Chapter 7 — Diesel #3
Knox moves to the building with more accelerant and within minutes flames are eating through the structure, climbing walls, consuming the roof. The whole building is going to be ash by morning.
The two prospects are still zip-tied against the wall inside. We cut them loose and shove them outside into the gravel lot.
"Tell Crane we sent a message," Clint says, and his voice is flat and final.
"Tell him Vigil doesn't accept threats to our people.
Tell him Dutch is finished and anyone else who comes at us the same way gets the same treatment or worse.
Tell him his daughter chose us and she's not going back. Tell him all of it."
The prospects run. Literally run toward their truck, hands fumbling with keys, and they peel out spraying gravel, gone into the night to deliver exactly the message Clint wants delivered.
Dutch is still inside, still slumped against the wall where I left him. Breathing but barely. Face destroyed. Ribs broken. The fire is spreading toward where he is but slowly enough that he'll have time to drag himself out if he wants to survive.
"Leave him," Clint says. "Fire department will find him when they respond. He'll live but he'll remember every second of what happened here tonight."
We head back to the trucks. The warehouse is fully engulfed now, flames visible for miles, and I can already hear sirens in the distance. Fire department first, then probably sheriff.
We'll be long gone by the time anyone arrives.
The drive back is quieter than the drive out. Tate focuses on driving, hands steady on the wheel. Clint's on the radio with the second truck confirming everyone's clear, no injuries, mission accomplished.
I sit in the passenger seat with my hands covered in Dutch's blood, my knuckles split and still bleeding, my jaw swelling where he caught me, my ribs aching from the hit I took, and all I can think about is getting back to Sienna.
I need to see her.
Need to tell her I'm okay.
Need to tell her it's done.
We pull into the clubhouse yard at twenty-three-forty and brothers who stayed behind are waiting, gathered like they knew the exact moment we'd return.
Clint exits first and gives brief status. "Everyone accounted for. Target handled. Message sent. Product destroyed. Warehouse burned."
I head for the clubhouse door without waiting for full debrief.
She's standing at the top of the stairs.
Like she was waiting. Like she knew the exact moment I'd be back.
Our eyes meet across the common room and she doesn't look scared or shocked by the blood covering my hands, my shirt, my face. She doesn't flinch.
She just looks relieved.
She comes down the stairs fast and crosses to me and stops, eyes tracking over the blood on my hands, my vest, the split skin on my knuckles, the swelling spreading across my jaw.
"You're hurt," she says.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"Most of it's not mine."
She reaches up and touches my jaw gently, and I wince despite trying not to.
"Come on," she says, and her hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me toward the stairs.
I follow her up and into her room and she closes the door. Points to the bed.
"Sit."
I sit.
She goes into the bathroom and I hear water running. She comes back with a wet cloth and the first aid kit and kneels in front of me between my legs.
Her hands take mine and she starts cleaning the blood off, gentle and methodical, and I watch her face while she works. She's not disgusted. Not scared. Just focused.
I'm very aware of her positioned between my thighs, of the soft curves of her body visible even in the plain shirt and jeans she's wearing, of the way her breasts move slightly when she reaches for the cloth again, of her thick thighs where she's kneeling.
My body responds despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, and I have to force myself to focus on something else.
"Is he dead?" she asks quietly without looking up.
"No. But he's finished. Broken ribs, shattered orbital bone, broken nose, fractured cheekbone. Won't be a problem for months."
"Good."
She finishes my hands and moves to my face, dabbing at the split skin on my cheekbone. Her touch is gentle and I'm close enough to see the exact color of her eyes, close enough to smell whatever soap she used earlier.
"You really okay?" she asks, and I can hear worry underneath the calm.
"Yeah. Tate pulled me off before I went too far. Got intel from Dutch. Crane's done being strategic. He wants Vigil destroyed now."
She's quiet for a moment, still cleaning blood from my face.
"My father doesn't know how to lose," she says. "When something's taken from him, he doesn't stop until he's taken something back."
"Then he's going to fail. You're not his anymore."
"He doesn't see it that way."
"Don't care how he sees it. You're mine if you want to be. And I'm not giving you back."
She sets the cloth down and her hands come up to cup my face, careful of the swelling.
She leans in and kisses me gently, avoiding the swollen parts. It's softer than the other kisses we've shared.
I pull her up onto my lap and she straddles me, settling her weight on my thighs, and we kiss like that. Not desperate or rough. Just slow and real.
When we break apart she rests her forehead against mine.
"I was terrified the whole time," she says quietly. "That you wouldn't come back."
"I came back."
"I know. But I realized if you didn't, I would never get to—" She stops.
"Get to what?"
She pulls back to look at me.
"Tell you I love you," she says.
The words hit me hard, settle in my chest and stay there.
"I love you too," I say, and the words come out rough but they come out. "Never said that to anyone before. But I love you and I'm keeping you."
She kisses me again and this time there are tears on her cheeks and I taste salt.
Eventually she helps me out of the tactical gear. The vest comes off first. Then the shirt that's stiff with blood. She's gentle with the bruise forming on my ribs.
"Come to bed," she says.
We get under the covers and she curls against my side, head on my chest, hand over my heart. We don't have sex. Just lie there together.
I'm aware of her body pressed against mine, of her breathing, of the weight of her that's real and substantial.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now we deal with your father. Figure out how to protect you and the club."
"And us?"
"Us is permanent."
She's quiet and then says, "For the first time I don't want to think three moves ahead. I just want to be here."
"Then just be here."
Her hand tightens over my heart and eventually she falls asleep like that.
I stay awake longer, feeling her weight, her breathing, and I think about Dutch's destroyed face and the satisfaction I felt and the fact that Sienna accepts what I did without asking me to be different.
The club has been enough for fourteen years. My whole world.
But now I need her too.
Need to see her face when I come back. Need to hear her voice. Need to feel her against me like this.
The club is still what I am.
But she's mine now too.
And I'm keeping both.
Tomorrow we deal with Crane. Tomorrow we figure out protection and strategy and what comes next.
Tonight she's here. Breathing. Safe.
That's enough.
I close my eyes and let myself sleep.