Chapter 12 Legion
Mercy's riding boots sit by her dresser, caked with arena sand but lined up neatly. Never seen her arrange anything that precisely before. Her helmet hangs on some fancy custom hook. Her backpack leans against the desk, zipped tight and ready for school in a few weeks.
Her hair spreads across the pillow, finally brushed proper. No more tangles for me to try to comb out while she squirmed and cursed like a miniature sailor. No wishing our mother was still alive to handle these things.
She's clutching that Rimrock catalog to her chest. Not the BB gun. A school catalog.
And she's just sleeping. Like a kid should.
Three days from now, she'll be fitted for uniforms with the Ashby black card. In three weeks, she'll walk through those academy gates with her head high, backpack filled with a tablet and a phone.
The truth hits me hard. She's safer here than she's ever been with me.
I close the door with a soft click, step back, and exhale.
I hesitate at Savannah's door, hand frozen on the knob. She went to bed about an hour ago while I went outside for some air—a cigarette, really. At least that's what Savannah thought. I did smoke, but all I really wanted was some time to think.
Now, thinkin's over.
The door opens without a sound. Closes the same way. Rich people hinges. No creaking to announce you're coming or going.
Savannah lies there watching me, moonlight spilling across her like water. Her hair fans out on the pillow, blue eyes tracking me in the darkness. She lifts her hand, palm up. Waiting.
I cross to her, feeling like I'm walking through someone else's life. The floor doesn't creak. The air smells like lavender, not mold.
I take her hand, lowering myself to the edge of her bed.
The mattress barely dips under my weight.
My bare chest feels exposed in the moonlight—all those tattoos telling stories I've never explained to her.
The archangel over my heart. The demons writhing beneath its sword.
The bone court. The scorch line. The tally marks nobody understands.
Savannah's fingers find the archangel, tracing where the flaming sword pierces straight through the horned beast's chest. Her touch is cool against the scar tissue where my brand is finally healing.
I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. Press a kiss into her palm. Her pulse jumps against my mouth.
"Savannah," I whisper, not sure what else to say.
She rises up on her knees, the silk nightgown sliding against her skin. I reach for the hem, lifting it slowly. She raises her arms, letting me pull it over her head. The moonlight paints her naked body silver and shadow.
I run my fingertips down her throat, across her collarbone, down to where her heartbeat hammers beneath her skin. She shivers under my touch. My hands feel too rough for her, but she never flinches from them. Never has.
"Come here," she whispers, and I do.
I lay her back against the pillows, moving over her like a shadow. My lips find her neck, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat. She tastes like honey and salt. Like every good thing I never deserved.
I trail my mouth down her body, taking my time. My tongue circles one nipple, then the other, feeling them harden against me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, not pulling, just holding on. Like I'm something worth keeping.
Lower I go, mapping the terrain of her ribs, the soft dip of her belly, the curve of her hip. I slide my hands beneath her, lifting her up to my mouth. Her thighs part for me, and I settle between them, breathing her in.
The first touch of my tongue makes her gasp.
I go slow, tasting her like I'm memorizing the flavor.
And I am. Every sound she makes, every tremor that runs through her body, I'm storing it all away.
For when this ends. For when she realizes what I've always known—that I'm just a placeholder until something better comes along.
But right now, she's mine. All mine.
Her hips rise to meet my mouth. I hold her steady, my hands spanning her waist as I lick into her, finding the rhythm that makes her breath catch. She's so wet against my tongue, so ready. Her hands fist in the sheets, then in my hair, then back to the sheets.
"Legion," she breathes, and my name in her mouth sounds like something holy.
I feel her getting close, her thighs tensing around my head, her breathing shallow and quick. I pull back, not ready for this to end. Not ready to let her go.
She makes a sound of protest that turns into a sigh as I move up her body, kissing my way back to her mouth. She tastes herself on my lips, and it makes her moan.
I yank my sweats down, position myself between her legs, the head of my cock sliding against her slickness. Her eyes lock with mine as I push inside, slow and steady, until I'm buried. "Fuck," I whisper against her temple, overwhelmed by the feel of her around me. Tight, and hot, and perfect.
I start to move, each thrust measured and deep. Not rushing. Not chasing. Just feeling every inch of her wrapped around every inch of me.
Her hands slide down my back, tracing the angels and demons inked into my skin. Touching the scars, the stories, the marks of a life lived hard, and fast, and without grace.
But there's grace here now. In the way she touches me. In the way she sees me.
I watch her face as I move inside her. The way her lips part. The flutter of her eyelashes. The flush that spreads across her cheeks and down her throat.
"Savannah," I whisper, her name the only prayer I know.
She arches beneath me, taking me deeper, her legs wrapping around my waist. I slide my hand between us, finding that spot that makes her cry out. My thumb circles it in time with my thrusts, and I feel her start to tighten around me.
"Look at me," I tell her, and she does, her eyes finding mine in the darkness. "Stay with me."
She nods, holding my gaze as her body begins to pulse around my cock. I watch every flicker of pleasure cross her face, every gasp and sigh and silent scream. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I follow her over the edge, spilling into her with a groan that comes from somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere I thought was empty until she filled it.
Savannah fits against me like she was carved from my rib.
She curls into my side, her head finding that hollow beneath my shoulder where it's always belonged.
Her breathing slows, but her fingers don't. They keep moving, tracing the tally marks etched near my collarbone like she's trying to count them.
Like she's trying to understand what each one means.
She won't. Nobody does. Not even Diesel, who's seen me add to them.
One mark for each time I should've died but didn't. One mark for each debt I'll never repay. One mark for each sin I've committed that can't be washed away.
I've stopped counting. Just keep adding.
Her fingers finally still against my skin. Her breathing deepens, evens out. Sleep claims her while I'm still wide awake, my mind racing like an engine redlining.
She clings to me even in sleep. Her arm draped across my chest, leg hooked over mine, like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
And she should be.
Fear's the only rational response to a man like me.
I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows from the trees outside dance across it. This room is bigger than my entire trailer. The sheets smell like fabric softener, not cigarettes and motor oil. Everything here is clean, soft, expensive.
Everything except me.
Her grip tightens in her sleep, fingers digging into my ribs.
I recognize fear when I feel it. Been the cause of it often enough.
She's afraid—of what I mean, what I bring, the darkness that follows me like a shadow.
The danger I carry isn't something you can lock outside with fancy security systems and gates.
It's in my blood. In my name.
The tattoos across my back press into the mattress beneath me. The angels, the demons, the eternal war—all of them watching, judging. Reminding me of every decision I've made that led me here. Every failure. Every inevitable betrayal waiting to happen.
The archangel on my chest seems to burn, like it knows I don't belong here. Like it knows I'm just pretending. Playing house in a mansion while my brothers at the club turn their backs on me. While Cash watches from the shadows, waiting for me to fuck up so he can take Mercy for good.
While Savannah dreams of a life I can never give her.
I don't sleep. Don't even try. Just lie there counting her breaths instead, memorizing the rhythm.
One-two-three-pause. One-two-three-pause.
Storing it away for the long nights ahead when I'll be alone again, staring at a different ceiling, remembering how it felt to hold something clean, and whole, and good in these bloodstained hands.
Her hair spills across my chest like honey. I touch it carefully, afraid to wake her. It's so soft, it barely feels real. Nothing about this feels real.
Not the linen sheets. Not the moonlight streaming through windows without bars. Not the woman sleeping in my arms like I'm something worth holding onto.
Especially not the choice I've already made.
Mercy's getting her shot. The education, the horses, the chance to be something more than a Kane. The chance to break the curse that's followed our bloodline for generations.
And Savannah... Savannah gets her freedom. From Marcus. From her brothers. From her mother's ghost and all those photographs.
From me.
She mumbles something in her sleep, burrowing closer. I wrap my arm around her, holding her tight against me. Memorizing the weight of her. The smell of her hair. The way her breath feels against my skin.
Outside, an owl calls into the darkness. Another answers. They speak a language I don't understand, but it sounds like a warning.
I close my eyes, not to sleep but to focus. To remember this moment exactly as it is. To burn it into my memory alongside all the other things I've lost.