10. Chapter 10 - Savannah
Legion Kane feels like salvation.
The kind that splits you open before it saves you.
The kind that arrives not with a hymn but with the low, mean growl of a blacked-out Harley rolling up a dust road at dusk.
The kind that doesn't kneel at an altar—it is the altar, and you have been quietly, foolishly, irreversibly offering yourself up to it since you were fifteen years old.
And tonight, I want to live in that salvation.
I want to experience every burning second.
His hips snap up and the sound our bodies make is obscene—wet skin on wet skin, thighs crashing together hard enough to sting—and I gasp so loud it doesn't even sound like me.
My nails drag down his chest, catching on the ridged scar tissue where the brand used to be, and he hisses through his teeth but his eyes go black.
Not angry. Hungry. The kind of hungry that makes him dangerous in every room except this one.
He does it again. Harder. Driving up into me so deep my vision whites at the edges and my fingers curl into his skin like I'm trying to hold on to something that keeps trying to throw me.
"Do that again," I beg. My voice is wrecked already and we've barely started. "Please, Legion. Do it again…"
He grips my hips with both hands—thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hip bones hard enough to leave marks I'll trace tomorrow in the shower—and slams up into me so hard my teeth click together.
I cry out and he watches my face like he's memorizing what it looks like when I break apart, like this is research, like this is scripture, like he needs to know every angle my mouth makes when I'm too full of him to think straight.
"Harder," I whisper.
"Say it louder."
"Harder."
His jaw tightens and he plants his feet flat on the floor and gives me exactly what I asked for—brutal, relentless thrusts that bounce me in his lap, my tits in his face, his mouth catching a nipple and biting down just hard enough to make me scream.
Not the pretty kind. The kind that tears out of your chest and leaves you hoarse.
"That's my girl." His voice is a low, ruined thing against my breast. "Take all of it. Every fucking inch."
I'm trying. God, I'm trying. My thighs are burning and shaking and I can't find a rhythm because he keeps breaking it—slamming into me at a different angle every few strokes, like he's searching for the spot that makes me lose language entirely.
He finds it. He always finds it. And when he does, my spine arches so hard my head tips back and all I can see is the ceiling of this trailer, this beautiful nothing trailer that smells like Chinese food and lavender candles and him.
"Look at me." His hand comes up and catches my jaw, pulling my face back down. "Eyes on me when I'm inside you, Savannah."
I force my eyes open. His pupils are blown wide, sweat beading at his temples, the tendons in his neck straining. He looks like war. He looks like the only church I've ever believed in.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Like you're splitting me in half," I breathe. "Like I'll die if you stop."
Something shifts behind his eyes—something possessive and tender at the same time, the combination that only Legion can pull off, the one that makes me feel simultaneously owned and worshipped.
He slides a hand between us and presses his thumb against my clit, and I jerk hard enough that he has to grip my hip with his other hand to keep me from falling off his lap entirely.
"Don't you dare come yet," he says.
"I can't—Legion, I can't—"
"You can." His thumb circles slow. Deliberately slow. A counterpoint to how hard and fast he's fucking me, and the contradiction is so cruel I could cry. "You'll come when I tell you. Not before."
I dig my nails into his shoulders and hold on. My whole body is vibrating—calves, thighs, stomach, chest—everything coiled so tight I can feel my own heartbeat between my legs, pounding against his cock every time he bottoms out inside me.
"Legion—"
"Not yet."
"I can't hold it—"
He pulls his thumb away and I sob. Actually sob. The relief and the loss hit at the same time and I bury my face in his neck, panting against his pulse while he fucks me steady and deep and merciless.
"Please," I whisper into his skin. "Please let me come. I need to come so bad, please—"
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You." No hesitation. No thought. "You, you, you—"
His thumb finds me again and presses hard, and at the same time he drives up into me with everything he has, and the words come out of his mouth low and final: "Now, Savannah. Come on my cock. Right now."
My body doesn't wait for my brain. The orgasm tears through me like something with teeth—starting where he's buried inside me and ripping outward through my hips, my stomach, my chest, my fucking fingertips.
I clamp down on him so hard he groans, this guttural, animal sound that vibrates through his chest into mine, and his rhythm breaks—stutters—turns savage.
Three more thrusts, each one deeper than the last, and then he buries himself to the hilt and holds me there, shaking, pouring into me while I pulse around him in waves that won't stop.
We stay like that. Connected. Trembling. His forehead against my collarbone, my fingers in his hair, both of us breathing like we just survived something that should've killed us.
I press my lips to his throat. Soft. Barely there. Just tasting the salt on his skin, feeling his pulse hammer against my mouth like it's trying to get to me through bone and muscle and everything else he keeps between himself and the world.
He exhales—this long, shuddering thing that moves through his whole body and into mine because we're still connected, still full of each other, and I can feel every breath he takes like it's happening inside my own lungs.
I drag my teeth along the tendon in his neck. Not hard. Just enough to make him tilt his head and give me more room, which he does without thinking, the way you lean into something that feels good before your brain catches up to tell you it's dangerous.
I smile against his skin and bite his earlobe, tugging gently, and his hands tighten on my breasts—not urgent anymore, just holding. Kneading slow. Thumbs brushing over my nipples in lazy circles like he's got nowhere to be and nothing to prove and all the time God ever made.
I find his mouth. Finally. And the kiss is different now. Not the frantic, teeth-clicking, bruising thing from before. This one is slow and warm. His tongue slides against mine and I sigh into it, actually sigh, like some ridiculous girl in a song, and I don't even care.
I can feel him still inside me, softening but not gone, and the mess we made together is everywhere—slick and warm between my thighs, pooling in his lap, and I should probably care about the couch but I don't. Not even a little.
His thumb traces the underside of my breast and I kiss the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then back to his lips because I can't stop.
We stay like that.
Just kissing.
Unhurried and stupid with it.
Eventually we pull apart and I go into the bathroom to clean up. When I come out of the bathroom, I can hear the crinkle of plastic bags and know he's getting the food out.
It feels so good to be here with him at the new trailer. No eyes on us. Mercy safely away at boarding school, no brothers to worry about. No dirt floor.
A real place where we can be alone.
Be ourselves.
I go into his room and open the closet, finding all his clothes still here. T-shirts on hangers, like they've been waiting for him to come home. I pull one off the hanger, read the front—it's some metal band, I think. No one I've ever heard of.
I tug it over my head. It's long enough that it doesn't matter if I have underwear on, but I drag them up, watching Legion opening up containers. His jeans are back on but his fly is still open, button still undone, because his cock is still hard.
He winks at me. "Come on. Come eat so we can get movie night started."
God, I love this man.
I will never get tired of him and I will never give him up.
We grab our containers—his is the kung pao, mine's the lo mein—and carry them to the coffee table.
Legion drops onto the couch first and I tuck myself under his arm like I've been doing it for years, like this is our thousandth Tuesday and not our first. He points the remote at the TV and the movie starts with this synth-heavy score that sounds like it was recorded inside a neon sign.
"You're gonna love this," he says, and there's something in his voice I almost never hear. Ease.
I've never seen Big Trouble in Little China and within ten minutes I understand why he picked it—it's ridiculous, and loud, and completely unserious, which is maybe the most generous thing he could've offered me tonight.
A story that asks nothing of me.
Legion mouths half the lines before they happen.
He does this low deadpan impression of Kurt Russell that's terrible, genuinely awful, and I laugh so hard lo mein almost comes out my nose, which makes him laugh harder.
He nudges the garbage bag of popcorn toward me and I grab a fistful without thinking about where it's been, butter soaking through my fingers, salt on my lips, kernels falling between the couch cushions where they'll live forever and I don't care.
"That's the best part coming up," he says, pointing at the screen with a chopstick.
It's not the best part. The best part is him saying it.
I lean my head against his chest and feel his breathing change when he laughs—this low rumble that moves through his ribs and into mine. His fingers trace absent patterns on my shoulder. Not sexual. Not leading anywhere. Just there.
And I think—this.
This is what I wanted.
Not the silo, not the claiming, not the desperate midnight rides across the creek bed.
Just this ordinary, unremarkable, butter-fingered night on a couch that still smells like the warehouse it shipped from.
A man who knows every line to a stupid movie and wants me next to him while he watches it.
I have never had this before and I love that he's the one who gives it to me.
"I heard from Destiny," he says, out of nowhere.
My head snaps to the side and I look at him like he just said I come from Mars. "What?"
"Yeah, she called the clubhouse yesterday afternoon. Don't even know how she got that number."
I blink at him. But he's eating popcorn like this is just normal conversation.
Like his seventeen-year-old sister didn't get knocked up by my thirty-one-year-old brother and run away with their offspring like they're never comin' back.
"Well…" I'm breathless from this new information. "What did she say?"
Legion shrugs like it's no big deal. "Said everything's good. I gave her my number so she doesn't have to call the club next time. She sent me a pic of the baby. That little shit stain is fuckin' cute as all hell."
I'm… speechless. Flabbergasted. I grab his shoulders and shake him. "Legion Kane! How did you not tell me this first thing!"
He looks at me like he's got no idea why I'm so riled up. "I kinda forgot about it, to be honest."
I just blink at him again. Many times in a row. So many times, he begins to laugh.
"You wanna see the pic?"
I'm about to reach for his throat when he slides away, gets up, and finds his phone on the floor where it must've fallen out of his pocket earlier in the evening. He settles back down on the couch, flipping through his photos, then hands it to me.
I take the phone and gasp. "Oh, my God." My hand even goes to my mouth. "She's gorgeous!"
Legion is nodding. "Yep," he sighs. "It’s pretty hard to hate your pedophile brother when the kid looks like that."
I frown. He's not exactly wrong… but.
"Sorry," he says, squeezin' my leg. "Whatever, right?
I mean, she was seventeen. I don't agree with it, but it's done.
And… yeah. I guess… I've decided… I won't kill him.
" He points at me. "But I want it on record that if he fucking steps out of line, ever.
One inch. This deal is over and I will put him in the ground.
My sister's happiness is the only thing standing between him and the red dirt. "
I nod, letting out a long breath. Because I know he's serious.
"I get it. He deserves that. I don't forgive him either. But…" I frown and make a pouty face. Something I do not normally do. "If they came home… it would make me so happy."
We stare at each other for a moment, searching each other's eyes. And I know what he's thinking, because it's the same thing I'm thinking. Though neither of us says it.
We're thinking about how the line between good and evil can narrow so much and so suddenly, it nearly disappears.
What Colt did was wrong. I mean, that's just poor self-control on the low end and predatory behavior on the high.
But who am I to talk?
Or Legion, for that matter.
He buried thirty-six people behind his clubhouse.
A thin line indeed.