Chapter 7
Heaven is the awareness that you're not in Hell.
That's how I feel right now.
Like I'm not in Hell.
Watching Savannah in her dress that was given to her through some 'gifting' ritual that I had no idea even existed.
It's a simple thing, cotton and comfortable, nothing like the designer labels she used to wear, but somehow it suits her more.
Fits her like it was made for the woman she's becoming, not the one she was pretending to be.
It's nice though. That the women here have their own traditions, or whatever. For many reasons, not least of which we didn't have to go shopping for Savannah right away because she came here with nothing but the clothes on her back.
My clothes on her back, actually. Which was its own kind of heaven.
She's brushing her hair in the bathroom mirror while I watch, sitting on the bed in room 3.
The mattress creaks under my weight, springs protesting like they've seen too many nights and not enough rest. The sound of the brush through her hair is hypnotic—steady, rhythmic. Makes a man think dangerous thoughts.
"What?" She asks, our eyes meeting in the mirror. There's something vulnerable in her gaze, like she's still not used to being looked at by my hungry eyes.
"Just you."
She smiles, twists her hair up into a ponytail, turns, walks over to me, and sits in my lap. Smiles again. The weight of her feels right, like the last piece of a puzzle I've been working on for years.
"Don't rev the engine if ya aren’t gonna step on the gas," I warn.
"Because if you get me started, I'll finish it.
And that'll make us late for dinner. And just so you know, if we're late for dinner, I'll blame it on you.
" My hands find her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath catch.
She leans in, kissing me. Someone must've given her some lip gloss because she tastes like strawberries. Sweet, and artificial, and addictive. "Later then."
"Later," I agree, smacking her ass and standing up, taking her with me. She squeals a little. But I capture that squeal in my mouth with a kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, like her body remembers exactly how we fit together.
"Have you always been this horny? Or is this new?" I ask against her neck, as I put her down. Just breathing in the scent of her is enough to turn me on.
"What?" She smacks me on the chest, feigning offense but her eyes are dancing.
"Woman, I've fucked you like ten times in the last twenty-four hours. I'm just wondering if I should adjust my new expectations or this is me winning the jackpot." My voice is hungry, even to my own ears.
She giggles. "I can't help it." Then she grabs my dick, right through my jeans.
Her face tilts up, eyes on me, all innocence and sin mixed together.
"I've never been this horny in my life. I've never been so sore, either.
But if this is the price I have to pay…" She grabs me again, fingers tracing the outline with expert precision. "It's worth it."
"I'm about to turn you over my knee and spank you 'till you come for getting me all hard again," I reach down, push her hand off me, and give my junk a little shake. The denim's too tight now, uncomfortable in the best way.
She flips her hair at me. Looks at me coyly over her shoulder. "When we get home, you can spank me all you want."
Fuck's sake. I'm about to tell her we should skip dinner when she opens my door and saunters out into the hallway, leaving me behind. The sway of her hips is deliberate, a promise for later.
I guess my dick will have to wait.
But I'll make her pay for it.
In the best way possible, of course.
Outside, I strap on my helmet, watching Savannah struggle with hers. The clasp gives her trouble. I reach over, fingers brushing her throat as I snap it closed. Her pulse jumps under my touch.
"Tight enough?" I ask.
She nods, smiling at me as I get on, back up, and nod for her to get behind me.
"Legs up, arms around me, lean when I lean. Don't fight the bike.” The instructions I should’ve given her last night, but didn’t, come out clipped and professional.
But there's nothing professional about how my body reacts when she slides against me, thighs pressing into mine, chest against my back.
The engine growls to life beneath us, and I feel her startle, then settle.
Her arms tighten around my waist, fingers locking together over my stomach.
For a moment, I just sit there, letting the vibration run through both of us.
Letting her get used to the way it feels to have something powerful between her legs.
Then I pick my feet up and we're moving.
Once out of the gate, the dirt road stretches out ahead, a ribbon of mottled browns and reds that cuts through the badlands landscape.
Evening light bleeds across the sky, painting everything gold and crimson.
When we hit the black top, I take the turns easy, feeling Savannah's body tense then relax as she follows my lead.
But once we hit the two-lane highway that will take us to Havoc’s, I open it up a little. Not too much—not with her on the back. But enough to feel the wind push against us, enough to hear her gasp behind me when we crest a hill and the whole valley opens up below.
The land out here tells the truth. Nothing can hide in these broken hills. Every scar, every edge is visible for miles. Wind and water carved this place over centuries, stripping away anything soft, leaving only what's strong enough to endure.
Kinda like prison did to me.
Kinda like what Elenore did to her.
I'm more like these badlands than I like to admit. Carved out by forces I couldn't control. Weathered. Broken in places. Full of sharp edges and unexpected drops. But still standing. Still here.
We pass by many forgotten places. Places that were abandoned years ago, windows staring out like empty eye sockets. That's how it is around here—everything’s temporary. When you’re up against nature, nature always wins.
Once we’re settled into the ride, my mind starts spinning with the words I was writing earlier. I left my notebook in the blind. I'll have to go back and get it, but like always, it doesn't say much in there.
It's just rambling. Me, doin' my best to make sense of nonsensical things. I've always been fightin' the demon. I've had that fuckin' sword in my hand since the day I was born.
But ever since Savannah came into my life when I was fourteen, the battle has breaks. Little pauses where I can—not let down my guard, that's never gonna happen—but just settle a bit.
I stop grinding and take a look around when Savannah is next to me.
I wonder what I feel like to her?
I wonder how she fights her demons?
I wonder if I'm her demon.
The turnoff to the Dun property appears, marked by nothing but a weathered red mailbox. I slow down, taking the dirt road at a crawl to keep the dust down.
The bike's suspension protests at every rut and hole, but I navigate them carefully. Savannah's grip has relaxed a little, her body moving with mine, learning the rhythm of the road.
As we crest the final rise, the Dun place comes into view. It's nothing like the Ashby compound—no pretension, no grandeur. Just a simple white farmhouse with green shutters, a wraparound porch, and a red barn off to the side. The kind of place that says people live here, not just exist for show.
The sun catches on the tin roof, making it shine like a beacon. Around the property, life is happening everywhere you look. A fenced arena to the left holds two tiny girls on ponies, circling under the watchful eye of Havoc's oldest girl and June.
To the right, a homemade dirt track winds through a stand of cottonwoods, twin boys racing dirt bikes around it, their excited shouts carrying across the evening air.
The smell of grillin’ meat hits me as I cut the engine.
Havoc stands on a wooden deck off the back of the house, manning a massive grill, smoke risin’ around him like he's some kind of war god overseeing a sacrifice.
He's shed his cut, wearing just jeans and a faded black t-shirt, lookin’ almost normal except for the gun I know is tucked into his waistband.
Savannah's arms slowly unwrap from my waist as she takes in the scene. I feel the absence immediately, like someone turned off a heater.
I swing my leg over the bike, offering her a hand to help her off.
"This is... not what I expected," she says quietly, removing her helmet, then the elastic holding her hair in the ponytail. It falls down around her shoulders, tangled from the wind.
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. Something more... outlawish?"
I snort. "Havoc's got a basement full of guns and probably three bodies buried out back. Don't let the picket fence fool you."
Her eyes widen, and I realize too late she can't tell if I'm joking. I'm not sure I know either.
The twin boys, maybe seven or eight, come tearing around the side of the house, dirt bikes forgotten now. They stare at Savannah like she's some exotic creature that wandered out of the woods.
"That's Legion," one whispers to the other, loud enough for us to hear. "Dad says he killed a man with his thumbs once."
"Did not," the other argues. "Dad said it was with a pencil."
Fuck's sake. I'm going to have a word with Havoc about the bedtime stories he's telling his kids.
Savannah's hand finds mine, fingers threadin’ through with surprising strength. I look down at her, expecting to see fear or regret. Instead, I find something that looks almost like amusement.
"With your thumbs, huh?" she whispers.
"Apparently my reputation exceeds reality," I mutter, squeezing her hand. "You okay?"
She nods, eyes scanning the property again. "It's beautiful here," she says softly. "Peaceful."
It is. That's what makes it dangerous.
Places like this make you believe in things like normal, and safe, and forever.
They make you forget that the world is waitin’ just beyond the fence line, ready to tear it all apart.
But I don't say that.
Instead, I guide her toward the house, toward Havoc and his grill and his picture-perfect family that somehow exists alongside the man who plans our gun runs and maintains our armory.
June spots us from the arena and waves, calling something to the girls before heading our way.
She's all vintage cardigan and perfect ponytail, looking like she stepped out of a 1950s housewife magazine.
The only thing that gives her away is the way she walks—purposeful, alert, shoulders squared. Once military, always military.
"You made it!" she calls, smile warm but eyes assessing as we wait for her to catch up. She's checking Savannah for threats, for weakness, for anything that might endanger her family. I respect that. "Dinner's almost ready. Havoc's doing his famous ribs."
"Famous for what?" I ask. "Giving people food poisoning?"
June laughs, a genuine sound that makes the kids look over. "Only that one time, and it was your own fault for eating the ones he dropped on the ground."
"He didn't tell me he dropped them."
The easy banter feels strange with Savannah watching. Two worlds colliding that were never meant to touch. But her hand is still in mine, her shoulder pressed against my arm, and she's not running. Not yet.
The twins have crept closer. And the oldest boy, the one with Havoc's serious eyes, addresses me directly. "Did you really kill someone with a pencil?"
"Finn!" June's voice snaps like a whip. "What have we told you about appropriate questions?"
"Not to ask about Dad's work or anyone's prison time," the boy recites dutifully. "But this isn't about prison, it's about a pencil."
"The only thing I've ever killed with a pencil is a math test. And I failed that too."
The boy looks disappointed but nods. The twins—identical, but mirror images—peer around me at Savannah.
"Are you his girlfriend?" one asks.
Before I can answer, Savannah says, "I'm his," showing the fresh tattoo on her wrist.
The twins' eyes go wide. "Cool," they breathe in unison.
June clears her throat. "Boys, go wash up for dinner." Then she whistles and yells in the direction of the riding arena. "Put the ponies away, girls! Dinner time now!" She turns to us with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. They're at an age where boundaries are... theoretical."
"It's fine," Savannah says, and I'm surprised to hear genuine warmth in her voice. "They're adorable."
"They're monsters," June corrects, but her tone is fond. "Come on, Havoc's waiting. And he hates when food gets cold."
As we follow her toward the deck, Savannah leans close to my ear. "With a pencil, really?"
"It was a pen, actually," I murmur back, then immediately regret it when her step falters. "That was a joke."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "No, it wasn't. But it's okay." Her fingers tighten around mine. "I'm still here."
The words hit harder than they should.
After everything—the vote, the claiming, the leaked videos, Destiny, Colt, and the baby—she's still here. Walking beside me toward a normal family dinner like we have any right to pretend we're normal too.
Havoc looks up as we approach, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees our joined hands. But he just nods, flipping a rack of ribs with practiced precision.
"Right on time," he says, which from Havoc is practically a warm welcome. "Who wants a beer?"
I guide Savannah up the steps to the deck, feeling the weight of his gaze. Havoc doesn't miss anything—not the way she leans into me, not the fresh ink on her wrist, not the hardness in her eyes that only appeared after the kidnapping.
But he doesn't comment. Just hands me a beer from the cooler at his feet, then offers one to Savannah. She hesitates, then accepts it with a small smile.
"Thank you for having us," she says, sounding for all the world like she's at one of her fancy Ashby functions instead of standing on the deck of an outlaw's family home.
Havoc grunts, turning back to his grill. "June's idea. Said you needed to see your options."
Options.
Most women who end up with bikers—especially outlaw bikers—don't have those.
But Savannah isn't most women.
She's an Ashby.
She's got plenty of fucking options.
And I'm really not sure I want her thinking too hard about them.