Chapter 25
The patch was heavier than Wake expected.
He stood at the center of the compound pavilion, surrounded by every brother who'd ever worn the Ridgerunners cut, and felt the weight of two years pressing against his chest. Two years of proving himself.
Two years of early mornings and late nights and jobs that nobody else wanted.
Two years of earning this moment, one day at a time.
And now it was here.
Still stood before him, holding the patch like it was made of something precious. Because it was. This wasn't just leather and thread—it was belonging. Identity. Proof that Wake had earned his place in a family that judged men by what they did, not what they were born into.
"Austin Pryor," Still said, using his real name for the first and last time in the ceremony.
"You came to us as a prospect. You've proven yourself through work, through loyalty, through blood.
You've protected Ridgerunner territory and Ridgerunner people.
You've earned the right to stand with us as a brother. "
Wake's hands were shaking. He couldn't stop them.
"Do you accept this patch?" Still continued. "Do you swear to ride with us, fight with us, and die with us if the brotherhood demands it?"
"I do." The words came out steady, certain. The hands might shake, but the voice knew what it was saying.
Still stepped forward and pressed the patch against Wake's chest—full rocker, full colors, the Ridgerunner name blazing across the leather where the prospect patch had been.
"Then rise, brother. You're one of us now."
The pavilion erupted.
Brothers surged forward, pounding his back, gripping his shoulders, pulling him into rough embraces that smelled like leather and engine grease.
Limestone's handshake nearly crushed his fingers.
Cottonmouth nodded once—the highest praise the Sergeant at Arms ever gave.
Spillway and Proof and Current and Tailwater, one after another, welcoming him into the family he'd spent two years fighting to join.
Wake let it wash over him. Let himself feel, for the first time, like he truly belonged.
Then Still raised his hand, and the pavilion went quiet.
"We're not done," the president said. "Brother Wake has another claim to make tonight. A different kind."
The crowd parted, and Wake saw her.
Marley stood at the edge of the pavilion, wearing a dress he'd never seen—something soft and dark that hugged her curves and made her look like she belonged in a different world entirely.
But her eyes were the same. That fierce, stubborn, fighter's gaze that had hooked him from the first moment he saw her behind the bar.
She walked toward him, and Wake's heart stopped beating.
This was the moment. The claiming. The formal declaration that she was his and he was hers, witnessed by the brotherhood, sealed in tradition that went back further than anyone could remember.
Marley stopped in front of him, close enough to touch but not quite touching.
"You sure about this?" she asked quietly, for his ears only. "Last chance to run."
"I've never been more sure of anything." He took her hands, feeling the calluses on her palms, the strength in her fingers. "You're mine, Marley Boone. You've been mine since the first night I walked into your bar. I'm just making it official."
Something softened in her expression. "Then make it official."
Wake turned to face the brotherhood, Marley's hands still clasped in his.
"I claim this woman," he said, his voice carrying across the pavilion. "Marley Boone. She's mine to protect, mine to fight for, mine to stand beside. Anyone who threatens her threatens me. Anyone who hurts her answers to the whole club."
He turned back to Marley, holding her gaze.
"I built engines for eight years and never made anything that mattered. Prospected for two more and earned a patch I'll wear until I die." His voice dropped, rough with emotion. "But you—you're the thing I'm proudest of. The thing I'll spend the rest of my life earning the right to keep."
Marley's eyes were wet, but her jaw was set in that stubborn line he loved.
"I accept," she said. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm his. And he's mine. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with both of us."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. This was what the brothers liked—a woman with backbone, a woman who wouldn't be cowed, a woman who matched her man's fire with her own.
Wake pulled her close and kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't meant to be. This was a claiming kiss, possessive and fierce, telling every man watching that this woman belonged to him and he belonged to her. When they broke apart, Marley was breathing hard and her eyes were dark with promise.
"Later," she murmured against his lips.
"Definitely later."
The celebration swallowed them whole.
The old ladies descended on Marley like a protective wall—Maggie pressing a glass of champagne into her hand, Jolene adjusting her hair, Darcy and Tessa and the others forming a circle that said she's one of us now.
Wake watched them fold her into their world and felt something crack open in his chest.
Family, he thought. She has a family now. We both do.
The party roared on for hours. Brothers drinking and laughing and telling stories about Wake's prospect days—the mistakes he'd made, the jobs he'd handled, the moment they'd known he had what it took.
Marley worked the compound bar because she couldn't help herself, pouring drinks and trading insults with men who'd been strangers a month ago and were family now.
Wake sat at the end of the bar—his spot, always his spot—and watched her work.
She glowed. There was no other word for it. The fear and exhaustion that had marked her face when he first saw her across the Anchor were gone, replaced by something lighter. Something free.
I did that, he thought. I helped give her that.
Around midnight, Marley caught his eye across the bar.
"I think I'm done for the night," she said, setting down her rag. "Someone else can pour for a while."
Wake didn't need to be told twice.
They slipped away from the party, hand in hand, crossing the compound toward his cabin. The music faded behind them, replaced by the soft lap of water against the dock and the endless song of cicadas.
The cabin door closed behind them, and Marley turned in his arms.
"You did it," she said. "Full patch. Claimed woman. Everything you've been working for."
"Almost everything." He backed her toward the bed, watching her eyes darken. "There's one more thing I need."
"And what's that?"
"You." He lowered his mouth to her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath his lips. "Just you. All night. No interruptions."
She laughed—that real laugh, the one that made his chest ache—and pulled him down onto the bed.
This was different from before.
Not the careful exploration of their first night, or the desperate collision after violence, or even the deep knowing of the time they'd talked about their futures. This was celebration. Joy made physical. Two people who'd earned everything they had and intended to savor every moment of it.
Wake took his time. Worshipped her with his hands and mouth, learning again the curves he already knew by heart. She arched into him, gasping his name—his real name, Austin—and he felt it roll through him like thunder.
"Mine," he said against her skin. "Say it."
"Yours." She pulled his face up to hers, kissing him deep. "Always yours."
He believed her. That was the difference.
All those weeks ago, in the aftermath of violence and the heat of survival, he'd claimed her because he needed her.
Now he claimed her because he trusted her.
Because she'd earned him the same way he'd earned her—through work and loyalty and showing up every single day.
They moved together with the easy rhythm of people who knew each other's bodies, who'd learned what made the other gasp and shudder and cry out. It was slower than before, more deliberate, every touch weighted with meaning.
This is forever, Wake thought as she wrapped her legs around him. This is what I'm building. This is home.
When release finally crashed through them, it was together—her nails digging into his back, his face buried in her neck, both of them holding on like they'd never let go.
Because they wouldn't. Not now. Not ever.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her back. The sounds of the party still drifted across the compound, but neither of them made any move to rejoin it.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" Marley murmured, her voice drowsy.
"What?"
"The first time you walked into the Anchor." She shifted, tilting her head to look at him. "You were so quiet. Just sat at the bar and drank your beer like you didn't have a care in the world. I thought you were crazy."
"I was assessing."
"You were flirting."
"That too." He smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You shook your head at me. Told me not to start anything. And all I could think was—who is this woman?"
"And now?"
"Now I know exactly who you are." His arms tightened around her.
"You're mine. My woman. My old lady. The stubborn, fierce, beautiful bartender who was too strong to save and too proud to admit she needed help.
And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never need to be that strong alone again. "
Marley's eyes glistened. "That was almost romantic."
"I have my moments."
She laughed and kissed him, soft and sweet, and then settled back against his chest.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out. She'd fallen asleep, warm and safe in his arms, trusting him enough to let go completely.
Wake watched her in the dim light filtering through the window.
He thought about the marina. About eight years of work erased by bloodline, by a dead man's will, by a system that rewarded birth over merit.
He thought about the day he'd walked away with nothing but his skills and his bitterness and a desperate need to prove he was worth more than what he'd been given.
And he thought about now.
Full patch on his back. Woman in his arms. Brothers who'd kill for him and die for him and never once asked where he came from or who his father was. He'd built this. Every piece of it. Not through inheritance or luck but through work, the only currency he'd ever trusted.
Marley murmured something in her sleep and pressed closer.
She smelled like whiskey and something floral—shampoo, probably—and beneath that, something warm and indefinable that was just her. He breathed her in and let himself feel, fully and completely, what it meant to have earned something this good.
A lake kid who grew up in marina grease. A bartender who kept a dead man's bar open out of spite. Two people who'd spent their whole lives holding on to things alone, finally learning what it meant to hold on together.
Wake watched her sleep and thought about how far he'd come.
From prospect to patched. From alone to claimed. From a man with nothing but skills to a man with a family, a woman, and a future worth fighting for.
He pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, there would be work to do. A bar to rebuild. A life to construct. But tonight—
Tonight, he was exactly where he belonged.
A lake kid who grew up in grease and found a woman who smelled like whiskey and home.