Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Instead, I guide her toward the house, toward Havoc and his grill and his picture-perfect family that somehow exists alongside the man who plans our gun runs and maintains our armory.
June spots us from the arena and waves, calling something to the girls before heading our way. She's all vintage cardigan and perfect ponytail, looking like she stepped out of a 1950s housewife magazine. The only thing that gives her away is the way she walks—purposeful, alert, shoulders squared. Once military, always military.
"You made it!" she calls, smile warm but eyes assessing as we wait for her to catch up. She's checking Savannah for threats, for weakness, for anything that might endanger her family. I respect that. "Dinner's almost ready. Havoc's doing his famous ribs."
"Famous for what?" I ask. "Giving people food poisoning?"
June laughs, a genuine sound that makes the kids look over. "Only that one time, and it was your own fault for eating the ones he dropped on the ground."
"He didn't tell me he dropped them."
The easy banter feels strange with Savannah watching. Two worlds colliding that were never meant to touch. But her hand is still in mine, her shoulder pressed against my arm, and she's not running. Not yet.
The twins have crept closer. And the oldest boy, the one with Havoc's serious eyes, addresses me directly. "Did you really kill someone with a pencil?"
"Finn!" June's voice snaps like a whip. "What have we told you about appropriate questions?"
"Not to ask about Dad's work or anyone's prison time," the boy recites dutifully. "But this isn't about prison, it's about a pencil."
"The only thing I've ever killed with a pencil is a math test. And I failed that too."
The boy looks disappointed but nods. The twins—identical, but mirror images—peer around me at Savannah.
"Are you his girlfriend?" one asks.
Before I can answer, Savannah says, "I'm his," showing the fresh tattoo on her wrist.
The twins' eyes go wide. "Cool," they breathe in unison.
June clears her throat. "Boys, go wash up for dinner." Then she whistles and yells in the direction of the riding arena. "Put the ponies away, girls! Dinner time now!" She turns to us with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. They're at an age where boundaries are... theoretical."
"It's fine," Savannah says, and I'm surprised to hear genuine warmth in her voice. "They're adorable."
"They're monsters," June corrects, but her tone is fond. "Come on, Havoc's waiting. And he hates when food gets cold."
As we follow her toward the deck, Savannah leans close to my ear. "With a pencil, really?"
"It was a pen, actually," I murmur back, then immediately regret it when her step falters. "That was a joke."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "No, it wasn't. But it's okay." Her fingers tighten around mine. "I'm still here."
The words hit harder than they should.
After everything—the vote, the claiming, the leaked videos, Destiny, Colt, and the baby—she's still here. Walking beside me toward a normal family dinner like we have any right to pretend we're normal too.
Havoc looks up as we approach, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees our joined hands. But he just nods, flipping a rack of ribs with practiced precision.
"Right on time," he says, which from Havoc is practically a warm welcome. "Who wants a beer?"
I guide Savannah up the steps to the deck, feeling the weight of his gaze. Havoc doesn't miss anything—not the way she leans into me, not the fresh ink on her wrist, not the hardness in her eyes that only appeared after the kidnapping.
But he doesn't comment. Just hands me a beer from the cooler at his feet, then offers one to Savannah. She hesitates, then accepts it with a small smile.
"Thank you for having us," she says, sounding for all the world like she's at one of her fancy Ashby functions instead of standing on the deck of an outlaw's family home.
Havoc grunts, turning back to his grill. "June's idea. Said you needed to see your options."
Options.
Most women who end up with bikers—especially outlaw bikers—don't have those.
But Savannah isn't most women.
She's an Ashby.
She's got plenty of fucking options.
And I'm really not sure I want her thinking too hard about them.
CHAPTER 8
Options.
The word hangs in the air between Legion and me. He makes a face I'm not even sure he's aware he's making. Like the word tastes bad. I lean in to him, sliding my hand across his ass and stick it into his back pocket.
He looks at me. Worried, I think. But trying not to show it.
It's easy to read his mind. Not because Legion's a simple person—he's the definition of the word complicated. But I know what people see when they look at me.
Money That’s all they see is money.
Legion’s not all that different. Nobody sees money when they look at him—they see… danger. Outlaw. Prison time. Maybe regrets, but then again, maybe not.