Chapter 10
For the first time in over a month, Bethany woke up without fear.
She lay in Trawler's bed—still his bed, still smelling like him, still making her pulse do inconvenient things—and listened to the sounds of the compound coming alive.
Engines rumbling in the garage. Voices calling to each other across the lot.
The distant cry of gulls and the ever-present whisper of water against the docks.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
She'd almost forgotten what those felt like.
By the time she made it downstairs, the compound had transformed into something approaching a celebration.
Brothers hauled coolers toward the fire pit while Breaker wrestled with a grill that looked like it had been salvaged from a battleship.
Smoke rose in lazy spirals, carrying the smell of charcoal and anticipation.
"Cookout day," Carly explained, appearing beside her with a platter of something that smelled incredible. "Every couple weeks, weather permitting. It's good for morale."
"I didn't realize outlaws had morale days."
"Honey, outlaws have the best morale days. No corporate team-building exercises, no mandatory fun—just beer, meat, and the people you'd die for." She winked. "Way better than whatever normal people do on weekends."
Bethany found herself drafted into service before she could protest. She set up a makeshift bar near the fire pit—coolers of beer, bottles of the good stuff she'd organized, glasses that actually matched—and fell into the rhythm of serving drinks like she'd been born to it.
Because she had, in a way. This was her element. The chaos, the noise, the endless requests and crude jokes and people who just wanted someone to hand them a cold drink and listen to their bullshit.
"You're smiling."
She looked up to find Jenna watching her, that knowing expression the old ladies seemed to share.
"Am I?"
"Like you just remembered something you forgot you lost." Jenna accepted the beer Bethany had already poured for her. "The bar life suits you."
"It's what I know."
"It's what you are. There's a difference.
" Jenna gestured at the gathering crowd—brothers sprawled in lawn chairs, kids from somewhere chasing each other around the fire pit, the women moving through it all like the glue holding everything together.
"Most people don't get it. The chaos, the noise, the constant demands. But you're thriving in it."
Bethany watched Breaker flip burgers with a spatula the size of a tennis racket while Riptide heckled him about heat distribution.
Watched Anchor and Hurricane in quiet conversation near the dock, their postures relaxed in a way she rarely saw.
Watched Molly steal a bite of something off Compass's plate while he pretended to be outraged.
"It feels like family," she heard herself say. "Even though it shouldn't."
"Why shouldn't it?"
"Because I've been here less than a week.
Because I'm only here because someone's trying to kill me.
Because—" She stopped, laughing at herself.
"Because I spent my whole life convinced I didn't need anyone, and now I'm standing behind a makeshift bar serving drinks to bikers and feeling more at home than I've felt in years. "
Jenna's smile softened. "That's how it gets you. One day you're running from your life, the next you're building a new one without realizing it."
Before Bethany could respond, a shadow fell across the bar.
Trawler.
He looked different in daylight, away from the weight of security briefings and threat assessments. Still massive, still radiating that quiet danger, but there was something almost relaxed about the way he stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her with those dark eyes.
"Got a minute?"
Jenna was already moving away, that knowing smile firmly in place. "I'll cover the bar."
"You don't have to—"
"Go." Jenna shooed her out from behind the coolers. "Before he uses up his word quota for the day."
Bethany wiped her hands on her jeans and stepped around the makeshift bar, acutely aware of every inch of distance between them. "Where are we going?"
"Walk with me."
He led her away from the cookout, toward the water's edge where old dock pilings jutted from the shore like broken fingers. The noise faded behind them, replaced by the gentle lap of waves and the cry of birds wheeling overhead.
They walked in silence for a while. Bethany felt the usual urge to fill the quiet with words—comments on the weather, observations about the compound, anything to keep the air from feeling too heavy.
But somehow, with him, she didn't need to.
His silence wasn't empty. It was full—of attention, of presence, of the kind of focus that made her feel seen in ways she couldn't explain. Like he was listening even when she wasn't talking. Like her existence was enough.
"This is nice," she said eventually, because she couldn't stay quiet forever.
"The water?"
"The not-talking." She smiled at his surprised glance. "I know, I know—me, not talking. Alert the press. But I mean it. Your quiet is... comfortable. Like it's got weight."
He was silent for another moment, processing. Then: "Most people don't like silence."
"Most people are afraid of it. They think if they stop talking, they'll have to actually think about things.
Face things." She kicked a pebble into the water, watching it disappear.
"I talk because thinking is overrated and words are easier than feelings.
But with you, I don't feel like I have to fill every second. That's new."
They reached a weathered bench overlooking the bay, and Trawler sat without asking. She joined him, close enough to feel his warmth but not quite touching.
"Tell me something," he said.
"About what?"
"Before the bar. Before any of this." His dark eyes found hers. "Tell me about Bethany Cole."
Something fluttered in her chest. He wanted to know her—not the bartender, not the woman he was protecting, but the person underneath.
"There's not much to tell. Small town girl, poor family, worked my ass off to get somewhere.
" She pulled her knees up on the bench, making herself smaller.
"My mom was a housekeeper. Hotels mostly, some private homes.
She worked three jobs when I was a kid, trying to keep us in a decent apartment. Never quite managed it."
"Your dad?"
"Never knew him. Mom said he was a charmer who left before I was born.
Classic story." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I started working at sixteen. Lied about my age, got a job waitressing at this terrible diner that smelled like grease and regret. Saved every tip in a jar under my bed."
"For six years."
"For six years." The memory warmed her, even now. "Everyone thought I was crazy. Even my mom, before she passed. 'Bethany, you'll never save enough. Just get a real job, find a husband, be practical.' But I wanted something mine. Something no one could take away."
"The Rusty Hook."
"The Rusty Hook." She laughed, shaking her head. "This run-down dive in a dying fishing village. Most people saw a money pit. I saw a future. A place where I could be the boss, make the rules, build something that mattered."
Trawler was quiet, absorbing. She'd learned to read his silences now—this one meant he was thinking, processing, fitting pieces together.
"What about you?" She turned on the bench to face him. "You told me about the woman you failed. But you didn't tell me what happened after. How you got from 'face-down in a parking lot' to here."
His jaw tightened. She expected him to deflect, to close down the way he did when things got too personal.
Instead, he spoke.
"Anchor found me. I'd been drinking for three days straight, trying to forget.
He walked into that parking lot, looked at me like he could see exactly what I was running from, and said...
" He paused, something flickering across his face.
"He said 'You done feeling sorry for yourself, or you need another day? '"
"Harsh."
"Honest. There's a difference." His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "I told him to fuck off. He bought me coffee, sobered me up, and told me about Salt Blood. Said they needed someone who understood protection. Someone who'd failed at it badly enough to never fail again."
"That's dark."
"That's truth. I joined because I had nowhere else to go and nothing left to lose. I stayed because they became..." He gestured vaguely toward the compound behind them. "This. Family."
"Do you still think about her? The woman?"
"Every night." The admission was quiet, raw. "I don't sleep well. Haven't since it happened. Every time I close my eyes, I hear—" He stopped, jaw working. "I hear what was happening while I wasn't there."
Bethany's heart cracked. She reached out before she could think better of it, taking his hand, threading her fingers through his scarred ones.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your weight to carry."
"It's not yours either. Not anymore." She squeezed his hand, willing him to hear what she was saying. "You've spent three years trying to make up for one terrible night. How much longer until you forgive yourself?"
He didn't answer. Maybe he didn't have an answer.
"You know what I think?" She shifted closer, shoulder brushing his. "I think you're so busy being the strong silent type that you forget people actually want to talk to you. Want to know you. Want to—" She stopped, cheeks heating.
"Want to what?"
"I don't know. Something. Everything." She groaned, pressing her free hand to her face. "See, this is why I don't do serious conversations. I end up saying things I don't mean. Or things I do mean, which is worse."
His thumb traced across her knuckles, a gentle pressure that made her shiver.
"I like listening to you."
"Everyone says that until I've been talking for three hours about absolutely nothing."
"Three hours sounds fine."
She looked up at him, startled. His expression was still that stone-mountain neutrality, but something warm lurked in his eyes. Something that looked almost like...
"Are you teasing me?"
"Maybe."
"You're definitely teasing me. The silent scary biker is making fun of me." She shoved his shoulder with hers, grinning despite herself. "This is unprecedented. I'm going to tell everyone."
"They won't believe you."
"Probably not. You've got a very convincing resting murder face." She leaned into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. "But I know the truth now. You're secretly soft. Like a murder marshmallow."
"Murder marshmallow."
"I'm trademarking it." She felt his chest move—was that a laugh? An almost-laugh? "See, this is what I bring to the table. Excellent conversation, weird nicknames, and the ability to fill any silence known to man."
"You talk enough for both of us."
"That's the plan." She tilted her face up to look at him, heart suddenly pounding. "You do the brooding and the protecting and the being terrifyingly competent. I'll do the talking. We'll balance each other out."
His dark eyes held hers. That warmth was still there, brighter now, like embers catching fire.
And then Trawler smiled.
Not the almost-smile she'd been chasing, not the fraction of a curve that passed for amusement on his stone-carved face. An actual smile. Small, yes. Barely there. But real—crinkling the corners of his eyes, softening the hard lines of his jaw, transforming him into someone almost approachable.
Someone human.
"Deal," he said.
Bethany's heart did something stupid.
Something that felt suspiciously like falling.