Chapter 11
Twenty-four hours ago we were trying to escape kidnappers.
Now Savannah has my name tattooed on her wrist, my sister had a baby with Colt Ashby, Mercy has a job working in the laundry, and Savannah is standing in front of me naked, telling me she's gonna get it wrong, but I should not give up on her. Because in the end, she'll get it right.
The silence stretches between us, filled only with our breathing and the distant sound of music from downstairs. Savannah has laid herself bare in ways that have nothing to do with skin, and now she waits, exposed and vulnerable, for my response.
My hand covers hers where it rests on my chest. I curl my fingers around her wrist, thumb brushing over the fresh tattoo. My touch is gentle, almost reverent.
"You think I don't know who you are?" I say, my voice low and rough. "You think I don't see you, Savannah?"
I pull her closer, one arm wrapping around her waist.
"I've been watching you since we were kids. I know exactly who you are. The real you—not the one your mother created for her cameras. Not the one Cash tried to sell to the highest bidder. Not the one Marcus thought he could own."
My fingers thread through her damp hair, cradling the back of her head.
"You're the girl who sang 'Ave Maria' in an abandoned grain silo because she thought no one was listening. You're the woman who rode bareback across Ashby land to meet me even though it could cost her everything."
My forehead dips down to touch hers, our breath mingling.
"You're right—you will fail me. And I'll fail you too. That's what people do. They fuck up. They hurt each other. They make mistakes."
My thumb traces her bottom lip.
"But the backside of twenty-three?" I laugh, because even though this is the first time I've ever heard that phrase, I know exactly what she's talking about. June and Havoc. What they have is special, and good, and real. And they fought hard for it. For each other.
And when she uses those words to me, that's what's she saying.
"The backside of twenty-three isn't about never failing. It's about failing and getting back up. Together."
I kiss her. I kiss her soft, and sweet, and tender. And when I pull away, I feel something I've never felt so acutely before in my life.
I feel vulnerable.
Love does that to you.
It pulls out the rug, takes everything, and dares you to still want it.
"I don't need you to burn down the world for me, Savannah. I just need you to stay. Even when it gets ugly. Even when it gets hard."
I find her wrist again and rub my thumb across the letters. Feeling the little scabs as I take in the red rings leftover from being bound to a bed by a man who thought he could buy her. Own her. It’s evidence, these marks. Both of them. The tattoo and the remnants of captivity.
"This doesn't make you mine," I say. Rubbing her wrist. "You do. You make you mine. Every day. Every choice. Every time you look at me like you're lookin’ at me right now. That’s why you belong to me, Savannah. Because you choose to."
"Good. Because that’s not what this is about," Savannah says.
"This isn't about the ink, or the jacket, or even the claiming. It's about the quiet moments. The choices no one sees. The silent agreements we make with each other. And I know—I feel it, Legion. I feel it in my soul that the tryin’ times that are comin’ will test me and I will fail.
But if you…" She swallows, struggling for words.
"If you just remember that I made this promise.
If you let me try again, whatever that means. I will not let you down."
I lean in and kiss her again. "Darlin'," I whisper into her mouth. "I can live with that vow."
Then I lead her out of the bathroom, still wet, but not caring, and I get in bed, pulling her in next to me.
I turn on my side, wrapping my arms around her waist, her perfect round ass pressed up against my cock—which is hard again, but there's time for that tomorrow.
And when she lets out that breath—the final breath for day one on the near side of twenty-three, I match her.
The near side is where all the danger is.
That's where we exist right now.
But her promise is enough to still me, and moments later, we're asleep.
In the black space between time, I dream.
Not dreams of peace, but of war.
Always war.
The eternal battle carved into my flesh, now etched into my sleeping mind.
In the beginning was darkness upon the face of the deep. And then came light—terrible, judging light that showed all things as they truly were.
Not as comfort, but as sword.
Flames lick upward from the depths, consuming everything in their path.
Faces form in the smoke—familiar faces, forgotten faces.
Some I know.
Some I've lost.
Some I've killed.
The fire speaks with many tongues, telling stories of what was, and what will be.
It whispers the name I've tried to forget.
My name is Legion: for we are many.
The flames rise higher, consuming flesh, and bone, and memory.
Nothing escapes the fire.
Not innocence.
Not guilt.
Not love.
Especially not love.
I am the archangel with the sword.
I am the beast with the horns.
I am the watchers with sealed beaks.
I am the skulls in their bone court.
I am the hands reaching through flame.
I am all of them.
For we are many.