Chapter 26 #2
Syvannah nods once, quick, almost impatient. Her eyes shine when she looks up at me. “I’m okay,” she whispers, voice rough with feeling. “I want you.”
The words hit hard, heat and relief and reverence twisting together in my chest.
I lift her, and she makes a small sound of surprise, arms flying around my neck on instinct. She doesn’t fight it. She doesn’t tense. She just melts into me, legs wrapping around my waist like she’s claiming her own want, her own pleasure, without apology.
I carry her to the bed and set her down like she’s precious, like she’s powerful, like she’s both.
Peanut hops from the dresser and trots to the foot of the bed like she’s clocking her position for the night, tail flicking once before she settles, calm as if she’s done this routine with us a hundred times already.
Syvannah laughs breathlessly. “She’s ridiculous.”
“She’s family,” I murmur, and the word makes Syvannah’s expression soften like I just touched something sacred.
I hover over her for a second, braced on my hands, making sure she sees me, making sure she knows I’m not going to disappear into hunger. Syvannah’s cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from kissing, eyes steady on mine.
I trail my fingers along her jaw, down her throat, feeling her swallow. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.
I move slow on purpose. Not because I’m unsure, but because I want her to feel every second of this. Something she’s choosing, she’s controlling. I kiss her again and again, small kisses that turn into deeper ones, my mouth learning hers like it’s new, like it matters.
Syvannah’s hands roam my shoulders, my chest, my arms. Each pass more confident than the last, as if she’s relearning my body with new eyes. A body that doesn’t frighten her. A body she trusts.
Her breath quickens when I slide my palm down her side, and I pause, waiting. She meets my gaze and nods. That nod hits me harder than any moan ever could.
I keep going, removing our clothes, listening with my hands, my mouth, and every quiet sound she gives me. The room fills with heat, soft noises, and the steady creak of the mattress beneath us.
I whisper her name like a prayer. She whispers mine like it belongs to her.
When she shudders, her nails digging into my shoulders, I hold her tighter, mouth at her ear. “I got you,” I murmur. “I’m right here.”
Syvannah turns her face into my neck, shaking, and I feel the moment she lets go of something inside herself, something old and terrified that used to whisper she wasn’t allowed to want this.
Something in me goes steel-solid with it, the kind of vow I don’t speak yet because I’m too busy proving it with my hands and my mouth and my patience.
When we finally settle, the world feels softer around the edges. The air is warm. The sheets are tangled. Peanut has moved closer, a quiet weight curled near Syvannah’s thigh, purring like a tiny engine.
Syvannah lies across my chest like she belongs there, cheek pressed to my skin, one leg thrown over mine. Her fingers trace the scar along my ribs, slow and thoughtful, like she’s reading it.
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, breathing her in, feeling my heartbeat steady under her touch. “You still okay?” I ask quietly.
Syvannah lifts her head just enough to look at me. Her eyes are bright. Peaceful. Not gone, not distant, but here. She nods. “I feel good.”
The word sounds foreign in her mouth, like she’s testing it, like she’s learning she’s allowed to say it and mean it. It hits me right in the chest anyway.
I tighten my arm around her and press a kiss to her forehead. “Good,” I murmur, voice rough with relief. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Syvannah’s mouth curves into a sleepy smile, and she settles back down, fingers still tracing that scar like she’s promising me she isn’t scared of the parts of me that used to hurt.
“I love you, Syvannah Blake,” I confess.
Syvannah lifts her head, her eyes wide in surprise. “I love you, too, Ethan Cole.”
We fall asleep tangled together, her head tucked under my chin, my arm heavy across her waist like I’m holding the world in place. Peanut sleeps near Syvannah’s knees, a warm little lump that purrs in her dreams.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of the compound lights through the curtains, and Syvannah’s breathing stays deep and unguarded, the kind of sleep you only give someone when you trust they’ll keep the monsters outside.
I lie here, listening to her breathe, feeling the weight of her across my chest, and it hits me how simple this is. How impossible it used to feel.
Her fingers are curled around my chest as if she fell asleep mid-claim, and every so often she shifts, rubbing her cheek against my skin like she’s making sure I’m real.
In the middle of the night, she stirs, not fully awake, and her hand finds my ribs, palm flattening right over the scar.
The moment she touches it, my body goes rigid out of instinct, the old reflex that expects pain to follow, but she doesn’t press.
She doesn’t flinch. She just holds it like she’s keeping it safe, and in her sleep-rough voice, she murmurs, “Still here.”
My throat tightens so hard it burns. I kiss the top of her head. “Always,” I whisper back.
Syvannah sighs like that’s the only answer she needed, then settles deeper into me, warm and trusting.
Morning comes with the scent of coffee drifting up the stairs and the distant clang of tools in the garage.
Sunlight spills in thin gold lines across the bed.
Syvannah blinks awake slow, hair a mess, lashes thick with sleep, and when she looks at me, she smiles like she’s remembering something good before her brain even turns on fully.
“You staring again?” she asks, voice scratchy.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “It’s becoming a habit.”
Syvannah rolls onto her side, eyes soft. “I don’t mind.”
Peanut chooses that moment to crawl onto Syvannah’s chest and headbutt her chin, demanding attention like she’s collecting payment for emotional support services.
Syvannah laughs, scratching behind Peanut’s ear. “Good morning to you, too, boss.” Peanut meows like she’s offended Syvannah ever slept without her consent.
I swing my legs out of bed, grab my jeans, and Syvannah watches me from the pillows like she’s tracking every movement. Not fear. Not suspicion. Just… closeness.
“You got plans today?” she asks.
“Work in the garage,” I answer. “Then feeding the strays.”
Syvannah nods like she approves of the agenda. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she says, simple as that. And it does something to me that she says it with no hesitation. Like she isn’t asking whether she’s allowed to take up space in my life anymore.
She just does.
The days that follow don’t explode into fireworks. They settle into something quieter and more dangerous. Routine.
She sits on the workbench while I replace a belt on one of the bikes, sipping coffee and telling Peanut to stop bullying the dogs at the fence line.
She argues with Torch over whether cilantro is soap, which turns into a full-on brother debate that ends with Trigger threatening to ban vegetables from the compound out of spite.
She falls asleep on the couch in the common room with her legs draped across mine while the brothers watch a fight on TV, and I don’t even realize I’m stroking her ankle until Blayze tosses popcorn at my head and calls me a lovesick bastard.
Syvannah flips him off without opening her eyes.
Monica starts pulling her into Ol’ Lady business like it’s natural. Grocery lists, schedules, security notes. Syvannah listens and nods like she’s learning the rhythm of leadership through the women the same way I learned it through the men.
I catch Syvannah in the kitchen one night, standing barefoot in front of the fridge, humming again while she reads something on the grocery list. She looks up when she feels me there.
What?” she asks.
I step closer, hooking a finger under her chin. “You’re happy.”
Her eyes widen slightly, like she’s surprised I noticed. “Yeah,” she admits. “I think I am.”
That word, happy, lands like a bullet. I kiss her right there by the fridge. Slow and deep. Her hands slide into my hair like she trusts I’ll stay.
When we break apart, her forehead rests against mine. She breathes steadily. “No running,” she whispers.
“No running,” I promise. That’s when I know. Not in a dramatic lightning bolt way. In a quiet, terrifying certainty that settles in my bones.
I stand in the garage alone, staring at the wrecked parts I kept, burnt metal, twisted chrome, pieces of the old bike that used to represent everything I lost. My fingers close around a small gear, rough edges biting into my skin.
I think about Syvannah when she’s asleep in our room. I think about her voice saying still here and I realize I don’t just want her safe. I want her forever.
The ring sits heavy in my cut for three days before I finally stop pretending I’m not carrying it.
Tonight, Capone looks at me over his cigarette and says, “Roof.”
My stomach drops like I’m nineteen again, about to earn something I’m terrified of losing. I’m halfway down the hall when I stop.
The small gear presses against my ribs through leather and fabric, warm from my body, the edges worn smooth from days of handling it when no one was looking.
I reach inside and touch it. It’s still there, still real. My chest tightens.
“You good?” Trigger’s voice comes from the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me in that quiet way he does when he already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
“You look like you’re about to do something permanent,” he says.
I huff a breath. “Feels about right.”
Trigger straightens, steps closer. His eyes flick to my cut, then back to my face. “You nervous?”
I nod once. No point lying.
He surprises me by clapping a firm hand on my shoulder. “Good,” he says. “Means you’re taking it seriously.”
I glance at him. “You think I’m ready?”