Page 30 of Stitch & Steel
But nothing—nothing—had ever wrecked me like the sight of her shaking.
I held her tighter, like if I wrapped myself around her hard enough, I could absorb the fear. The danger. The memory of that bastard smiling like she was something toplaywith.
She wasn’t.
She wasmine.
And yeah—I hadn’t earned that word yet. Not officially. But it didn’t matter.
Because in that moment, with Scout flanking her and the scent of wildflowers in her hair, I knew.
I was holding something more precious than gold, more fragile than glass.
A damn jewel in my arms, and for once in my reckless, blood-soaked life, I wanted tokeepit.
Not own. Not claim.
Cherish.
It hit me like a fist to the gut. The weight of it. The rightness.
I wanted to be the kind of man she could believe in—not the kind who stormed into her life with chaos at his back, but the kind who stayed. Who fixed porch steps, drank her damn iced tea, and memorized the way her laugh tripped up when she tried not to smile at me.
I’d been born into a world where love got you killed or left behind.
But now?
Now I wasn’t sure I could breathe if I let her go.
I felt something for her—true and strong. Not just heat, not just hunger. ThoughGodknew that was there too. The way her shirt clung to her back with sweat, the curve of her waist, the way she fit in my arms like she’d always belonged there.
But it wasn’t about that anymore.
It was about waking up to her voice in the kitchen. Watching her teach Scout dumb tricks while Gran fried bacon. Listening to her rant about lesson plans and coffee that tasted like cardboard.
I wanted tocourther. Old-fashioned. Slow. Real.
Woo her the way she deserved.
Sunrise fishing, gemstone panning, motorcycle rides through winding roads with nothing but pine and promise around us. Her arms wrapped around my waist. Her voice in my ear. Her trust in my hands.
She didn’t want an MC man. I knew that.
But I’d show her that I was more than ink and engines.
I was hers.
If she wanted me.
And damn me twice if I didn’t think that maybe—just maybe—she’d want to try.
Before I could think past my own damn heartbeat, I reached for her.
Fingers under her chin, gentle but firm, lifting her face until her eyes met mine.
God.
They were wide and wet, pupils still blown from fear, but there was something else in them now too—something soft. Open. Waiting.
