Chapter 20
Marley was waiting at the compound bar with two glasses and the bottle that had survived.
She'd cleaned herself up while Wake was out hunting—showered, changed into jeans and one of his flannels that she'd stolen from his cabin, pulled her hair back into something that wasn't a disaster.
Not because she was trying to impress anyone, but because she needed to do something with her hands while she waited.
The bottle sat on the bar between the two glasses. Eighteen-year bourbon, still sealed. The last piece of the Anchor that hadn't been destroyed.
She heard the bikes before she saw them. Heard the compound gate open, heard the engines cut, heard the murmur of voices as brothers returned from whatever violence they'd done in her name.
Then Wake walked through the door.
He looked tired. Blood on his knuckles, lake water still damp on his jeans, that particular emptiness in his eyes that came after killing. He stopped when he saw her, and something in his face shifted.
"You waited up."
"I had bourbon to drink." Marley gestured at the empty stool across from her. "Seems wrong to open it alone."
He crossed the room and sat down, moving like a man who'd been running on adrenaline for hours and was finally letting himself feel the crash. She watched him settle, watched his hands flatten on the bar top, watched him take a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep.
"It's done," he said. "Samples is dead."
"You told me at the dock."
"I know. I just—" He shook his head. "I wanted you to know it was clean. That he suffered before the end."
Marley picked up the bottle and broke the seal.
The crack of the wax was louder than she expected. She poured two fingers into each glass, steady and precise, the way she'd poured ten thousand drinks before this one. But this wasn't a drink for a customer. This was something else.
"My uncle saved this bottle for twenty years," she said. "He always said he was waiting for the right occasion. Something worth celebrating."
"And this is it?"
She slid his glass across the bar. "The man who destroyed his bar is dead. The woman who kept it running is still standing." She lifted her own glass. "Seems worth celebrating to me."
Wake picked up his bourbon but didn't drink. He just held it, looking at her across the bar with those lake-water eyes that had seen too much tonight and still came home to her.
"To your uncle," he said.
"To endings." She clinked her glass against his. "And whatever comes after."
They drank together. The bourbon was smooth, rich, better than anything she'd ever served at the Anchor. Eighteen years of waiting, and it had been worth it.
"Come on." She set down her glass and came around the bar, taking his hand. "I don't want to be here right now."
"Where do you want to be?"
"Your cabin." She pulled him to his feet. "With you. Just us."
He followed without argument.
The night air was cool on her skin as they crossed the compound. The other brothers had dispersed—some to cabins, some to continue celebrating, some to stand watch on the perimeter. No one paid attention to Wake and Marley walking hand in hand through the darkness.
This was normal now. Expected. She was his and everyone knew it.
The cabin door closed behind them, and Marley pulled him into a kiss.
It was different from before. Not the careful exploration of their first night, when she'd been learning the shape of him.
Not the desperate collision after the assault, when adrenaline had demanded release.
This was something else. Slower. Deeper.
The kiss of two people who knew exactly what they wanted and had all the time in the world to take it.
Wake's hands settled on her hips, pulling her closer. She went willingly, pressing herself against the solid warmth of him, feeling his heartbeat through the thin fabric between them.
"Marley." Her name was a rumble against her lips. "What do you need?"
"You." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "Just you. Slow."
Something softened in his expression. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his calloused thumb tracing her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"I can do slow."
He kissed her again, and this time there was no urgency. No desperation. Just the steady, thorough exploration of a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing more important than the woman in his arms.
They undressed each other piece by piece.
His shirt first, then hers—his flannel that she'd borrowed, sliding off her shoulders and pooling on the floor.
His hands mapped the curves of her body like he was memorizing her, learning her by touch in a way that went beyond the frantic grasping of their earlier encounters.
"You're beautiful," he said, and it didn't sound like a line. It sounded like a fact he was just now letting himself acknowledge.
"You're biased."
"Damn right I am."
He laid her on the bed and followed her down, his weight settling over her like a promise. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, and for a long moment they just breathed together.
"After," she said quietly. "When Maddox is gone and this is over—what happens?"
Wake lifted his head, looking down at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" She searched for words. "The bar is destroyed. Your patch vote is coming. We've been surviving together, but is that all this is? Survival?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted, propping himself on his elbow so he could see her face clearly.
"I'm going to rebuild the Anchor," he said. "With my own hands if I have to. New bar top, new shelves, new everything. It'll take months, maybe longer. But when it's done, it'll be better than before."
Her throat tightened. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His hand spread across her stomach, warm and possessive. "I want to. Because it matters to you, and you matter to me. That's what this is, Marley. Not survival. Building something."
"And if they vote you in? Full patch, full member—"
"Then I'll be a Ridgerunner who spends his days fixing boats and his nights at your bar." He smiled—that rare, devastating smile that transformed his whole face. "A mechanic and a bartender. That's what we are. That's what we're building."
She felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back. "I've never trusted a man who worked as hard as I do."
"No?"
"Never thought they existed." She reached up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
"I watched my mother chase man after man, looking for someone who'd stay.
They never did. They'd make promises and break them.
Say they loved her and leave. I swore I'd never be like her—never count on anyone but myself. "
"And now?"
"And now I'm lying in bed with a man who killed someone for me tonight." She let out a shaky laugh. "Doesn't seem like the kind of thing you do and then walk away."
Wake turned his head to press a kiss to her palm. "I'm not walking anywhere."
"I know." And the terrifying thing was, she believed him. "I know you're not."
He kissed her then, slow and deep, and Marley let herself fall into it. Let herself trust that he'd catch her, that he'd keep catching her, that this thing between them wasn't just the desperate connection of two people in crisis.
They made love with the kind of patience that only came from certainty.
No rushing, no grasping, just the steady rhythm of two bodies that knew each other now.
She sighed his name—his real name, Austin—and felt him shudder in response.
He whispered things against her skin, promises and claims that she'd remember long after the pleasure faded.
Mine. Yours. Always.
When she came apart, it was gentle. A wave instead of a crash, rolling through her in slow pulses that left her breathless and shaking. He followed a moment later, his face buried in her neck, her name on his lips like a prayer.
They lay tangled together in the aftermath, hearts slowing, breath evening out. Marley traced patterns on his chest with her fingertip, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady thump of his heart.
"What you said before," she murmured. "About rebuilding the bar."
"I meant it."
"I know." She tilted her head to look at him. "But I don't want you to do it for me. I want you to do it because it's ours now. Not just mine. Ours."
Something fierce flickered in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"The Anchor survived my uncle drinking himself to death.
It survived Maddox and the Razorbacks and everything they threw at it.
The bones are still there, Wake. The foundation.
" She pressed her hand flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palm.
"That's what we're building on. Not just a bar. A life."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he rolled onto his side, facing her, his hand coming up to cup her face.
"I've never had this," he said. "Someone who understood. Someone who worked as hard as me and wanted the same things and actually—" He broke off, shaking his head. "You pour me a drink like you already know what I need. Before I ask. Before I even know myself."
"That's my job."
"No." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "That's you. That's who you are. Someone who sees what people need and gives it to them, even when they don't deserve it."
"You deserve it."
"Maybe." He kissed her forehead. "Maybe not. But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to."
Marley closed her eyes and let herself rest against him. The cabin was warm, the sheets were soft, and the man beside her was solid and real and hers.
Tomorrow, the club would plan the final assault. Tomorrow, they'd go to war with whatever was left of Maddox's crew. Tomorrow, everything could change.
But tonight—
Tonight, she had this. A rebuilt future, a partner who stayed, and a bottle of eighteen-year bourbon on the bedside table that had been worth the wait.
She fell asleep with Wake's heartbeat under her ear and his arms around her, and for the first time in her life, she didn't dream about losing things.
She dreamed about keeping them.