Chapter 10
Saturday arrived with blue skies and the smell of smoke.
Ivy stood at the edge of the compound's central courtyard, watching preparations unfold with the organized chaos of people who'd done this a hundred times before.
Grills were wheeled out and fired up. Coolers appeared, stuffed with drinks.
Folding tables materialized from storage, covered in mismatched cloths that somehow worked together.
And everywhere—children.
Running, shrieking, chasing each other through spaces that adults navigated around without complaint. Mae was among them, her dark hair streaming behind her as she raced Diana toward some goal only they understood.
Ivy's throat tightened.
This is what she's supposed to look like.
Not hunched in a corner booth, watching doors. Not crying from nightmares about fire and angry men. Just... playing. Being five years old in a world that felt safe enough to run through without looking back.
"First cookout's always the hardest."
Ivy turned to find Ellie beside her—Reaper's woman, the one who ran the diner in town. They'd met briefly during Ivy's kitchen takeover, recognizing each other instantly as members of the same tribe: women who fed people for a living and understood what that cost.
"Hardest how?"
"Hardest to believe." Ellie's gaze tracked across the courtyard, landing on a teenage girl helping set up chairs.
Her daughter, Ivy assumed. "First time I stood here, I kept waiting for something bad to happen.
Kept thinking it couldn't possibly be real—all these people, all this noise, all this normal—when everything outside those gates was trying to tear my life apart. "
"What changed?"
"Nothing." Ellie smiled, but it carried weight. "Everything. I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and started living like the shoe might never come. Doesn't mean it won't. Just means I refuse to waste good days waiting for bad ones."
She squeezed Ivy's arm once and moved away, absorbed back into the rhythm of preparation.
Ivy watched her go, then turned back to the courtyard.
Mae had found Splinter.
He was helping set up the fire pit, hauling logs with the easy strength of someone who'd done physical labor his whole life. Mae had attached herself to his hip, carrying sticks that were too small to matter but that he accepted with the same seriousness he'd give useful contributions.
Ivy's heart did something complicated.
And lower, between her thighs, something else stirred.
She'd thought about him every night since arriving at the compound.
Couldn't close her eyes without remembering the fantasy she'd indulged that first night—his hands, his voice, the orgasm that had left her shaking and wanting.
She'd touched herself twice more since then, each time imagining him, each time coming with his name caught behind her teeth.
But she hadn't been alone with him. Hadn't had a chance to test whether the chemistry she felt was real or just the product of fear and proximity and gratitude.
Tonight, maybe.
If she could find the courage.
The cookout swelled as afternoon faded into evening.
Brothers arrived in waves, some with women and children, others alone but quickly absorbed into groups that made room without being asked.
The noise built—laughter and arguments and the sizzle of meat on grills, music from speakers someone had rigged up, the constant background hum of people being people together.
Mae ate three hot dogs and half a burger before declaring herself "too full to move forever" and collapsing dramatically onto a blanket near the fire pit. Diana joined her, and soon a pile of children had accumulated, their energy finally burning down as darkness crept across the mountains.
Ivy found a spot near the fire, close enough to watch Mae but far enough to feel like she had space to breathe. The warmth soaked into her bones, loosening tension she hadn't realized she was still carrying.
"This seat taken?"
Splinter stood beside her, two bottles of beer dangling from one hand. He looked different in the firelight—softer somehow, the hard edges that defined him during the day melting into something more approachable.
More touchable.
"It's yours if you want it."
He settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Handed her a beer without asking if she wanted one. She took it, the cold glass a contrast to the fire's heat.
"Mae's out," he said, nodding toward the pile of children.
"She ate her weight in hot dogs. I'm surprised she made it this long."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Kid's got an appetite."
"Kid's got a lot of things." Ivy took a sip of beer, let the silence stretch. "Including an attachment to a certain prospect who makes her wooden animals."
Splinter was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than usual.
"Never had this."
"Had what?"
"Any of it." He gestured vaguely at the cookout, the families, the chaos of people belonging to each other.
"Grew up with my grandfather in a holler so deep the mailman stopped coming when I was twelve.
Just the two of us, mostly. He taught me woodwork, taught me how to survive, taught me everything except how to be around people. "
Ivy waited.
"When he died, I was nineteen. Spent the next seven years working jobs, keeping my head down, not connecting with anyone because connecting meant losing and I'd already lost enough.
" He took a long pull from his beer. "Then Timber found me fixing a widow's porch for free because she couldn't pay and the wood needed doing.
Brought me to the club. And I thought—maybe this is different.
Maybe these people are worth the risk of losing. "
"Are they?"
His eyes found hers, and the intensity there stole her breath.
"Yeah. They are." A pause. "So are you."
The words landed in Ivy's chest like stones dropped into still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.
"Splinter—"
"You don't have to say anything." His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I know this is fast. I know you've got no reason to trust me beyond what I've shown you. I'm just... I'm saying it because it's true. Because I've never been good at lying and I don't want to start now."
Ivy stared at the fire, watching flames dance against the dark. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts scattered, her body acutely aware of how close he sat.
She thought about the nights she'd spent touching herself to thoughts of him. The fantasies that had grown more elaborate with each passing day. The want that had become a constant hum beneath her skin, impossible to ignore.
"Mae's father left before she was born," she heard herself say.
"Took off the second he found out I was pregnant.
Never looked back, never sent a dime, never even asked if she was okay.
" She swallowed hard. "I stopped believing in men who stayed.
Told myself it was easier that way—if you don't expect them to stick around, you can't be disappointed when they don't."
"And now?"
"Now..." She turned to look at him, really look, taking in the firelight on his face and the steadiness in his eyes and the way he sat close without crowding.
"Now I'm sitting next to a man who carved my daughter a whole zoo because her first horse got left behind in a safehouse.
Who fought off eight men to keep us safe.
Who looks at Mae like she matters, like she's his, even though he has no obligation to feel that way. "
Splinter's jaw tightened. "She does matter. So do you."
"I'm starting to believe that."
The admission hung between them, fragile and enormous.
And then his hand found hers.
Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just his fingers lacing through hers, palm warm and rough against her skin. The same hand that carved wooden animals and swung hammers and did violence when violence was required.
Holding hers like she was something precious.
Ivy's breath caught. Heat flooded her body—not just the warmth of the fire but something deeper, something that started in her chest and spread downward until she was acutely aware of the pulse between her thighs.
"Splinter." His name came out hoarse.
"Tell me to stop." His thumb traced across her knuckles, and even that small touch sent electricity sparking up her arm. "Tell me I'm reading this wrong, and I'll let go. We can pretend this didn't happen."
"I don't want you to stop."
His eyes darkened.
The world narrowed to just the two of them—the fire, the stars, the space between their bodies that suddenly felt like miles and inches all at once. Ivy could see him leaning closer, could feel the heat of him, could smell leather and smoke and something underneath that was just him.
His free hand came up to cup her face. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. His eyes dropped to her mouth.
"I've been thinking about this," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "About you. Every night since I carried Mae into that safehouse."
"Me too." The confession slipped out before she could stop it. "I've been thinking about your hands. About what they'd feel like—"
"Mama?"
They sprang apart.
Mae stood at the edge of the blanket, rubbing her eyes with one fist, the other hand clutching the wooden rabbit Splinter had carved. She looked between them with the bleary confusion of a child woken too soon from sleep.
"I had a bad dream," she said. "There were fire monsters."
Ivy's heart was still pounding, her body still thrumming with interrupted want. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on her daughter, to push aside the frustration coiling in her belly.
"Come here, baby." She opened her arms. "No fire monsters here. Just the nice fire for the cookout."
Mae shuffled over and climbed into Ivy's lap, fitting herself against her mother's chest with the automatic trust of a child who knew she was loved. Her eyes found Splinter, and some of the sleepy fear faded from her expression.
"Will you stay too?"
Splinter's gaze met Ivy's over Mae's head. The heat was still there—banked but burning, waiting. A promise of what had almost happened and might still happen, once the moment was right.
"Yeah, little one," he said softly. "I'll stay."
Mae nodded, satisfied, and burrowed deeper into Ivy's arms. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out again, the nightmare forgotten in the safety of her mother's embrace.
Ivy held her and watched the fire and tried to ignore the way her body still hummed with unfulfilled need.
Splinter sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. His hand found hers again in the darkness, hidden from view by Mae's blanket. His thumb resumed its slow circles on her knuckles.
"Rain check?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
"Definitely."
They sat there as the compound settled around them, the chaos of the evening fading into the quiet of night. Mae slept between them, her small body a bridge connecting their hearts.
And Ivy let herself believe, just for a moment, that this could last.
That the interrupted almost-kiss was just the beginning.
That whatever was building between them would find its moment eventually.
She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, and the promise in that simple touch was enough.
For now.