Chapter Thirteen
Nadine was waiting when he walked through the door.
Pitfall had stayed behind at the shop after dropping her at the compound, helping the brothers finish cleanup, dealing with the bodies and the prisoners and the thousand details that came after violence.
She'd wanted to stay with him, but Grit had pulled rank—civilians to the compound, patched members handle the rest.
So she'd come back alone. Showered. Changed into clean clothes. And then stood at her window for two hours, watching the road, waiting for the rumble of his bike.
When she finally heard it, something in her chest unlocked.
She was at the door before he'd even cut the engine.
He looked like war. Smoke still clung to his clothes, mixing with the copper tang of blood that wasn't his. His knuckles were torn, raw from fighting. And his eyes—his eyes still carried the edge of combat, that feral sharpness that hadn't faded despite the hours since the last shot was fired.
"Nadine." Her name came out rough, scraped from somewhere deep.
She didn't say anything. Just grabbed his cut, hauled him inside, and kicked the door closed behind them.
The kiss was nothing like their first.
That had been soft at the start, careful, two people finding their way to something new. This was a collision. She pushed him against the wall, and he let her, his hands finding her hips with bruising force while his mouth devoured hers.
He tasted like smoke and adrenaline and the desperate need to be alive.
"Nadine—" He tried to pull back, tried to check on her, tried to be the careful man he thought she needed.
"No." She fisted her hands in his shirt, yanked him back down. "Don't think. Don't check on me. Just—"
She couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
He understood.
His hands were rough when they stripped her shirt over her head, rougher than he'd ever been with her, and she wanted it exactly like that. Wanted to feel the urgency, the desperation, the physical proof that they'd both survived and this was real.
"I watched you shoot that man." His voice was gravel against her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse point. "Watched you take him down without flinching."
"He was going to hurt you."
"He was going to try." His hands found bare skin, palms hot and demanding. "You didn't let him."
"I won't let anyone hurt you." She meant it like a vow. "Ever."
The sound he made was almost pained. His control was fraying, she could feel it—the leash he kept on himself straining against everything he was holding back.
"Let go," she said. "I won't break."
"You don't know what I—"
"Yes, I do." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, letting him see the certainty in hers.
"I saw you tonight. All of it. The violence, the killing, everything.
" She pressed her palm flat against his chest, felt his heart hammering.
"I'm still here. I'm still yours. Now stop treating me like I'm fragile and show me I'm alive. "
Something snapped behind his eyes.
He spun them, reversing their positions, her back hitting the wall hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs. His mouth crashed into hers, and this time there was nothing careful about it. Nothing gentle. Just hunger and heat and the fierce need to claim.
"Mine." The word vibrated against her lips. "You're mine."
"Prove it."
They didn't make it to the bed.
He lifted her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist, his hands supporting her with a strength that made her dizzy. Clothes came off in torn pieces and impatient yanks, scattered across the floor in a trail neither of them bothered to track.
Nadine had never felt anything like this—the raw intensity, the absolute focus of his attention, the way he held her like she was the only solid thing in a world that had tried to tear them apart.
"You could have died tonight." His forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged. "If they'd gotten past us—if I hadn't been fast enough—"
"But you were." She grabbed his face, forced him to look at her. "You were fast enough. You were strong enough. We won."
"This time."
"Every time." She kissed him, hard and demanding. "Because I won't let you fight alone anymore. I'm not a civilian hiding in the back room. I'm yours, and that means I fight with you."
His whole body shuddered at her words.
"Nadine—"
"Vernon." She used his real name deliberately, watched his eyes darken at the sound. "Stop talking."
He stopped talking.
The wall gave way to the floor, then the edge of the bed, then the mattress itself.
Every surface became a battlefield, and Nadine fought to match him—meet his intensity, his desperation, his consuming need. She wasn't passive, wasn't yielding. When he pushed, she pushed back. When he claimed, she claimed in return.
Her nails raked down his back. His teeth found her shoulder. They marked each other in the language of survival, writing possession across skin that still trembled from the nearness of death.
"I can still hear the gunshots." His confession came between ragged breaths, his body moving against hers in waves. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that guy coming through the door. Swinging toward you."
"I handled it."
"I know." His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, exposing her throat. "That's what terrifies me. You were magnificent, and all I could think was—if you'd missed. If he'd been faster."
"He wasn't."
"He could have been."
She surged up, flipping them, pinning him beneath her with a strength born of adrenaline and fury. He let her—let her take control, let her prove that she was every bit as fierce as he was.
"Look at me." She pressed her hands flat against his chest, felt his heart pounding under her palms. "I'm here. Alive. Not going anywhere."
"Swear it."
"I swear." She leaned down, kissed him with everything she had. "Now stop thinking about what could have happened and focus on what's happening right now."
He surged up to meet her, and for a long time, neither of them thought about anything at all.
The crash came after.
Nadine lay sprawled across him, both of them breathing hard, sweat cooling on tangled limbs. The adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving something softer in its wake—a bone-deep exhaustion mixed with the sweet ache of satisfaction.
"I could have lost you tonight." Her voice came out quieter than she'd intended. "When you went after Hammond. When you disappeared into the dark."
"You didn't."
"But I could have." She lifted her head, looked at him. In the aftermath, he looked younger again. Vulnerable. The warrior stripped away to reveal the man underneath. "Every time you walk into danger, I could lose you. How am I supposed to live with that?"
"The same way I do." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch infinitely gentle now. "You accept that the risk is part of the deal. Then you fight like hell to make sure the risk doesn't win."
"That's not exactly comforting."
"It's not meant to be." His jaw tightened. "I could lie. Tell you it gets easier, that the fear fades. But it doesn't. You just learn to carry it."
She settled back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
"The shop can be rebuilt." The words came easier than she'd expected. "The inventory replaced. Mabel will weave more baskets. Clara will throw more pots. Douglas will carve more sticks."
"I know."
"None of it matters more than this." She pressed her palm over his heart. "Than you coming home. You understand that, right? All that work, all those crafts—they're just things. You're not."
His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer.
"This thing between us," he said slowly. "It's not temporary. You get that, right? I'm not just—this isn't a wartime thing that burns out when the danger's over."
"I know."
"I'm not letting go." His voice hardened with certainty. "Of you, of this, of whatever we're building. When Maggard's dead and the shop's back to normal and life goes back to something like peace—I'm still going to be here. Still going to be yours."
Nadine lifted her head again, met his eyes. Saw the truth there, raw and unguarded.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not letting go either."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He kissed her forehead, soft and lingering.
"We should sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow's going to be long."
"I know." She didn't move. Couldn't. The weight of his arm across her back, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it was the only anchor she needed. "Just... hold me a little longer first."
"I'll hold you all night."
"That works too."
His chest rumbled with something that might have been a laugh. His hand traced lazy patterns on her spine, soothing them both down from the heights they'd reached.
Outside, the compound had gone quiet. The chaos of the night had settled into the particular silence that came after battle—exhausted, watchful, grateful to have survived. Tomorrow there would be work. Repairs to make, plans to finalize, a war to win.
But right now, there was only this. Two people who'd chosen each other in the middle of violence, holding on with everything they had.
"Vernon?"
"Yeah?"
"I believe you." She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "When you say you're not letting go. I believe you completely."
His arm tightened, and she felt him exhale—a long, slow release of tension she hadn't realized he'd been carrying.
"Good," he said. "Because I meant every word."
She believed him.
Completely.