14. Stellan
STELLAN
Iwake with her in my arms.
For a moment, I don't move. Don't breathe.
Just lie there in the gray morning light, feeling the warm weight of Esmerelda's body against mine, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing.
She's curled into me, her head on my chest, her hand resting over my heart like she's keeping guard over it in her sleep.
Her copper-streaked hair is tangled across my shoulder, and she smells like soap and sleep and something that's just her.
The beast is quiet.
Not gone. Never gone. I can feel it there, curled somewhere deep in my chest, but it's not straining.
Not hungry. Not watching for threats through my eyes.
It's content, settled, peaceful in a way I've never experienced before.
Like having her here, having her close, has given it something it's been searching for all these years.
I don't trust it.
Happiness has never been mine to keep. Every time I've let myself believe things might be okay, something has come along to prove me wrong.
Mira's death. The episodes that ended friendships before they started.
The constant, wearing knowledge that I'm one bad moment away from becoming the thing everyone fears.
But Esmerelda shifts against me, murmuring something soft in her sleep, and I find myself running my fingers through her hair without making a conscious decision to do so. She makes a small sound of contentment, pressing closer, and the beast purrs.
Maybe I can have this. Maybe I'm allowed.
The thought is so foreign it feels like trying on clothes that belong to someone else.
But I let myself sit with it, let myself imagine what it might be like to wake up this way every morning.
Her warmth. Her weight. Her presence anchoring me to a world I've spent fifteen years trying to hold at arm's length.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmurs, her voice rough and scratchy with sleep, barely more than a whisper against my skin. "I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head."
"Sorry." The word comes automatically, a reflex born from years of apologizing for taking up space.
"Don't be sorry. Just tell me what you're thinking about." She tilts her head up to look at me, those warm brown eyes still heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp enough to see through whatever walls I might try to put up. "Bad dreams? Did something wake you?"
"No dreams at all." The realization hits me with unexpected force as I say it out loud, making it real.
"I slept the whole night straight through.
No nightmares clawing their way up from my subconscious.
No waking up with my heart racing like it's trying to escape my chest, counting to seven over and over, trying to ground myself in reality before the beast takes over. "
Her smile is soft, knowing, like she's been waiting for me to notice. "First time in a while?"
"In months. Maybe longer." I trace the line of her shoulder with careful fingers, marveling at how natural it feels to touch her like this, how easy. "You did that."
"We did that." She presses a kiss to my chest, her lips warm right over my heart, like she's sealing something into place. "Together."
I want to believe her. Want to let this moment be what it feels like, simple and good and the beginning of something real. But the part of me that's spent fifteen years waiting for disaster keeps whispering that it's too easy. That something has to go wrong.
"Stop," she says, reading my expression. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. We're allowed to have good things, Stellan. Both of us."
"How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because your jaw does this thing when you're spiraling." She reaches up to touch my face, smoothing out the tension I didn't realize I was holding. "You clench like you're bracing for impact. You've been doing it less the past few days, but I saw it just now."
I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You notice too much."
"I notice you. That's different."
We lie there in comfortable silence, the morning light slowly brightening around us.
Outside, I can hear the sounds of the compound waking up, brothers moving to their posts, the low rumble of conversations I can't quite make out.
The reconstruction is still ongoing, the damage from the attack not yet fully repaired, but there's a rhythm to it now.
A normalcy that feels almost surreal given everything that's happened.
"I should get up," I say eventually, though I make no move to do so. "There's a war council this afternoon. Kieran wants to discuss the counteroffensive."
"The counteroffensive." Her voice is careful, neutral. "You're going after Bloodtusk."
"Eventually. Dragan escaped the assault on the compound. As long as he's out there, this isn't over." I pause, choosing my words. "The attack wasn't just about territory or dominance. It was personal. Kieran and Dragan have history."
"What kind of history?"
"The kind no one talks about." I've wondered for years what happened between them, what put that particular darkness in Kieran's eyes when Dragan's name comes up. "Whatever it is, it's been festering for fifteen years. This war won't end until one of them is dead."
Esmerelda is quiet for a moment, her hand still resting over my heart. "And you'll be part of that. The final battle."
"I'm the club's weapon. It's what I'm for."
"You're more than that." Her voice is fierce, sudden. "You're not just a weapon, Stellan. You're a person. You're my—" She stops, swallows. "You're mine. And I hate the idea of you going into a fight where you might not come back."
The possessiveness in her voice does something to the beast, makes it rumble with satisfaction. Mine, she said. Like I belong to her. Like she's claiming me the way I've been wanting to claim her.
"I'll come back," I say. "I have something to come back to now."
She pulls me down for a kiss, soft and unhurried, and for a few more minutes the war and the counteroffensive and everything else fades away.
She moves through the clubhouse like she belongs here.
I watch her from my post near the common room, tracking her progress as she helps Eliza carry supplies to the temporary kitchen.
She's laughing at something Camille said, her whole face lit up with it, and the brothers she passes nod to her with the casual respect they'd show any old lady.
Not an outsider anymore. Not a guest. One of theirs.
One of mine.
The possessiveness still catches me off guard, the way the beast stirs whenever another man looks at her too long, whenever someone stands too close.
I've stopped trying to suppress the growls, mostly because the brothers have learned to recognize them as a warning rather than a threat.
Elias now waves from across the room before approaching, a gesture that's half greeting and half "please don't kill me over scrambled eggs.
" It would be funny if it weren't so pathetic.
"You're staring again," Harlan says, dropping into the chair beside me. The club's artist has ink stains on his fingers and exhaustion in his eyes, the aftermath of the memorial work he's been doing for the brothers we lost. "Not that anyone blames you. She's something."
"She is."
"Eliza likes her. Says she's been helping in the kitchen without being asked, checking on Margot, making sure everyone's fed and cared for." He pauses. "She's a nurturer. Takes care of people. You probably didn't notice that."
"I noticed." I tear my gaze away from Esmerelda to look at Harlan. "I notice everything about her."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder, the casual physical contact that still makes me tense slightly. "You deserve something good, brother. We all do, after the shit we've been through. Just don't fuck it up."
"Inspirational."
"I do my best."
He wanders off to find Eliza, and I turn my attention back to the common room.
Esmerelda has settled at a table with Kira and June, the three of them bent over something I can't see from here.
Probably logistics, supply lists, the endless administrative work that keeps a compound running during wartime.
Kira's been handling most of it since Barrett is constantly in war councils, but she's been leaning on June more and more.
June Novak. The quiet coworker Esmerelda brought into this world.
The woman who took down a Bloodtusk enforcer with a single precise strike and then acted like it was nothing.
I haven't forgotten what I saw during the attack, the way she moved with training that didn't match her cover story.
Social worker, she claims. Former administrative support.
Nothing about her screams combat capability.
And yet.
As I watch, June says something that makes Kira pause, reconsider, then nod with something like respect.
Whatever suggestion she's made has landed, been accepted, integrated into whatever they're planning.
She's good at this, better than she should be, and she's careful enough to frame her contributions as questions rather than assertions.
Like she's hiding her competence on purpose.
Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. Kieran, crossing the common room on his way to the command center. His path takes him past the table where the women are sitting, and I watch his step slow, his head turn, his eyes find June for just a moment longer than necessary.
Then he's past them, moving toward the hallway, and I file the observation away.
But I notice June's shoulders tense as he passes. Notice the way she doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge him, keeps her eyes fixed on the papers in front of her with an intensity that suggests she's very aware of exactly where he is in the room.
Interesting.