Chapter 11
The cookout wound down around midnight, brothers drifting toward their rooms or the garage or wherever men like these went when the party ended. Bethany helped clean up, trading easy jokes with Jenna and Molly, feeling more settled in her skin than she had in weeks.
But her mind wasn't on the cleanup.
Her mind was on Trawler. On that smile. On the way his thumb had traced her knuckles like she was something precious.
On the door to the prospect quarters, where he'd been sleeping since he gave her his room.
She lasted until one AM. Then she found herself standing in the hallway outside his door, heart hammering, wondering what the hell she was doing.
Waiting for him to make a move could take years, she thought. The man communicated in single syllables and loaded silences. If she wanted something to happen between them, she was going to have to be the one to start it.
She knocked before she could talk herself out of it.
Footsteps. A pause. Then the door opened, and Trawler stood there in worn jeans and nothing else, looking like someone had carved a Greek statue out of danger and bad decisions.
Her mouth went dry.
"Bethany." His voice was rough with sleep—or something else. "It's late."
"I know." She swallowed hard, trying not to stare at the expanse of his chest, the scars scattered across his skin like a roadmap of violence. "I couldn't sleep."
"Something wrong?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." She laughed, the sound coming out shaky. "I'm standing outside your door at one in the morning because I can't stop thinking about you, and I don't know if that's something wrong or something right or just me being an idiot who doesn't know when to leave well enough alone."
He stared at her. That unreadable expression, those dark eyes giving nothing away.
Then he stepped back and opened the door wider.
She walked in before she could second-guess herself. The room was small—prospect quarters weren't meant for comfort—but it smelled like him, leather and that woodsy something she still couldn't identify. A narrow bed. A chair with his cut draped over it. Nothing personal, nothing soft.
Except him, watching her with an intensity that made her skin burn.
"Bethany." Her name in his mouth sounded like a warning. Or a prayer. "You should go back to your room."
"Probably." She turned to face him, chin up, heart racing.
"But I'm tired of doing what I should. I've spent my whole life being practical, being careful, waiting for the right moment.
And then someone tried to burn down my bar, and a man I barely knew killed for me, and now I'm standing here thinking what the hell am I waiting for? "
"I'm not—" He stopped, jaw working. "I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
"Words. Feelings. Any of it." He gestured between them, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "You deserve someone who can tell you what you mean to them. Who can—"
"Trawler." She closed the distance between them, stopping just shy of touching. "I talk enough for both of us, remember? You don't have to be good at words. You just have to be here."
His breath came out ragged. She could see the war in his eyes—want against caution, hunger against control.
"If we do this," he said, low and rough, "I'm not going to be able to let you go."
"Who says I want you to?"
Something snapped.
His hands found her waist, pulling her against him with a force that stole her breath. Then his mouth was on hers, and thinking stopped entirely.
The kiss was everything she'd imagined and nothing like she expected. Fierce, yes—desperate, claiming, the kind of kiss that branded itself into memory. But underneath the intensity was a tenderness that made her chest ache. Like he was trying to tell her everything he couldn't say out loud.
She kissed him back with equal fervor, hands sliding up his bare chest, feeling muscle shift beneath scarred skin. He groaned against her mouth—a low, broken sound that sent heat pooling in her belly.
"I talk during sex," she gasped when they came up for air. "Fair warning. I can't help it. If that's going to bother you—"
"Nothing about you bothers me." He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and suddenly her legs were wrapped around his waist, her back against the wall. "Talk all you want."
"Oh God." She clutched his shoulders as his mouth found her neck. "Okay. Good. Because I'm probably going to say a lot of things and some of them might not make sense but—oh—that's really, um, that's really good, whatever you're doing there—"
His laugh vibrated against her throat. An actual laugh. She'd made him laugh during foreplay, and somehow that felt like as big an achievement as anything else.
"You're incredible," she babbled as he carried her toward the bed.
"You know that? Absolutely incredible. I keep thinking I've figured you out and then you do something like laugh and I realize I don't know anything.
Also you're really strong. Like, unfairly strong.
Is that from the bouncer years or is that just—"
He laid her on the bed and covered her body with his, and the words died in her throat.
Massive, she thought dizzily. He was everywhere—above her, around her, blocking out the light like an eclipse made of muscle and heat. And yet when he touched her, when his scarred hands slid beneath her shirt, the gentleness was almost unbearable.
"Still talking?" he murmured against her collarbone.
"Give me a second. I'm—oh—I'm recalibrating."
He smiled against her skin. She felt it. And then his hands found new territory, and coherent thought became a distant memory.
She talked through it.
Couldn't help it—words tumbling out between gasps and moans, a running commentary that would have embarrassed her if she'd had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.
She told him what felt good, what she wanted, what she needed.
Praised him when he got it right, which was often.
Laughed when things got awkward, because sex was always a little awkward and pretending otherwise was exhausting.
And he listened.
Responded to her voice like it was guiding him, adjusting to her directions with that same focused attention he brought to everything.
Every gasp earned a repeat; every whispered plea was answered.
He made her feel seen in the most literal way possible—like he was cataloging her reactions, filing them away, learning her body like a language he intended to become fluent in.
When she shattered, his name on her lips, he held her through it. Watched her with something like reverence in his dark eyes. And when she pulled him down for a kiss, demanding more, he gave her everything she asked for.
Afterward—sweaty, sated, her voice finally hoarse from overuse—she lay sprawled across his massive chest and tried to remember how to form sentences.
"That was..." She trailed off, lacking adequate vocabulary.
"Yeah." His hand traced lazy patterns down her spine. "It was."
"You're really good at that."
"You gave good directions."
She laughed, pressing her face against his chest. His heartbeat was slowing, that powerful rhythm settling into something steady and calm. She matched her breathing to it, feeling herself drift.
"I've never felt safer," she mumbled against his skin. "Isn't that weird? I should feel vulnerable. I'm lying here naked with a man who could break me in half without trying. But instead I feel..."
"Safe."
"Completely. Utterly. Safe." She lifted her head to look at him, finding his dark eyes already watching her. "What about you? What do you feel?"
He was quiet for a long moment. She'd learned not to rush him—his silences weren't empty, just thoughtful.
"I've never wanted to protect anyone this much," he said finally. The words came out rough, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep. "Not just from Jessup. From everything. From anything that might hurt you."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Maybe." His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her gaze. "Doesn't change anything. You're mine now. I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have rankled. She'd spent her whole life rejecting ownership, fighting against any man who thought he could claim her.
But this was different. This wasn't about control—it was about care. About someone wanting to stand between her and the world, not because she couldn't handle it herself, but because he couldn't bear the thought of her being hurt.
"Yours," she repeated, testing the word. It fit better than she expected. "Does that make you mine?"
"Been yours since you grabbed that shotgun."
"That was barely two weeks ago."
"Felt longer." His thumb traced her cheekbone, that gentle touch that still made her shiver. "Felt like I'd been waiting for you my whole life and didn't know it until you were standing there, ready to fight the world with a twelve-gauge and a smart mouth."
"Trawler." Her voice caught. "That might be the most words you've ever said at once."
"You're a bad influence."
She laughed, tears prickling unexpectedly. Happy tears, she realized. The kind she hadn't cried in years.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted. "This—us—the club, all of it. I'm making it up as I go."
"So am I." He pulled her closer, tucking her against his side like she belonged there. "But I know one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm not letting you go." His arm tightened around her, possessive and protective and somehow exactly right. "Whatever happens with Jessup, whatever comes next—you're staying. Here. With me."
"That sounds like an order."
"It's a promise."
She should argue. Should point out that she had a bar to rebuild, a life to reclaim, a stubborn independent streak that balked at any man making decisions for her.
Instead, she pressed a kiss to his chest and let her eyes close.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll stay."
His exhale was shaky with relief. His arms tightened around her. And Bethany realized, with a clarity that pierced through her exhaustion, that she'd just made the easiest promise of her life.
They fell asleep tangled together, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her like he was afraid she might disappear. The narrow bed barely fit them both, but neither minded the closeness.
His silence and her chatter had found their balance. Two broken people, fitting together in the dark.
Outside, the Chesapeake lapped against the docks, and the compound slept, and somewhere in the distance, Carl Jessup was planning his next move.
But in this room, in this moment, there was only the steady beat of Trawler's heart and the warmth of his body and the bone-deep certainty that Bethany Cole had finally, impossibly, found where she belonged.