Chapter Twenty-Two
The common room had never looked like this.
Pitfall stood at the entrance, watching brothers and old ladies arrange themselves in formations that spoke of tradition older than any of them. Candles lined the walls—actual candles, the kind you saw in churches and funerals and moments that mattered beyond the everyday.
Tonight mattered.
"You ready?" Grit appeared at his shoulder, his expression carrying something that might have been warmth if you knew how to look for it.
"Been ready for weeks."
"Not what I asked." Grit's eyes searched his face. "Claiming ceremony's not just about her accepting your patch. It's about you accepting responsibility. For her safety. Her happiness. Her place in this world."
"I know."
"Do you?" Grit's voice dropped. "Because once this happens, there's no going back. She's yours, but you're hers too. Every choice you make affects her. Every risk you take, she carries."
"I know," Pitfall repeated, and this time he let Grit see the certainty in his eyes. "I've known since the night I pulled her out of that parking lot. Maybe before that, even. She's mine, and I'm hers, and the ceremony is just making official what's already true."
Grit studied him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Good answer." He clapped Pitfall's shoulder. "Let's do this."
The ceremony began with silence.
Pitfall walked through the parted crowd, past brothers who'd become family and women who'd welcomed Nadine as one of their own.
At the front of the room, Reaper waited beside a small table bearing Pitfall's cut and something else—a leather jacket, smaller, feminine, with a single patch already sewn onto the back.
Property of Pitfall .
The words sent a surge of fierce possessiveness through his chest. His. She was going to be officially, permanently, publicly his.
Nadine entered from the opposite door, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
She wore a simple dress—dark blue, the color of mountain twilight—and her hair was loose around her shoulders. No makeup, no jewelry except the ring he'd given her. She didn't need any of it. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
But it wasn't her beauty that made his heart stop. It was the guests walking behind her.
Mabel Hensley, moving slowly but straight-backed, her gnarled hands carrying a basket she'd woven in the compound workshop.
Douglas Fenton, leaning on a walking stick he'd carved himself, his eyes bright with emotion.
Clara Osborne, clutching a small pottery piece like it was precious.
Half a dozen others—artisans Nadine had fought for, people who'd trusted her with their life's work.
They'd come to watch her be claimed. To witness the moment their protector became protected herself.
Pitfall had to swallow twice before he could speak.
"Who brings this woman?" Reaper's voice carried through the silence.
"We do." Mabel's voice was stronger than her body. "The people she's fought for. The traditions she's preserved. We bring her to the man who's worthy of her."
The brotherhood murmured approval. This wasn't standard—usually a family member or friend performed this role—but nothing about Nadine was standard.
She walked forward, past the artisans who'd raised her to this moment, until she stood before Pitfall with nothing between them but air and anticipation.
"Nadine Combs." Reaper's voice was formal now, carrying the weight of ritual. "You come before this brotherhood seeking to bind yourself to one of our own. Do you understand what this means?"
"I do."
"You will wear his patch. Share his life. Stand by him through violence and peace, through hardship and joy. His enemies become yours. His family becomes yours. His world becomes yours."
"I understand."
"And you accept this freely? Without reservation or regret?"
Nadine's eyes met Pitfall's, and what he saw there nearly broke him open.
"Without reservation," she said. "Without regret. He's mine, and I'm his, and nothing in this world is going to change that."
Reaper turned to Pitfall. "Brother. You claim this woman before your club. You take responsibility for her safety, her happiness, her place among us. Do you accept this burden?"
"It's not a burden." Pitfall's voice came out rough. "It's an honor."
"Then claim her."
Pitfall lifted the jacket from the table, held it open. Nadine turned, presenting her back, and he slid the leather over her shoulders. The weight of it settled against her like a promise.
Property of Pitfall .
The room erupted.
Brothers howled, stomped, raised bottles in salute. Old ladies cheered, pulling Nadine into embraces the moment Pitfall released her. The artisans—elderly hands that had woven baskets and thrown pottery for generations—raised their glasses alongside hands that swung hammers and pulled triggers.
Two worlds, united in celebration.
Pitfall pulled Nadine back into his arms, kissed her in front of everyone because he couldn't not. She was his. Officially, permanently, witnessed by everyone who mattered.
"Mine," he growled against her mouth.
"Yours," she agreed. "Always."
The celebration lasted hours.
Music and laughter and the kind of joy that only came after darkness had been conquered.
Pitfall watched Nadine move through the crowd, accepting congratulations, embracing people she'd come to love over the past weeks.
The jacket looked perfect on her—not costume, but identity. She wore it like she'd been born to.
"You did good, brother." Timber appeared with two beers, handed one over. "She's something special."
"I know."
"The artisans coming—that was her idea?"
"I didn't know about it until they walked in." Pitfall shook his head, still processing. "She wanted them here. Said they were her family, same as the club is mine."
"Smart woman." Timber clinked his bottle against Pitfall's. "You're going to need smart to balance out your stubborn."
"Probably."
Across the room, Mabel was showing Beth the basket she'd brought—the two women deep in conversation about techniques and traditions and things Pitfall would never fully understand. But he understood what it meant. Nadine's world and his, weaving together the same way those baskets were woven.
Stronger for the blending.
"Go get your woman," Timber said. "Party's winding down, and you've got better things to do than stand here drinking with me."
Pitfall didn't need to be told twice.
Their room was quiet after the chaos of celebration.
Nadine stood by the window, the property patch visible on her back, starlight catching the letters that marked her as his. Pitfall closed the door behind him, turned the lock, and felt the world narrow to just the two of them.
"Hey." Her voice was soft, intimate.
"Hey yourself." He crossed to her, wrapped his arms around her from behind. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I just promised myself to a motorcycle club in front of a room full of people, some of whom have killed other people." She laughed, leaning back into him. "So... surprisingly good, actually."
"No regrets?"
"Not a single one." She turned in his arms, faced him. "The artisans coming—was that too much? I probably should have asked—"
"It was perfect." He cupped her face in his hands. "They're your people. They belong at something like this."
"So do yours." Her hands found his chest, rested over his heart. "I watched Sledge tear up during the ceremony. Actually tear up."
"He's a softy."
"He's six-four and terrifying."
"Softy," Pitfall repeated, and kissed her.
The kiss started slow, savoring. But the heat that had been building all night—through the ceremony, through the celebration, through hours of wanting her and having to share her with everyone else—couldn't stay slow for long.
His hands found the hem of the dress she'd worn for the ceremony, slid underneath to find warm skin. She gasped against his mouth, her fingers already working at his shirt buttons.
"Been wanting to do this all night," he growled.
"Then stop talking and do it."
He lifted her, carried her to the bed they'd shared for weeks now, laid her down with a reverence that contrasted with the urgency building in his blood.
"The jacket stays on," he said, looking down at her—his woman, wearing his claim, spread out beneath him like everything he'd ever wanted.
"Is that an order?"
"It's a request." He lowered himself over her, found the spot on her neck that made her shiver. "One I'm hoping you'll grant."
"Granted." Her hands pulled him closer. "Now come here."
They moved together like they'd been doing this for years.
Every touch deliberate. Every kiss weighted with meaning.
She knew his body now—knew where to press to make him groan, where to stroke to make him lose control.
And he knew hers. Knew the sounds she made when pleasure built, knew how to draw them out, knew exactly how to take her apart and put her back together.
"Vernon." His name on her lips, gasped between kisses. "Vernon, please—"
"Please what?"
"Everything." Her back arched, seeking more contact. "Give me everything."
He gave her everything.
The release, when it came, was shared—both of them cresting together, holding tight as the wave crashed over them. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in, feeling her pulse hammering against his lips.
"I love you." The words came out wrecked. "God, Nadine, I love you so much."
"I love you too." Her hands stroked through his hair, gentling them both down from the heights. "My husband. My man. My everything."
They lay tangled together for a long time after, the claiming jacket twisted beneath them, their breathing slowly returning to normal.
"I finally did it," he said eventually, staring at the ceiling with her weight warm against his side.
"Did what?"
"Climbed out." He turned his head to look at her. "For years, I felt like I was still in that mine shaft. Still reaching, still fighting, still trying to find the top. Tonight, watching you walk toward me, wearing my patch—I finally climbed out into daylight."
Her smile was soft, luminous.
"You want to know a secret?" she whispered.
"Always."
"I was waiting at the top." She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Ever since you walked into my shop and bought that basket and looked at Mabel's work like it actually mattered. I was waiting for you to climb out, so I could be there when you did."
His throat tightened.
"You were waiting?"
"For you." She leaned down, kissed him softly. "For this. For everything we're building together."
Pitfall pulled her down, wrapped himself around her, held on with everything he had.
He'd spent his whole life climbing. Fighting. Reaching for something he couldn't name.
Now he had it. Had her. Had a future worth protecting and a woman worth fighting for and a family that would stand with them through whatever came next.
He'd finally climbed out into daylight.
And she'd been waiting at the top.