Chapter 23 Them
Them
The first thing you noticed walking into the loft was the fire.
It looked too grand for the space, an old stone hearth that belonged in a ski lodge or hunting cabin, not this concrete-and-exposed-brick box two stories up from the bar.
Axel stared into it like he was staring at the mouth of hell, or heaven, or maybe just watching the logs burn for the hell of it. You could never tell with the man.
There was a Christmas tree in the corner, jammed between the window and a pillar covered in gang graffiti.
Darla had made a big show of dragging it home herself, sap in her hair and a sarcastic Christmas sweater two sizes too small.
Now the tree wore a mishmash of ornaments: black glass balls, whiskey miniatures, a candy cane shaped like a middle finger, and some antique angel she’d jacked from a thrift store and Sharpied tattoos onto.
Strings of colored bulbs blinked epileptically.
It looked like it was dying, but stubbornly refused to fall over.
Darla sat cross-legged on the rug, her bare feet disappearing into the shag.
Her hair—unbleached since spring, the color of cheap honey—was up in a messy knot.
She was wearing an old flannel shirt of Axel’s and nothing underneath.
She’d lost the pants somewhere between breakfast and now.
He was sprawled behind her on the couch, legs apart, boots off, but still in his battered jeans.
They were both a little drunk, or maybe high on not being hunted for once.
The air had that quiet, after-the-war feeling. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all, just packed with things no one felt like saying yet.
Darla turned, holding up a shot glass with a painted snowman flipping the bird. “Cheers, you old bastard,” she said, and tossed it back.
Axel’s mouth twitched. In six months, she’d only seen him smile in two situations: sex and violence. Sometimes both. She wondered if she should be worried about that.
He handed her a small, square package wrapped in shiny gas-station Santa paper. The tape was all crooked. “Merry Christmas.”
Darla eyed it, then him, then tore in with all the subtlety of a raccoon at a dumpster. Under the cheap wrap was a velvet box. For a split second, her heart banged against her ribs like a caged animal. She wasn’t the ring type, but still, it hit her right in the girl-brain.
Inside was a fine silver chain, delicate but strong, and the ring, Axel’s old club ring, the one she’d slipped off his finger the night they torched her father’s office. She wore it now on a chain she bought for five bucks at a pawn shop. This new one was bright, sturdy, and made for her.
She looked up, blinking harder than she wanted to admit. “You kept this?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d want the old hunk of steel. It’s—” He ran a hand through his hair. “This one’s real silver. For your neck. Or wherever.”
She put the ring on the chain and did the clasp with shaky fingers. Then she stood and straddled his lap on the couch, arms around his neck, face inches from his. Axel’s beard was scratchy, his lips dry, and she wanted to bite them.
She did.
The kiss went sideways, turned into an accidental headbutt, and she laughed into his mouth, but he just pulled her tighter, hands roaming under the flannel. When he grabbed her bare ass, she squeaked and bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
He grinned at her with blood on his teeth. “Fuck,” he said reverently.
“Yeah,” she whispered, and started on his buttons.
Axel caught her wrists before she got far, and for a second she thought he’d ruin the mood, pull his “not yet, baby” routine. Instead, he pressed her hands to his chest, slow and firm, until she could feel his heart, uneven but stubborn. He wasn’t a sentimental guy, but this was as close as he got.
She let her hands fall, then started again, slower.
One button at a time, while she ground her hips into his, his cock getting hard under her.
She felt the heat of the fire on her back and the chill of the winter night seeping through the window all at once.
Her nipples peaked, and Axel smoothed his hands up her ribs, over her breasts, barely cupping them.
His touch was careful, almost worshipful, which made her insane with wanting.
He pulled her down, rolled so she landed beneath him on the couch, hair falling in her face.
The tree lights painted his scars green and red, gave his tattoos a sick holy-glow.
She could see the ragged line above his left cheek, the one that matched her own tiny scar.
He’d given it to her by accident. Their private little Christmas miracle.
Axel slid the flannel off her shoulders, kissed her collarbone, and then the silver chain, breathing her in. “Looks better on you,” he said.
“Damn right,” Darla said, and tugged him down for another kiss.
They didn’t fuck like normal people. It was always a little bit desperate, like both were sure someone would come for them at any second. But tonight, for once, no one was. So they took their time.
Axel’s tongue traced her sternum, then the curve of her breast, then lower, slow enough to make her groan and buck her hips. He pressed her thighs apart with calloused hands, kissed the inside of her knee, then bit down until she squealed and shoved at his head.
She hooked her ankles around his back, yanking him up. “I want you,” she said, voice thick and serious.
He gave her that look, the one that meant he was about to ruin her, and for a second her heart did a weird stutter-step of fear and joy.
He slid into her, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. She dug her nails into his shoulders, tried not to cry, but the feeling overwhelmed her. He kissed her then—so softly, so uncharacteristically gentle, that she let the tears come, and neither of them said a word about it.
Axel fucked her like he was making a promise, a vow. Slow at first, grinding deep, hands cradling her skull. He muttered blasphemies into her ear. The fire popped in the hearth, shooting sparks up the flue, and the tree’s lights flickered frantic Morse code onto the ceiling.
Darla clung to him, hips arching up, hair damp with sweat, her new chain sticky against her throat. It felt like forever, the slow build. Like they were trapped in a snow globe and nothing could get in. She liked it. Hated how much she liked it, but still.
He sped up, pace going ragged. Her body answered him, muscles tightening, pressure mounting, until everything in her screamed for release. She came hard, mouth open, hair wild, and he followed, gasping into her shoulder, arms shaking.
They stayed there, tangled and panting, for a long time.
When the fire died to embers, Axel draped the flannel back over her, tucking it around her with surprising care. Darla blinked at the Christmas tree, watched its fucked-up little angel spin drunkenly on the top branch. The whole place smelled like smoke and sex and peppermint schnapps.
She reached up and touched the silver chain, still warm from his skin.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” she murmured.
Axel just grunted and pulled her closer, like he’d never let go.
Darla traced the chain around her neck, the ring perfectly cold now, and stared at the empty space above the mantel where most people would hang a wreath.
She wondered if her father was locked up somewhere in a state pen, plotting his next sermon for an audience of felons.
She almost missed him. Not in the way that little girls missed their daddies, but like a chess player missed a worthy opponent.
Axel rolled to his side and grunted, “You thinking about him?”
She didn’t answer. She watched the snow swirl in the alley below, then turned to face him. “Did you ever believe in God?” she asked.
He wiped sweat from his brow, then wiped his hand on her ass. “I believe in what’s in front of me.” His eyes flicked down her body, then back up, daring her to call him out for being a sap.
Darla smirked. “Good answer, Mr. Martin.”
He growled, “Don’t call me that.”
She propped herself on one elbow, chain falling between her breasts. “You want to hear something funny?” Her voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, like the shine on a straight razor.
Axel closed his eyes. “Probably not. But go ahead.”
“Reverend Maple’s not coming back. Life sentence. Human trafficking, drug running, racketeering, murder. You name it.”
Axel’s eyes snapped open. For a guy who’d killed more than his share, the word ‘murder’ still did something to him. “He gonna die in a cage?”
She nodded, watching him. “And you know what the best part is?” She leaned in, lips grazing his ear. “I’m taking over the church. Effective next Sunday.”
He blinked, uncomprehending. Then he laughed, a deep, broken sound that made her shiver. “You? You’re gonna run that fucking cult?”
Darla grinned, all teeth. “Who better than the prodigal daughter? Maple left a power vacuum. The sheep need a shepherd. The council already tapped me to ‘interim’ preach. Turns out, a little backbone and a hot set of pipes go a long way.”
He stared at her for a long moment, like he was seeing her for the first time. “You’re insane.”
She shrugged, letting the flannel slide down to her hips. “Runs in the family.”
He sat up, hair a mess, face raw with confusion and something else—awe, maybe. Or terror. “You sure about this?”
She looked down at him, slow and deliberate. “The church has money. Real estate. Loyal followers. I’m not burning it down, I’m inheriting it.” She bent to his ear again, her tongue flicking the lobe. “And I want you on my security detail.”
He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her onto his lap. “You want the MC to play bodyguard?”
“I want the MC to run the show.” She ground her hips against his, feeling him harden again, cock twitching against her thigh. “It’ll keep the bikers out of jail and the wolves at bay. Legit front, underground perks. Nobody gets hurt unless they ask for it.”
She could see the wheels turning in Axel’s head. He was a brute, but not stupid. “You’re gonna be a preacher,” he said, as if saying it out loud would make it less absurd.
Darla wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed tight to his chest. “I’ll be whatever the fuck I want.”
He kissed her then, hard and punishing, biting her lip until she moaned.
She let him throw her back onto the rug, the coarse wool burning her skin as he spread her thighs and dove between them.
His beard scratched, his tongue soothed, and when he slid two fingers inside, she gasped loud enough to set the little angel on the tree quivering.
She fisted his hair, yanked him up. “I want you inside me when I make the announcement,” she said, voice hoarse.
He needed no more invitation. He hooked her legs around his waist, lifted her up, and carried her to the wall.
She clung to him, nails digging furrows down his back as he pinned her with one hand and slid his cock in deep.
He fucked her against the brick, rough and relentless, until she clawed at his shoulders, begging for it, the word “Harder” a broken prayer in her throat.
He bit her neck, not gently, and growled, “You’re full of surprises, Pastor’s daughter.”
She came around him, every muscle locking tight, and it felt like being reborn. When his own orgasm hit, he roared into her mouth, slamming her harder into the wall, and the glass in the window rattled.
When it was over, he let her slide down, held her there, both their bodies shaking. They sagged to the floor, pressed together, the taste of blood and sweat and ozone in the air.
Darla tucked her face into his chest, lips still curved in that dangerous, knowing smile. “It’s just the beginning,” she murmured. “We’re gonna build something that lasts.”
Axel said nothing. He didn’t have to. He just held her tighter, eyes blazing in the Christmas lights, already counting the ways to keep her safe, to keep her his.
Outside, the world was white and silent. But inside the loft, the future was chaos, blood, and brilliance—and for once, that was exactly how they wanted it.