Chapter 22
Two weeks after Jessup burned, Trawler made Bethany Cole his old lady.
The ceremony was simple—Salt Blood didn't do elaborate rituals or fancy speeches. Just brothers gathered in the main room, a leather cut with his patch sewn onto the back, and the woman who'd crashed into his life and refused to leave.
She stood beside him at the head of the scarred wooden table, wearing a dress Carly had helped her pick out—something dark and fitted that made her look like she belonged here, which she did. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was talking, because of course she was talking.
"—and I know I'm supposed to be nervous, but honestly I've faced down armed men and a burning bar, so this is actually pretty low on my anxiety scale, although I did almost throw up this morning but that was probably the coffee because Jenna made it and no offense to Jenna but her coffee could strip paint—"
"Bethany." Anchor's voice cut through her rambling, warmth hiding behind his captain's steadiness.
"Right. Sorry. Shutting up now."
Laughter rippled through the room. Trawler felt his mouth curve despite himself. She'd never stop being herself—loud and nervous and filling silence like it owed her money—and he'd never want her to.
"Brothers." Anchor's voice carried the weight of ritual.
"We're here to witness a claiming. Trawler has chosen this woman.
She's proven herself in fire and in patience, stood beside us when standing was dangerous, earned her place through courage and stubbornness and a talent for making Breaker's hangovers slightly less miserable. "
"That was one time!" Breaker protested from somewhere in the back.
"Twice," Bethany corrected. "And you're welcome."
More laughter. Trawler reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers, grounding them both.
Anchor continued. "Bethany Cole came to us running from a threat. She leaves today as family. Trawler, your words."
Trawler had practiced this. Had tried out phrases in his head for days, testing them like unfamiliar weapons, discarding most of them as inadequate. In the end, he'd settled on simple.
"You grabbed a shotgun," he said, turning to face her. Her dark eyes went wide, fixed on his. "Against four armed men. Didn't know me, didn't have backup, didn't have any reason to think you'd survive. But you grabbed that shotgun anyway."
"Seemed like the thing to do," she whispered.
"That's when I knew." He lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "You don't fold. Don't break. Don't bend for anyone. And I want to spend the rest of my life watching you refuse to back down from anything."
Her breath caught. He saw the shine of tears she'd never admit to, the tremble in her jaw that said she was fighting to keep composure.
"You're mine," he said. "Have been since that night. This just makes it official."
"Trawler—"
"I've got one more thing." He reached into his cut, pulled out the patch he'd been carrying for days. Property of Salt Blood MC, it read. Trawler's Old Lady stitched beneath in clean letters. "This goes on your back. Tells everyone who sees you that you belong here. With me. With us."
She took the patch with shaking hands, traced the stitching with her fingertips. When she looked up, the tears were falling freely.
"I have words too," she said, voice cracking. "Probably too many, because you know me, I always have too many words—"
"Say them."
"I came to Port Mason running from nothing, toward nothing.
Just survival, just getting by. And then you stood up in my bar, and everything changed.
" She clutched the patch to her chest. "You taught me that strength isn't about standing alone.
That asking for help isn't weakness. That love can look like silence and scarred hands and a man who shows up every single day without fail. "
"Bethany—"
"I'm yours." The words came out fierce, certain. "Have been since you killed for me. Will be until I stop breathing and probably after that too, because I'm stubborn and not even death is going to keep me from haunting your quiet ass."
Hurricane snorted. Someone in the back whistled.
Trawler pulled her into his arms and kissed her, sealing the vow in front of everyone who mattered.
The room erupted in cheers.
The party that followed was chaos—the good kind, the joyful kind.
Brothers crowded around to congratulate them, to clap Trawler on the back and tell Bethany she was too good for him. She laughed and hugged and accepted shots pressed into her hands, that property patch already sewn onto the back of her dress by Molly's quick fingers.
And then, because she couldn't help herself, she ended up behind the bar.
"You're supposed to be celebrating," Trawler said, watching her pour drinks with familiar efficiency.
"I am celebrating. This is how I celebrate." She slid a bourbon across to him, that smile he'd learned to crave lighting up her face. "Besides, have you seen what Breaker considers a proper pour? It's criminal."
"You're working your own claiming party."
"I'm enjoying my claiming party by doing the thing I love most in the world." She leaned across the bar, stealing a quick kiss. "Well. Second most."
He caught her before she could pull away, deepening the kiss until someone—Hurricane, probably—made a gagging sound.
"Get a room!"
"I will." Trawler pulled back, holding Bethany's gaze. "Soon."
Her cheeks flushed. "Promises, promises."
The party wound on—music and laughter and the easy joy of people who'd survived something together. Trawler nursed his bourbon and watched his woman work, trading jokes with brothers, refilling drinks before anyone asked, making a room full of dangerous men feel welcome.
His woman. The words still felt new. Still made something warm unfurl in his chest.
Carly appeared beside him, Anchor's steady presence not far behind. "She's good for you."
"I know."
"I meant it the other way too." Carly's eyes were knowing. "You're good for her. Gave her something to fight for besides survival."
"She gave me the same thing."
"That's how it's supposed to work." She squeezed his arm. "Welcome to the old man club, Trawler. It's messier than you think but worth every complication."
He watched Bethany laugh at something Riptide said, watched her throw her head back and let joy fill every inch of her. The patch on her back caught the light—Trawler's Old Lady—and something in his chest that had been clenched for three years finally, completely released.
He'd spent so long guarding against failure, against loss, against the agony of letting someone close enough to hurt him. And then a mouthy bartender with a shotgun had crashed through every wall he'd built like they were made of paper.
He didn't regret a single breach.
They made it to their room around midnight.
The door barely closed before she was on him, arms around his neck, mouth hungry against his. He caught her, lifted her, pressed her back against the wall because he couldn't wait the three steps to the bed.
"I love you," she gasped between kisses.
"I know."
"No, but I really love you. Like, a lot. An unreasonable amount." Her hands fumbled with his cut, shoving it off his shoulders. "I love that you stood up for me. I love that you killed for me. I love that you sat through an entire ceremony without saying more than fifty words—"
He silenced her with his mouth.
The fourth time was different from the others. Not desperate like after the compound assault. Not tender like their first night. Not fierce like after Faulk. This was celebration—joyful, unhurried, two people who'd survived everything and finally had time to simply enjoy each other.
He took her against the wall, then carried her to the bed and took her again. She talked through it—she always talked through it—a running commentary of praise and demands and declarations that would have been embarrassing from anyone else but felt exactly right coming from her.
"I love you," she said as he kissed down her throat. "I love you," as his hands found new ways to make her gasp. "I love you," when she finally shattered, his name torn from her lips like a prayer.
He counted. Seventeen times. Seventeen declarations, each one a gift he didn't deserve but would spend his life earning.
After—tangled together in sheets that needed washing, both breathing hard—she curled into his chest and kept talking.
"That was amazing. You're amazing. I'm so glad I grabbed that shotgun. I'm so glad you stood up. I'm so glad—"
"Bethany."
She looked up, eyes bright.
"I love you."
Three words. One time. His voice came out rough, scraped raw with everything he'd never been able to express. But her face—God, her face. Like he'd given her the world.
"See?" She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "That wasn't so hard."
"It was terrifying."
"Good. Means it mattered." She snuggled closer, fitting herself against him like she'd been designed for the space. "Say it again sometime. Not all the time—I know words aren't your thing. But sometimes. When it matters."
"It always matters."
"Then whenever you can. I'll fill in the blanks."
He tightened his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and sex and something uniquely them. Outside, the party was still going—muffled laughter and music filtering through the walls. But in here, there was just the two of them.
His woman. His old lady. His home.
"I'm not going to stop talking," she mumbled against his chest, already half-asleep. "You know that, right? This is forever now. Forever of me filling every silence with whatever comes into my head."
"I'm counting on it."
"And I'm going to reorganize your sock drawer. It's chaos in there."
"Okay."
"And I'm taking over the bar completely. No more Breaker behind the counter. His pours are a disgrace."
"Whatever you want."
She lifted her head, studying him with sleepy eyes. "You mean that."
"Everything." He brushed hair from her face. "Whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy. That's my job now."
"Your job is being sergeant at arms."
"That's my work. You're my job." He kissed her forehead. "The rest of my life, remember?"
"The rest of your life," she repeated softly. "I like the sound of that."
She settled back against his chest, and within minutes her breathing evened out. Asleep, finally, her body relaxed and trusting against his.
Trawler lay awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her against his side. His silent world and her endless words. His walls and her battering ram of a personality.
Finally balanced.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, his last conscious thought a simple truth:
He'd been waiting for her his whole life.
And now she was his.