Chapter 10
Saying goodbye to June and Havoc feels like more of a somber affair than it should when it comes time to leave. It was a nice night. Their farm is quaint and lovely. Their children full of life and spark.
I want those things.
I want the small, lived-in house filled with things that have been collected over the years and come with experiences. I want the kids too. Maybe not six, but I can definitely see myself with a pack of them.
But it's June and Havoc's relationship that I find the most desirable.
Also, the most out of reach.
Twenty-three years they've been together. Twenty-three years they've pledged allegiance to each other. Stuck it out through the births, and deaths, and all unseen things that come with life.
And that's not even counting all the things that come with outlaw biker life.
I will kill for him. He will kill for me. And both of us will kill for those kids.
The words echo in my head as Legion revs the bike and we pull away from the farmhouse. I watch June's silhouette in the doorway, her hand raised in a simple goodbye. She doesn't wave it back and forth like most people do. Just holds it up, steady, like a promise.
Could I do that? Kill for Legion?
I wrap my arms tighter around his waist as we hit the main road, the wind whipping around my helmet. His body is warm against mine, solid. Real.
Maybe, under the right circumstances, I would kill someone for Legion. If it was in the moment and it was Legion's life or someone else's... I think I could do it.
But I felt there was something more to what June was saying.
Or rather, not saying.
Kill for him. It could be literal. But it doesn't have to be. I think I heard those words between the lines. The sacrifice. The willingness to burn everything else down if that's what it takes.
To choose him, over and over, when the world gives you every reason not to.
PROPERTY OF DEMON. It's not just ink. It's a declaration. A promise.
But is it one I can keep?
The night air is cool, and Legion is warm, so I let go of all my thoughts and just enjoy the ride back to Badlands. The rumble of the engine vibrates through me, and I press my helmet against Legion's leather-clad back. For now, this is enough. This moment. This man. This choice.
We pull into the compound, the gates opening without Legion having to slow down. The prospects recognize his bike. They know who belongs.
The clubhouse is still alive when we arrive, music spilling out the open door, laughter punctuating the night air. Legion parks his bike in line with the others, and I notice how perfectly it fits—like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
I wonder if I'll ever fit that seamlessly.
We get off the bike, and I hand him my helmet. Our fingers brush, and it's like electricity. Even after everything—the public claiming, the tattoo, the drama—I still feel that spark.
I hope I always will.
Legion takes my hand as we walk inside. Heads turn our way. Not everyone, just a few. Watching. Always watching.
I recognize most of the faces now. Have a story to tell about them too.
Chains, who marked me with Sharpie before I got the real ink. Diesel, who fed me shots. Brick, who called the vote that let me stay. Mama Jo, who organized the gifting. Ratchet working on the bikes. Butch and his guns.
One day. That's how long I've been here.
What will the backside of twenty-three years look like if I stay?
Will I be like June? Strong and certain, with a home full of laughter and weapons hidden in every room?
Will Legion and I have children with his wild hair and my blue eyes?
Will I still feel this pull, this certainty that despite everything—my family, my inheritance, my carefully curated life—this is where I'm supposed to be?
Yes. I think it will look like that. Today feels like a preview.
A moment of clarity in a sea of chaos.
Legion nods at Diesel, who raises his beer in acknowledgment.
No words needed. That's another thing I've noticed—these men communicate in silences, in the spaces between words.
It's so different from the world I come from, where everything is performance, where words are weapons and shields all at once.
Legion tugs my hand, leading me toward the stairs. I follow without hesitation. This is new for me—this willingness to be led. I've spent my whole life being directed—posed for cameras, dressed for events, scripted for interviews—but never truly following someone by choice.
The bunkhouse hallway is quiet compared to the bar below. Our boots echo on the worn wooden floor.
Yesterday, Room 3 was Legion's room.
Today, it's ours.
The door creaks as he pushes it open.
It's still sparse. Still feels temporary. But now there's a piece of me here too. My hairbrush on the milk crate. My borrowed clothes folded neatly on the footlocker.
Legion closes the door behind us, and the music from downstairs becomes a distant thrum. He doesn't turn on the light. Doesn't need to. Moonlight spills through the small window, painting silver stripes across the bed.
"Shower?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. There's something different in his eyes tonight. Something that wasn't there before. I can't name it, but I feel it—a shift, a deepening.
The bathroom is tiny, but functional and connected to his room. We both take off our boots before entering. The tiles are cold beneath my feet as Legion turns on the water, steam quickly filling the small space.
We undress each other slowly. No rush now. No audience. No desperation.
Just us and eternity, all living together in the same space.
The water is hot against my skin, a welcome contrast to the cool night air. Legion steps in behind me, closing the flimsy curtain. His hands find my waist, steady and sure.
While the sex over the past twenty-four hours has mostly been desperate and rushed—like we were about to be ripped apart, every time the last time—this is different.
His lips find mine, and there are no words. No dirty talk, no declarations, no promises neither of us can keep. Just kisses, deep and consuming. His hands trace my body like he's memorizing it, like he's afraid I might disappear if he closes his eyes.
I feel everything. The water cascading down our bodies. The slight sting where my tattoo is still healing. The press of his chest against mine, his heartbeat strong and steady under his brand, still raw and red, but looking more and more like it belongs there as the days pass.
When he hoists me up, my spine meets the cool tile wall as I instinctively lock my legs around his waist, our bodies finding each other with practiced familiarity. When he puts his hard cock in me, the connection makes me gasp against his mouth.
And when he starts fucking me, it's in deliberate, unhurried movements.
His forehead pressed to mine as our breathing creates its own rhythm in the steamy air between us.
He cradles my breasts with a reverent hand, his thumb and forefinger twisting my nipple with a gentle pressure that sends electricity coursing through me, a delicious counterpoint to the steady rhythm of our bodies.
His cock inside me is hard and insistent, even though the fucking is not rushed.
"Fuck, Savannah," he breathes against my neck, his voice rough with restraint. "You feel so goddamn good."
I can't form words. Can only moan in response as he hits that perfect spot inside me. My head falls back against the tile, eyes closing as water streams down my face, my neck, between our bodies where we're joined.
He adjusts his grip, one hand sliding to cup my ass, the other braced against the wall. The new angle makes me gasp, a sharp intake of breath that echoes in the small space.
"Look at me," he commands, and my eyes fly open. His are dark, intense, focused entirely on me. "I want to see you."
It's almost too much—the eye contact, the fullness, the way he's taking his time when I know he could just take what he wants. But I don't look away. I hold his gaze as he rocks into me, each thrust deliberate, measured, devastating.
My orgasm builds slowly, a warmth spreading from where we're connected, radiating outward. I can feel it coming, like a wave gathering strength offshore.
"Legion," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "I'm close."
His rhythm doesn't change, but something in his eyes does—a flash of satisfaction, of pride. "Not yet," he says, and suddenly he's pulling out, setting me down on shaky legs.
I make a sound of protest, but he silences it with a kiss, deep and consuming. When he pulls back, he's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his face.
"On your knees," he says, and it's not a request.
I sink down without hesitation, the tile hard beneath my knees. The water hits my back now, streaming over my shoulders. Legion looks down at me, his cock hard and glistening. He grips his shaft, brushing the tip against my lips.
This should feel demeaning. In another life—the one where I lived every day as the little Ashby princess, and with another man, one like Marcus who only wanted to take—it would be.
But here, now, on my knees for Legion Kane, it feels like power. Like a choice.
I open my mouth, flick my tongue over his tip—all the while looking him dead in the eyes. My lips pucker around the head of his cock and I take him in slowly. His hand comes to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, just present.
I love watching him like this—the way his stomach muscles tense, the way his jaw clenches, the flutter of his pulse visible in his throat. I love knowing I'm the one doing this to him, breaking down the walls he keeps so carefully constructed.
I work him with my mouth and hand in tandem, setting my own pace. He lets me, though I can feel the restraint in the trembling of his thighs, the way his fingers flex against my scalp.
"Fuck," he groans, his eyes barely open now.