25. Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
THREE MONTHS LATER
Iwake to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my ear.
The room is small for a man his size, the bed barely wide enough to contain us both, but I've grown to love every cramped, cozy inch of it.
His apartment at the clubhouse has become our apartment, our space, filled with the evidence of two lives merging into one.
My books on his shelves. My clothes in his closet.
My laughter in halls that were silent for fifteen years.
Stellan's arm tightens around me, a reflexive gesture that happens every morning. Even in sleep, the beast keeps track of me, making sure I'm still here, still safe, still his. I've learned to love that too. The protectiveness that once seemed terrifying now feels like home.
"You're awake," he rumbles, his voice rough and gravelly with the remnants of sleep, still thick in his throat.
"So are you."
"Hard to sleep soundly when you're watching me like that."
I smile against the warm skin of his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "I wasn't watching. I was listening. There's a difference."
"Listening to what, exactly?"
"Your heart. The way it beats, strong and steady beneath my ear. It's my favorite sound in the whole world."
He makes that noise, the one that's almost a laugh, that vibrates through his chest and makes my own heart flip. Three months, and I still haven't gotten tired of that sound. I don't think I ever will.
We rise slowly, taking our time. There's no emergency today, no lockdown, no battle to prepare for.
The war is paused, not over, but for now the compound exists in a state of cautious peace.
Dragan is still out there, rebuilding, licking his wounds.
Intelligence suggests he's regrouping somewhere in the mountains, gathering what's left of Bloodtusk's scattered forces. Eventually, he'll come for us again.
But not today.
Today is Saturday, which means breakfast with the family.
The main dining hall is loud with conversation when we arrive, the long tables filled with brothers and their women, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the air.
Eliza has been cooking since dawn, as she always does on weekends, and the spread she's laid out could feed an army. Which, I suppose, it has to.
I spot our group immediately. They've claimed the corner table, the same one we've been using for months now, and the sight of them makes something warm bloom in my chest.
Margot and Roman sit close together, his scarred hand resting on her knee, her head tilted toward him as she laughs at something he's said.
His recovery was slow, the wounds from the first assault leaving marks that will never fully fade.
But he's stronger now, fierce and alive, and the love between them has only deepened in the aftermath.
Eliza and Harlan are across from them, bickering affectionately over the last piece of toast. They've been married for years, but you'd never know it from the way they look at each other. Like every day is new. Like they can't quite believe their luck.
Camille and Elias are at the end of the table, her hand absently sharpening a knife while he reads something on his phone, both of them existing in that comfortable silence that comes from perfect understanding. They don't need words. They never have.
And Kira and Barrett, at the head of the group, coordinating breakfast like they coordinate everything else. He's the VP, the strategist, the silver-eyed shadow at Kieran's right hand. She's his anchor, his partner, the woman who sees through every wall he builds. Together, they're formidable.
"There you are," Kira calls out as we approach the long wooden table, her voice carrying over the gentle morning chatter. "We were just about to organize a proper search party."
"We absolutely were not," Barrett says dryly, his silver eyes never leaving his coffee cup as he takes another deliberate sip.
"We were at least thinking about it," Kira counters, reaching across to steal a piece of bacon from his plate.
"We were thinking about letting them sleep in like the adults they are," Barrett corrects, finally glancing up with the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth.
Kira grins wider, her eyes practically dancing with barely suppressed mischief as she looks between us. "Same thing, really."
I slide onto the bench beside Margot, and Stellan settles next to me, his thigh pressing warm against mine. Eliza passes a plate of food without being asked, and I mouth a thank you as I start to eat. Stellan's hand finds my knee under the table, a casual touch that feels anything but.
The conversation flows easily, the comfortable rhythm of people who've been through hell together and emerged as family.
Margot teases Roman about his snoring. Harlan argues with Elias about motorcycle maintenance.
Camille catches my eye and rolls hers affectionately, including me in the joke without words.
"So," Kira says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Any plans for today?"
"Nothing special," I say. "Thought we might take a ride. Visit the lookout point."
"The lookout point?" Margot grins. "That's what we're calling it now?"
I feel my cheeks warm. The lookout point is where Stellan took me last week, a ridge overlooking the valley where you can see for miles. We'd stayed until sunset, talking about everything and nothing, making plans for a future I never expected to have.
"It has a nice view," I say primly.
"I'm sure it does."
Stellan's hand tightens on my knee, and I can feel the silent laughter in his body. These women have become my sisters, my family, the people who tease me mercilessly because they love me. Six months ago, I didn't know if I'd ever belong anywhere. Now I can't imagine being anywhere else.
This is my life now. These are my people. Six months ago, I was Kira's friend, an outsider orbiting the edges of their world. Now I'm one of them. Claimed, protected, loved. Not because I earned it. Just because I'm me.
I catch June's eye across the hall.
She's sitting apart from our group, at a table near the door, her coffee untouched in front of her. She doesn't join us for these breakfasts, though we always invite her. She orbits, the way she always has, close enough to belong but never quite letting herself in.
But something's different about her lately.
Something I've noticed more and more in the three months since the battle.
The way her eyes track across the room, always landing on the same spot.
The tension in her shoulders when certain voices carry.
The careful, deliberate way she avoids certain people while somehow always being aware of exactly where they are.
I follow her gaze and find what I expected.
Kieran.
He's at the main table, surrounded by officers, going over reports with the same intensity he brings to everything.
The president carries new scars from his confrontation with Dragan, visible reminders of the fight that nearly killed him.
But the deeper wounds are the ones that don't show.
There's something heavier in his expression these days, something that wasn't there before the battle.
Or maybe it was always there, and I'm just seeing it now.
"He won't approach her," Stellan says quietly, following my gaze.
"Why not?"
"Dragan said something during the fight. About someone Kieran lost. I don't know the full story, but—" He pauses, his jaw tightening. "There's history. And it's not finished."
I watch Kieran for a moment longer, watching the way he holds himself apart from everyone, the careful distance he maintains even with his own brothers. I recognize that distance. I've seen it in Stellan, before I broke through. The isolation of someone convinced they're too dangerous to love.
"The war isn't over," I say.
"No. Dragan's still out there. And whatever's between him and Kieran—that's the real battle. The one that's been waiting fifteen years to be fought."
I think about what we overheard during the assault, the fragments of conversation that crackled through the comms. Kieran screaming about someone who was killed. Dragan's cold voice talking about choices and traitors. The violence that followed, so personal it barely felt like war.
"Someone should help him."
Stellan's hand tightens on my knee. "Some battles have to be fought alone. Until the right person shows up."
I look at June again, at the way she's watching Kieran without seeming to watch him, at the tension in her hands wrapped around her cooling coffee.
"Maybe the right person already has."
After breakfast, I find June alone.
She's in the small garden behind the main building, the one Eliza planted and everyone else ignores. It's overgrown now, tomato vines tangling with wildflowers, but there's something peaceful about it. A quiet space in a compound built for war.
June is sitting on the stone bench, staring at nothing, her expression carefully blank. She doesn't look up when I approach, but I see her shoulders tense. She knows I'm here.
"Hey," I say, settling beside her.
"Hey."
Silence stretches between us, comfortable in its way.
We've known each other for years, worked together at Social Services, shared coffee and complaints and the occasional after-work drink.
But we've never talked about the things that matter.
The real things. The things she hides behind her competence and her careful smiles.
"You're watching him," I say finally, keeping my voice gentle, non-confrontational. "Kieran."
She tenses further, her spine going rigid against the stone bench. "I don't know what you're talking about."