hip hard enough I'll have marks tomorrow and I don't care. Want them. Want the evidence.
Three years and he still doesn't do gentle. I still don't want him to.
Later, in bed, his bandaged hand is on my stomach. His other hand traces the curve of my hip.
"You didn't finish wrapping it," I say.
"We'll deal with it tomorrow."
"It's going to hurt."
"Worth it."
I trace the scar on his ribs. The knife wound from the first day. Silvered now, barely visible, but I know exactly where it is.
"Ray okay?" I ask.
"Called him after church. He's fine. Didn't even know Sully said it."
"You going to tell him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Ray doesn't need to know Sully's an asshole and I don't need Ray thinking I can't handle my own shit."
Fair.
"Perry asked about you today," he says.
"What'd he say?"
"Asked if you're still doing his books."
Perry's hand healed enough to work but not enough for fine detail. He does simple mechanical work now. I handle his taxes and quarterly filings because the club keeps its legitimate business legitimate.
"What'd you tell him?"
"That you're handling it."
"I am."
"I know."
We lie there. Quiet. Comfortable.
"Natalie?"
"Yeah?"
"You happy?"
The question surprises me. He doesn't usually ask things he can already see the answer to.
"Why are you asking?"
"Because three years ago you didn't know what you wanted and I want to make sure you still want this."
I shift so I can see his face. "I want this."
"You sure?"
"I run my own business. Make my own hours. Take clients I choose. Live in a house I picked. Sleep next to someone who asks me what I want instead of telling me what I should want. Yeah, I'm sure."
"Good."
"Are you happy?" I ask.
He's quiet for a moment. "Danny died doing what he was told. I spent eight years making sure I never did that. Built a whole life around not needing anything so I wouldn't have to want something and risk it not being enough."
I wait.
"Then you showed up in a wedding dress and I wanted you anyway. Wanted you enough to risk it. Still want you. Still risk it every day."
"That didn't answer my question."
"Yeah. I'm happy."
I put my head back on his chest. His arm comes around me.
Outside, Bloomfield is quiet. The club is three miles away. Tomorrow I have client meetings and he has Ray's shop and we'll both come home to this.
"Tate?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time Sully runs his mouth about Ray, break his jaw."
"Thought you'd be pissed."
"I changed my mind about that too."
His chest moves with silent laughter. "Noted."
I close my eyes.
Three years ago I left a wedding because I didn't know who I was.
Now I know.
I'm the woman who treats his wounds and builds her own business and says yes when she means it and no when she doesn't.
I'm the woman who chose him and keeps choosing him.
Every single day.
And he keeps choosing me back.
That's all I wanted to know.
Thank you for reading!