Page 146 of Kneeling to Candy

Later.

It may be mid-morning, but we need rest. Last night was no joke. We’re bruised, sore, and mentally exhausted. All the way home, Butch kept insisting he wanted to talk once we got back to headquarters. I’m sure he was panicking a bit with what he said near the old mine shaft. It’s not every day one’s subconscious thoughts are spoken out loud.

He said I was his wife.

In the eyes of biker law, I am. He claimed me, moved me into his space, and made me his old lady. To the guys in the MC, I may as well be his wife.

Glancing at my naked ring finger on my left hand, I sigh. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care.

The truth is, I care—a lot.

I may not want the picket fence or two-point-five kiddos. But I want Butch to be my husband. I want to share the rest of my life with this man, grow old together, and live a simple life surrounded by our MC family.

Finished washing my man, I stand. My breasts brush below Butch’s wet pecs, where an angry purple welt grows in the center of his chest.

Flay poked around his sternum when we were still back at the house of horrors. He didn’t believe Butch had any cracked ribs, yet he insisted he get an X-ray right away before we returned home. Lucky for us, the local hospital in Fort Collins knows our crew well and got him in and out fast. No broken bones, but the doctor prescribed him rest, something I intend to make sure he gets.

While Butch was getting X-rayed, another doctor examined my feet for frostbite. I have some superficial frostbite on the pressure points of my feet and will most likely develop blisters in the coming days, but it’s nothing I won’t fully recover from.

We were lucky. I place my palm tentatively over Butch’s injury, so close to his heart. It could’ve been significantly worse. I lift my chin, looking into the handsome face of my quiet biker.

Butch is giving me his smoldering hazel bedroom eyes, the ones that turn my insides to jelly and make wet heat form between my legs. He makes it hard to resist him.

Nope. He needs to sleep. We both do. Hanky-panky can come later.

When he realizes I won’t give in to his charm, Butch moves into the stream of the showerhead, letting the hot water run over his injured shoulder. A content groan rumbles in his chest. He’s proving my point—he needs tender loving care.

“Relax, baby. Take your time and enjoy the heat.”

Closing his eyes, Butch nods, doing exactly what I suggest.

While he relaxes, I slip out of the shower and dry off. Tucking my towel around myself, I pad barefoot into our bedroom. Comfort is the only thing on my mind as I dress, opting for a pair of black leggings and off the shoulder mint green sweatshirt—colors Butch likes on me.

A quick brush through my hair yanks the snarls out. I should dry it, but it requires more effort than I’m willing to give at the moment, not when our space looks like a bomb went off.

Upon returning home, we dropped everything in our room. Shoes and coats clutter the floor and furniture. Our bags crowd the front sitting area, needing to be put away. And our laundry needs to get thrown in the wash.

My biker is meticulous with our space. Everything has a place. Items are promptly put away after use. No doubt, he’ll walk out of the bathroom and start cleaning. Butch needs to rest his body after last night’s battle. Our bed may call to me, but this is one thing I can do to ensure my man climbs into bed sooner rather than later.

Grabbing our laundry, I add it to our empty hamper. I move our bags to the closet to make unpacking easier. My arms are filled with our shoes, boots, and coats when I pick up Butch’s leather cut hanging off the back of one of the accent chairs. I add it to my pile, turning on my heels for the closet.

In my mission to get the room tidy, I’ve overestimated the carrying capacity of my scrawny arms. The first to fall from my pile in Butch’s cut.

At all times, a Mercy Ravens MC cut must be respected. Leaving it in a crumpled mess on the floor is a big no-no.

“Gah,” I grumble, dumping the rest of the load in the closet before returning to retrieve the cut from the floor. Bending over to recover the leather vest, I ignore the aches in my body as I lift the heavy leather material from the bottom side up.

A folded piece of heavy stock paper falls out from the inside pocket of the vest. With a sigh, I bend over again to retrieve the paper.

Not thinking, I unfold the folded lump of card stock, smoothing it out in case Butch wants to file it away somewhere safe in the room.

My intentions were never to read it. However, it’s a little hard ignoring my legal name in dark italic bold font scrolled under the words Marriage License.

What the?

My hands shake, gripping the paper tighter as I read the unthinkable.

This is to certify that the undersigned joined in lawful wedlock—Penn Lawson and Leslie Williams.

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