Chapter 13
The adrenaline didn't fade. It transformed.
One moment Bethany was standing in the ruined kitchen, rifle still warm in her hands, two dead men at her feet. The next she was in Trawler's arms, being half-carried through the compound's damaged hallways while her body vibrated with something that wasn't fear anymore.
It was hunger.
"Your room," she gasped against his neck. "Now."
He didn't argue. Didn't slow down. Just moved faster, shouldering open the door to the prospect quarters and kicking it shut behind them with a bang that rattled the walls.
The room was dark, the predawn light barely filtering through the single window. She didn't care. Couldn't see anyway—her vision had narrowed to him, to the massive shape of him filling her world, to the desperate need to feel alive after coming so close to death.
"Bethany." His voice was wrecked, ragged. "You sure you—"
She kissed him before he could finish the question.
This wasn't like their first time. That had been tender, exploratory, two people learning each other's rhythms. This was a collision. A claiming. Teeth and tongues and hands that grabbed hard enough to bruise because gentle wasn't what either of them needed right now.
She needed to feel. He needed to mark.
They came together like a force of nature.
"More," she demanded, pulling at his clothes, at hers, at anything between them. "I need—Trawler, I need—"
"I've got you." He lifted her, pinned her against the wall, and the impact knocked the breath from her lungs in the best possible way. "I've got you. I'm here."
"Prove it."
His growl vibrated through her whole body. Then he was everywhere—hands and mouth and that overwhelming presence that made her feel small and powerful all at once. She wrapped herself around him and held on, letting the storm take her.
She was loud. Louder than before, words tumbling out in a torrent of demands and praises and sounds that didn't qualify as language. He answered every one, matching her intensity beat for beat, his control finally shattering into something raw and desperate.
"Mine," he snarled against her throat, and the word branded itself into her skin.
"Yours," she gasped back. "Yours. Don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
They ended up on the floor.
The bed was too far, too civilized for what they'd needed. The rough carpet scraped her back, his weight pressed her into the ground, and Bethany had never felt more alive in her entire life.
The second time was slower. Still intense, still claiming, but with an edge of desperation that spoke of near-misses and the terrible fragility of flesh.
She touched every scar she could reach, tracing the roadmap of violence across his skin, proving to herself that he was whole, unharmed, still breathing.
He did the same to her—hands gentling even as his mouth stayed fierce, cataloging every inch like he was memorizing her in case this was the last time.
It wouldn't be. She wouldn't let it be.
When they finally collapsed, tangled together in a sweaty heap of limbs and racing heartbeats, Bethany felt the terror she'd been holding at bay finally break through.
"I killed two men tonight."
The words came out flat, factual. She stared at the ceiling, feeling Trawler's chest rise and fall beneath her cheek.
"Yes."
"I shot them. Watched them fall. Didn't hesitate."
"You did what you had to do."
"That's just it." She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at his face in the growing light. "I don't feel bad about it. I should, shouldn't I? Two people are dead because of me, and all I feel is..."
"Relief?"
She nodded, throat tight. "Relief that I'm alive. Relief that you're alive. Relief that when it mattered, I didn't freeze or fail or—" She stopped, overwhelmed.
Trawler pulled her down against his chest, wrapping his arms around her like he could shield her from her own thoughts.
"That's how I know you're mine," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"When violence becomes acceptable. When you look at what you've done and feel relief instead of horror." His hand traced up her spine, soothing. "It means you've found something worth killing for. Worth dying for."
"That's terrifying."
"It's honest." He shifted, rolling them so they were face to face, his dark eyes holding hers with devastating intensity. "I killed for you. Would do it again without hesitation. Every man who came through that door tonight, every threat Jessup sends—I'll put them down and sleep fine after."
"Because of me?"
"Because you're mine." He said it simply, like a fundamental truth of the universe. "I protect what's mine. Whatever it takes."
She touched his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw, the softness hidden beneath all that stone. "I thought I'd feel different. After. Like something had changed, something I couldn't take back."
"Something has changed."
"What?"
"You know what you're capable of now." His mouth curved, that fraction of a smile she'd learned to treasure. "You know you can survive. Fight. Win. That's not a burden—it's a gift."
Bethany thought about the woman she'd been a month ago. Running a dive bar in a dying fishing village, stubbornly pretending she was fine, refusing to bend even when bending might have been smarter. That woman had backbone, sure—but she'd never been tested. Not really.
The woman she was now had blood on her hands and a mountain of a man wrapped around her heart.
"This is real," she said softly. "Isn't it? You and me."
"Real as it gets."
"And it's permanent?" The question came out smaller than she intended, vulnerability leaking through the cracks. "Because I can't do this—open up, let someone in, be part of something bigger—if it's just... temporary. If when Jessup's gone, you're going to—"
"Stop."
He kissed her, hard enough to cut off the spiral of anxiety. When he pulled back, his expression was fierce.
"This isn't temporary. You aren't something I'm protecting until the danger passes." His hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You're mine. Now, tomorrow, for as long as you'll have me. Jessup could die tonight and nothing would change."
"Promise?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep." He held her gaze with absolute certainty. "But I promise you this: I'm not walking away. Not now. Not ever. You're stuck with me, Bethany Cole."
She laughed, the sound catching in her throat, tangled up with tears she refused to shed. "That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"See? I'm getting better at words."
"You're getting better at everything." She kissed him, soft this time, savoring. "Though that might be the endorphins talking."
"Might be."
They lay there in the growing light, wrapped around each other, letting the weight of the night settle into something bearable. Outside, she could hear the sounds of the compound recovering—brothers calling to each other, engines rumbling, the business of cleaning up after violence.
But in here, it was just them.
"I'm scared," she admitted into the silence. "Not of you. Not of this. Just... everything."
"I know."
"Jessup's still out there. He's lost two of his top people now. He's going to come back angrier, meaner, more dangerous."
"He's going to try."
"And when he does?"
Trawler's arms tightened around her, that possessive hold she was starting to need like oxygen. "When he does, we'll be ready. The club. The brothers. You and me."
"You really think we can beat him?"
"I think he's already beaten." His voice was certain, implacable.
"He just doesn't know it yet. He came at us with everything he had tonight, and we're still standing.
His operations manager is dead. His crew is scattered.
All he's got left is money and desperation—and desperation makes men stupid. "
"And if his desperation gets someone hurt? Someone we care about?"
"Then we hurt him back. Harder." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "That's how this works. That's how we survive."
She nodded against his chest, letting his confidence seep into her bones. It wasn't blind faith—she'd seen the reality tonight, the blood and chaos and too-close calls. But it was trust. Trust in him, in the brotherhood, in the life she was choosing with open eyes.
"Worth everything," she murmured.
"What?"
"This. You. Whatever comes next." She lifted her head to meet his eyes, letting him see everything she was feeling—the fear and the love and the bone-deep certainty that she was exactly where she belonged. "It's worth everything."
His expression softened into something that made her heart ache. "Yeah. It is."
They lay tangled together as the sun rose over the Chesapeake, painting the room in shades of gold. The compound hummed with activity outside their door, brothers recovering and regrouping, preparing for whatever came next.
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 promises they'd made in the space between words.
This was real.
This was permanent.
This was worth everything.