Chapter Five
The Cost of Choosing
Savage
The problem with silence is that it invites decision.
I sit in the war room long after the others file out, staring at a map that hasn’t changed even though everything else has. The cartel pressure is tightening in places it shouldn’t. Not overtly. Not loudly. The kind of pressure that comes from men testing boundaries instead of breaking them.
They’re waiting to see what I’ll do next. That’s the cost of making yourself predictable.
Raven crosses my mind without invitation. Not as a distraction. As a factor. The club has adjusted to her presence faster than expected, not because I ordered it, but because she didn’t ask permission to exist inside the rhythm.
That kind of presence forces recalibration whether leadership likes it or not. Saint warned me this would happen and I fucking ignored him. Now I have to start counting the cost.
I leave the war room and head toward the back hall where the noise drops off and the compound exhales. The lights are lower here. The air cooler. Raven’s door is closed, but I don’t knock right away.
I don’t knock because I’m entitled. I knock because I want to know if she wants me there.
“Come in,” she says after a beat.
I open the door and step inside, closing it behind me without locking it. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, boots kicked off, black hair loose around her shoulders like she’s already decided the day is done. She looks up at me, green eyes sharp, assessing.
“You look like you’re carrying something,” she says.
“I always am. Part of the job I guess.”
“Do you want to drop it off here?” she asks and pats the bed beside her.
I consider that. Then I nod. I don’t move closer right away. I lean against the wall instead, arms crossed, letting the space speak first.
“You’re spending capital to keep me here,” she says, knowing how this works even if she already feels comfortable.
“Yes.” Another truth.
“And you aren’t trying to hide it.”
“No.”
“That’ll piss people off.”
“Of course.”
She smiles faintly. “Good.”
I push off the wall and move closer, stopping just in front of her. Close enough now that I can feel her heat, smell the faint trace of soap and desert air clinging to her skin.
“This isn’t gratitude,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“And it’s not repayment.”
“I know.”
Her hands rest on her thighs, relaxed but ready. “Then what is it?”
I answer honestly. “It’s where the noise stops.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she stands, closing the distance herself. Her fingers slide into the front of my cut, not gripping, but anchoring.
“Then you need to stop thinking,” she says.
Her mouth finds mine without hesitation, without testing this time. The kiss is deeper than before, hungrier, familiar enough to skip pretense. I respond instinctively, one hand settling at her waist, the other threading into her hair.
She exhales against my mouth, body pressing closer, heat flaring sharp and immediate between us like we haven’t missed a single fucking beat through the years. I don’t pull away. I don’t slow it. This isn’t restraint, it’s consent moving forward together.
Her hands slide up my chest, pushing my cut off and dropping it on the chair behind me. Her fingers splay on my torso like she’s memorizing bone and muscle. When she tugs at my shirt, I let her. The fabric goes over my head and hits the floor somewhere behind me.
Her eyes flick down, then back up. Approval flashes there, quick and unguarded.
“Savage,” she murmurs, mouth already tracing along my jaw.
I answer by pulling her head back with the leverage I have from fisting my hand in her hair and kiss her again, slower this time, deeper. My hands slide down her back, thumbs brushing bare skin where her shirt has ridden up. She shivers and it’s not from cold.
I guide her back a step until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She doesn’t sit right away. She reaches for me instead, fingers sliding under my belt, testing, asking without words.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Yes,” I say quietly. That’s the moment everything sharpens.
Her mouth curves in a small, satisfied smile, and she leans in again, kissing me like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her hands work my belt free, deliberate and unhurried, and I feel the shift in my body, my want turning heavy, demanding.
I don’t rush her. I want her present for this.
She pushes my belt aside and presses her palm against me through my jeans, pressure just enough to make my breath hitch. I groan softly before I can stop myself.
Her eyes darken. “You’re not as controlled as you pretend.”
“I am only when it matters,” I reply. “This, this is where I need to let loose.”
She laughs quietly and kisses me again, harder. I lift her then, no hesitation, and set her down on the bed. She goes willingly, hands gripping my shoulders, legs parting instinctively.
I brace myself over her, weight supported on my forearms so I don’t crowd her. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to ground me.
“You’re shaking,” she observes.
“Because I want you,” I say simply. Again, I offer the truth instead of a lie or even a simple evasion.
“And you’re still waiting.”
“Yes.”
Her hand slides between us, fingers curling into my waistband again, more certain now. She shifts beneath me, body aligning, invitation clear and unmistakable.
I lean down, kissing her neck and her collarbone, my mouth tracing heat into her skin while my hands follow, mapping, learning, remembering. Her breath stutters. Her nails dig lightly into my back.
I’m seconds away. Seconds away from giving in and taking what I want. From giving her what she wants.
The knock hits the door like a gunshot. I freeze.
Raven stills beneath me, breath coming fast but controlled. We look at each other for a split second, shared irritation, shared understanding.
“Pres,” Saint’s voice comes through the door. Tight. Urgent. “We’ve got a situation.”
I close my eyes. Of course we do. Raven exhales slowly, then pushes lightly against my chest. Not rejection but reality.
“Go,” she says.
“I don’t want to,” I admit.
She smirks. “I know.”
Another knock, harder this time, and I know I don’t have a choice. I pull back reluctantly, standing before dressing quickly and adjusting my clothes with practiced efficiency. Raven sits up, smoothing her shirt like nothing happened, eyes sharp again.
“This is the job,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And this doesn’t disappear because you leave.”
“I fucking hope not.” I hesitate at the door, turning back to her. “This isn’t done.”
She meets my gaze steadily. “It better not be.”
I open the door even though I really don’t want to. Saint’s eyes flick past me once, just once, then back to my face. He doesn’t comment. He never does.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Crimson,” he replies. “And two captains from Reno. They’re pushing back.”
Of course they are. I nod once. “I’m coming.”
As we walk away, the heat in my body hasn’t faded. But neither has the clarity. Interruptions aren’t accidents. They’re reminders.
****
Later, much later, I return to my room alone. The compound is loud again with politics, voices raised, lines drawn and redrawn. I strip off my cut and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, breathing through the residual want.
I don’t regret stopping. I regret that stopping will always be necessary.
This is the cost of being me, being president.
Choosing Raven doesn’t soften the job. It sharpens it.
Because now, when I spend capital, when I take hits, when men push back harder than they would have before, it’s not abstract.
It has a face. And tonight, I walked away from it unfinished. That’s not weakness. That’s the price of choosing to do this right. And I’ll pay it again. Every time.