Page 41 of Ravaged and Ruined
“Being with me paints a fucking target on your back.” His breath shudders. “They’ll keep coming for you, because of me.”
I think about the bullet tucked in the back of my drawer. I think about telling him about the man who pressed the heavy brass into my palm with his threat. But I don’t. Not with the weight of tonight still clinging to him. He doesn’t need more to carry. Not right now.
Instead, I slide my hand into his, lacing our fingers together.
“I know the danger,” I say. “I still choose you.”
His other hand lifts to cup my cheek, his rough thumb tracing the edge of my jaw like he’s memorizing me in case he loses the chance. “Dammit Lacey, you’re so fucking stubborn.”
“You’re worth the risk. So stop pushing me away before I’m too far gone to come back.”
He doesn’t offer me more promises, he just pulls me into him, his arms folding around me like I’m his anchor and his salvation.
We stay like that, wrapped in the hush of the pines. His heartbeat thundering against my cheek, steady and strong, and maybe it’s the only truth that matters in all this chaos.
Chapter Seventeen
Aero
The sun cracks over the horizon as we rumble down the highway, our engines growling low beneath us. Lacey’s arms are wrapped tight around my waist, her cheek resting between my shoulder blades, both of us silent. Emery clings to Surge a few bikes behind, her head tucked into his back like she’s trying to hide from it all. The rest of the club rides solo, road-weary and raw, the weight of the night still clinging to our leathers like lead.
We roll into the lot, cutting our engines one by one. Leaving a silence hanging over us that's only broken by the creak of kickstands and the soft scuff of boots. Lacey slides off the back of my bike, stretching her arms and back. Her face is pale with exhaustion but she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Too damn good for me. Emery doesn’t say a word as she dismounts behind Surge, her eyes distant. Grizzly lingers by his bike, his head tilted like he's listening to something I can't hear. I glance toward the upstairs windows out of habit. The curtain in Marianna’s open window sways just a little, though there’s nobreeze. Light leaks through where the blackout panel isn’t fully closed.
No one speaks. We’re too damn tired for words. Most of the guys crashed where they dropped. Pike couldn’t even make it to the furniture, he’s face-down on the pool table. Hashtag’s curled up on the couch with his phone beside him, screen dimmed to black. Surge and Emery disappear down the hall together without a glance back. Backdraft plops on to a chair and immediately passes out upright, one boot off. Zoey, already awake or more likely never slept, drags a blanket over him. She’s still new to the way the club works but love like that doesn’t need to be taught. She gets it and it’s settling the way Surge and Backdraft have found Ol’ Ladies to share their lives with. Women who offer silent support when words just won’t do.
When Grizzly finally comes inside, there's a softness in his face I don’t recognize. He doesn’t say a word, just heads upstairs to his room a beat too fast. Tango and Rancor have disappeared, likely to their rooms. It’s so damn quiet, you can hear the toilet flush down the hall. Crank must have hit the gym because I can hear the clinking of metal weights from behind the door. Padre’s still on the porch, chain-smoking and staring off at nothing.
No one’s said it, but we’re all thinking the same thing. What we found last night was unforgivable and as soon as we regroup, we’ll have to deal with the Bloody Scorpions once and for all. I won’t allow them to get away with what they’ve done, this club won’t stand for it.
An unnerving quiet settles over the clubhouse. The kind of quiet that leaves you feeling exposed. Lacey’s at the table, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling up around her face. Her hair’s a mess, half pulled up, strands falling around her neck in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else. Her eyes find mine from across the room. There’s hesitation there. A little resentment too. I don’t blame her. Iclaimed her and snuck away like a damn fake. I didn’t even give her a reason. Didn’t explain a damn thing. Just disappeared.
I hate myself for how much I need her, even though I’m trying like hell not to. I’m supposed to be the guy in charge. The one who holds it all together while everything else goes to shit. I shouldn’t want her, ever, but especially right now. Not after the night we’ve had and the girls we had to pull out of that hellhole. Not when my brain is still full of what-ifs and what-the-fucks.
But my body doesn’t care about any of that. Not when it comes to her. It doesn’t give a damn about timing. It doesn’t care that I already failed her once by walking away without a word. Because every time she’s near, I feel it. That need. That pull. Like she’s gravity and I’m tired of trying to fight it.
I move toward her like I’m not in control of my own legs.
“Come with me, Bambola.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be. It sounds strange in my own ears, like it’s carrying more weight than I know how to unpack.
She studies me a second longer before rising from the table. She doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze and turns toward the stairwell, with a slight shift of her head.
I follow.
Her footsteps fall soft on the stairs, but mine echo like war drums behind her. I feel every step in my spine. We reach the second floor where most of our bedrooms are and it’s just as quiet here. Nothing louder than murmured voices and snores behind closed doors as the rest of the club gives in to exhaustion. But I’m wide awake. Her presence burns too hot beside me to think about sleep.
We reach her door, and without hesitating, she swings it open and steps inside. I stop. My boots planted just shy of the threshold like there’s a damn force field holding me back. I stare at the worn wood, scuffed near the bottom, the scratch in thepaint near the handle. I’ve passed this door a hundred times, but this moment feels different.
All the nights we’ve shared, all the heat, the chaos, the vulnerability, it’s always been in my space. My rules.
I don’t think I’ve ever crossed this threshold. Not once. I don’t know if it was by choice, but suddenly that matters more than I want to admit.
She turns just inside the room, catching my hesitation with a tilt of her head.
“If you’re gonna leave again,” she says, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through bone, “it’ll be from my space. We do this on my terms this time.”
That does something to me. The last thread of resistance snaps tight, then breaks. I give her a small clipped nod, then step just inside the doorway.
Her room smells like citrus. It’s clean but visibly lived-in. There’s a stack of paperbacks on the nightstand, a slim tablet beside them. A black hoodie, I instantly recognize as mine, is draped across the arm of a chair. Her shoes are lined up neatly by the closet, next to a beat-up gym bag, even though I’ve never known her to go to the gym or even use the one here at the clubhouse.
