Chapter 25
The Low Country had never looked more beautiful.
Alma pressed her cheek against Tempest's back as the bike wound through back roads she'd never explored, Spanish moss tunnels turning the afternoon light green and gold.
No destination. No timeline. No mission except this—the two of them, the road, and the simple pleasure of going somewhere together.
It was strange, this feeling. Lightness. Freedom. The absence of threat pressing down on her shoulders.
She wasn't sure she'd ever get used to it.
They stopped at a farm stand on the outskirts of Burton, the kind of place that sold vegetables from someone's backyard and didn't take credit cards. An older woman with sun-weathered skin looked up from her crossword puzzle when they pulled in.
"Peaches are fresh," she said, eyeing their cuts. "Picked this morning."
"We'll take a bag." Tempest pulled out cash while Alma wandered the stand, running her fingers over tomatoes and cucumbers and ears of corn still in their husks.
"You know your way around a farm stand." He appeared at her shoulder, bag of peaches in hand.
"I grew up in one." She picked up a tomato, feeling its weight. "My mother's garden wasn't this big, but close. She grew everything she could—said it was cheaper than buying and tasted better besides."
"She was right."
"She usually is." Alma set the tomato down and took the peaches from him, inhaling the sweet, sun-warm scent. "I used to steal these when I was a kid. Climb the tree in our neighbor's yard and eat them right off the branch."
"Criminal behavior." His voice was mock-serious. "I'm shocked."
"The neighbor knew. He'd watch me from his porch and pretend not to see." She smiled at the memory. "Said I reminded him of his daughter when she was young."
They bought more than they'd planned—the tomatoes, a jar of local honey, a bag of pecans the vendor swore came from a tree that had been producing for a hundred years.
Tempest strapped it all to the bike with the ease of a man used to improvising, and they were off again, winding deeper into the Low Country.
She told him about Hampton County as they rode.
About the farm that had taught her to work before she could read.
About the animals that had taught her to heal—the dog who'd given birth when she was eight, the calf she'd helped deliver at twelve, the countless creatures who'd shown her that gentleness and strength weren't opposites.
At some point, he pulled off onto a dirt road that led to nowhere, killed the engine, and just sat there with her arms around him, listening.
"You miss it," he said eventually. "The farm."
"Sometimes." She rested her chin on his shoulder. "But I couldn't stay. There wasn't room for who I wanted to become."
"And who's that?"
"Someone who builds things. Someone who helps." She pressed a kiss to his neck. "Someone who's done being alone."
He turned on the bike, catching her mouth with his, and the kiss was slow and sweet and tasted like peaches.
The compound was quiet when they returned.
Most of the brothers were out on club business—the normal kind, the kind that had nothing to do with property disputes or generational feuds. The compound was returning to its regular rhythm, and Alma was learning what that looked like.
Tempest led her to his room with the bag of farm stand treasures still in hand. The afternoon light was spilling through the window, painting everything gold.
"We should probably put the peaches somewhere," she said.
"Later." He set the bag on the dresser and pulled her close. "I've got other priorities."
"Do you?"
"Mm-hmm." He kissed her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Very important priorities."
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her by the playfulness in his voice. This was different. All the times before, there had been urgency. Crisis. The need to connect in the middle of chaos.
Now there was just... this. The two of them, an afternoon with nothing in it, and the luxury of time.
"You're in a good mood," she observed.
"I'm in a great mood." He pulled back to grin at her. "No one's trying to kill us. No one's burning anything down. I've got a beautiful woman in my room and a bag of peaches I plan to eat later." He kissed her nose. "Life is good."
"Life is good," she repeated, tasting the words. They felt strange in her mouth. Foreign. "That's new."
"Get used to it."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she melted into him. His hands found the hem of her shirt, tugging it free from her jeans, and she let him pull it over her head without protest.
"Afternoon light," he murmured, looking at her. "I've never seen you in afternoon light."
"Is that different?"
"Everything's different." His fingers traced down her ribs, making her shiver.
"I can see all the things I missed before.
This freckle here—" He touched a spot on her collarbone.
"These little scars from animals who didn't appreciate your help—" His fingers found the marks on her forearms. "The way your eyes go golden when the sun hits them. "
"You're being romantic."
"I'm being observational." But he was smiling, that rare full smile that transformed his whole face. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. Romance involves poetry. I don't do poetry."
She laughed again, and this time he laughed with her—a warm, easy sound that made something flutter in her chest. This was who he was underneath the guilt and the mission and the weight of everything he carried. The man who made jokes. The man who noticed freckles.
The man she loved.
"Your turn," she said, tugging at his shirt. "Fair is fair."
He obliged, pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. She'd seen him shirtless before—in the darkness of the comms room, in the aftermath of violence—but never like this. Never in golden afternoon light, with time to really look.
"You've got scars I haven't catalogued," she observed, tracing a pale line across his ribs.
"That one's from a training exercise that went wrong. The instructor apologized for six months."
"And this one?" She touched a mark near his hip.
"Barbed wire fence when I was sixteen. I was trying to impress a girl."
"Did it work?"
"Absolutely not." He caught her hand and kissed her palm. "She thought I was an idiot."
"She wasn't wrong."
"Hey." But he was grinning, and then he was pulling her toward the bed, and they fell onto it together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
The laughter didn't stop when the rest of the clothes came off. It transformed—became gasps and sighs and soft sounds of discovery. His hands traced patterns on her skin, finding spots that made her twitch and squirm.
"Ticklish," he said with delight, brushing his fingers along her ribs again.
"Don't you dare—"
He did. She shrieked, batting at his hands, and he was laughing too, catching her wrists and pinning them gently above her head.
"Surrender," he said, grinning down at her.
"Never."
"Wrong answer."
He kissed her instead of tickling her again, and the kiss was long and slow and turned into something else entirely. Her wrists stayed pinned—not hard, just there—and the playfulness shifted into heat without losing its warmth.
"I want you," she said against his mouth. "Wes. I want you."
His eyes darkened at the sound of his name, but the smile didn't fade. "You have me."
"Show me."
He released her wrists and took his time instead.
Every touch was deliberate but unhurried, exploring rather than conquering.
She found herself doing the same—learning the places that made his breath catch, the spots where his muscles tensed, the way his whole body responded when she traced her nails down his back.
When he finally slid into her, they both sighed. Not the desperate gasps of before, but something softer. Something that said yes, this, exactly this.
They moved together slowly, savoring every sensation. His hands cupped her face. Her legs wrapped around him. The afternoon light painted them both in gold, and Alma felt tears prick at her eyes.
Not from sadness. Not from grief.
From joy. Pure, overwhelming joy.
"I'm happy," she whispered. "That's new."
"Get used to it," he said again, and kissed away the tears that escaped.
The release, when it came, was gentle. A wave rather than a crash. They crested together, breathing each other's names, and the aftermath was warm and soft and full of more laughter.
"I can't believe we just did that in daylight," she said, her head on his chest. "Like normal people."
"We are normal people."
"We absolutely are not." She propped herself up to look at him. "Normal people don't have compound security and brotherhood loyalty and kitten mascots."
"Marmalade is not a mascot. She's a supervisor."
"She's definitely a supervisor." Alma settled back against his chest. "She's going to be mad we didn't invite her."
"She'll survive."
The afternoon stretched out before them, golden and unhurried. Somewhere on the dresser, peaches were warming in the sunlight. Somewhere in the compound, the brotherhood was handling whatever needed handling. Somewhere in Beaufort County, a clinic was waiting to be rebuilt.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, there was just the two of them in the afternoon light, finally receiving something they hadn't had to earn.
"I love you," she said. It came out easy now, natural as breathing.
"I love you too." His arm tightened around her. "Happy looks good on you."
"It feels strange. Like wearing someone else's clothes."
"Give it time. It'll start to fit."
She smiled against his chest and closed her eyes. The guilt was quiet. The clinic was coming. The afternoon was theirs.
And for the first time in her life, Alma Ruiz had nothing she needed to prove.