Page 33 of Mustang

I crossed to the kitchen.The space was narrow—counter on one side, wood stove on the other, barely enough room for one person to work comfortably, let alone two.Hannah didn’t step aside when I approached.Just shifted her weight left, creating a gap I could move through without her having to yield the ground she’d claimed, and I reached past her for the pot on the high shelf—the one I used for pasta, copper-bottomed, hanging from a hook I’d installed at shoulder height because that was where my shoulder height happened to be.

My chest brushed her shoulder.

The contact was brief.Incidental.The kind of touch that happened in small kitchens between people who knew each other’s bodies well enough to navigate around them without thinking.Her shoulder was warm through the borrowed t-shirt, the bone beneath the skin solid where it met the flat of my chest, and neither of us moved away.Her stirring hand paused for half a second,not quite a hitch, more like a breath held,and then continued its circuit through the tomatoes as if nothing had happened, except something had, and we both knew it, and the knowledge sat in the space between us like the heat from the stove, present and necessary and entirely ours.

I filled the pot at the hand pump.Water came cold and clear, the pump handle groaning twice before the flow steadied, and I set it on the stove’s front burner where the heat was strongest.Hannah tore the bread into pieces, drizzled olive oil over them, and set them on the cast-iron skillet to toast while the pasta water came to a boil.The smells began to marry,tomatoes and garlic from her pot, the deep richness of olive oil hitting hot iron, the woodsmoke underlying everything,and the cabin filled with a warmth that had little to do with the stove.It came from the woman standing three feet from me with flour dust on her cheekbone and her red hair falling loose around her shoulders.

We ate at the small table by the fire.Tin bowls, wooden spoons, the heel of bread torn between us on a plate that had seen better decades.The pasta was simple: tomatoes reduced to a sauce that clung to each strand, garlic sharp beneath the sweetness, the bread toasted golden and soaked through with oil that tasted like something that had traveled farther than the shelf above my sink had any right to claim.We ate without speaking for the first few minutes.The kind of silence that happened when food was good enough that conversation felt like an interruption, and the fire popped behind us, and the logs in the stove settled into the rhythm of something burning down to its essential parts.

“What comes next?”Hannah asked.Her spoon rested against the edge of her bowl, her green eyes steady on mine across the scarred wood.The question was quiet.Unhurried.The kind that expected an honest answer because the person asking it had earned the right to hear one.

I set my spoon down.Looked at her—really looked at her, the way I’d been looking at her since the first night in her kitchen when she’d offered coffee instead of screams, and the distance between that night and this one felt both vast and nonexistent, like the mountain outside that was the same mountain it had always been but looked different depending on where you stood to see it.

“We figure it out together.”The words came out rough.Unpracticed.Each one carrying the weight of something I hadn’t said to anyone in twenty years of living a life that hadn’t left room for togetherness as a concept, let alone as a practice.My eyes held hers.Didn’t waver.Didn’t soften or harden or do any of the things my face usually did when I was saying something that cost.Just stayed on hers, steady, the way I’d held her gaze across a hundred moments in this cabin and the compound beyond it, and the fire threw her in relief—copper hair, green eyes, the set of her mouth that I’d memorized without meaning to.

She nodded once.Slow.Certain.Didn’t press for details, didn’t ask for guarantees, didn’t do any of the things people usually did when you offered them something as fragile as a future built on the wreckage of the past.Just accepted it the way she accepted everything—directly, wholly, with the full weight of what it meant behind the acceptance.

We cleared the dishes together.She washed, I dried, the old choreography of people who’d done this enough times that the rhythm had become its own language.The water ran hot from the hand pump, steam rising into the cold cabin air, and our hands moved in the same basin without crowding, without apology, the way they’d moved around each other in this kitchen since the first day.She’d stood at the stove and I’d sat at the table and neither of us had known yet that we were building something that would outlast the reasons we’d come here.

When the last dish was set on the drying rack, Hannah crossed to the wood stove.From somewhere,her pocket, the bag she’d brought from the compound, I hadn’t been tracking,she produced a bundle of fresh rosemary, stems bound with twine, the needles deep green and fragrant where they caught the firelight.She reached above the mantel, found the hook I’d installed days ago when she’d first hung the thyme, and settled the rosemary beside it—fresh beside dried, the new growth alongside what had already given its scent to the cabin air.Her fingers adjusted the bundle once, centering it, and the gesture was so deliberate, so entirely hers, that something in my chest did the thing it had been doing with increasing frequency since she’d walked into my life—a hitch, a catch, the door opening wider than I’d ever meant to allow.

I was watching her from across the room.Arms crossed, back against the counter’s edge, and my expression must have been something she hadn’t seen before because when she turned and caught me looking, her own face shifted, not surprise, not exactly.Recognition.The look of someone seeing something they’d suspected was there but hadn’t been shown until now.

I didn’t look away.

Couldn’t have if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t.The distance between the counter and the wood stove was twelve feet, maybe less, and I covered it in strides that felt both too slow and too fast, my boots on the packed dirt floor, the fire’s heat against my right side as I approached her.Her chin lifted.Not in challenge.In welcome.Her green eyes held mine, steady, certain, and when I reached her, I cupped her face in both hands—rings cool against the warm skin of her jaw, my thumbs finding the ridges of her cheekbones with a precision that said I’d been mapping this territory for longer than either of us wanted to admit.

I kissed her slowly.

Not the way I’d kissed her by the fire in the cabin thirteen days ago, when everything had been raw and urgent and charged with the electricity of something that had been building too long to contain.This was different.Deliberate.The kind of kiss that had no hurry in it because the people sharing it had all the time in the world, or were willing to act like they did, which amounted to the same thing when the fire was burning and the cabin was warm and the woman in my hands had just hung fresh rosemary above a mantel she’d claimed as hers days ago without either of us saying so aloud.

Her mouth was warm.Soft.Her hands found my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my henley where it tucked into my jeans, and she kissed me back with the same certainty she brought to everything—bread, stew, the simple act of standing in a kitchen and making a place feel like it belonged to her because she’d decided it did.The fire crackled behind us.A log settled, sending a shower of orange sparks against the grate, and the light jumped across the log walls in patterns that had been the same for twenty years and looked entirely new tonight because she was here, in my arms, choosing to stay.

I broke the kiss.My forehead came to rest against hers, my hands still framing her face, rings against skin, and her breath was warm against my mouth where the kiss had left us both breathing a little harder than we had been.The rosemary scent filled the space between us—fresh and sharp, cutting through the woodsmoke and the lingering smell of tomatoes and the quiet warmth of two people who had, against considerable odds, found their way to the same patch of ground and decided to stand on it together.

The cabin held us.Log walls, low ceiling, the fire burning steady in the stove, and outside the window the mountain sat in darkness keeping its secrets the same way I’d kept mine, except mine weren’t secrets anymore.They were here, in this room, in the woman whose face I held between my hands, and the distance between those secrets and the truth had collapsed entirely somewhere between the compound gates and this moment, and I couldn’t have told you when it happened if my life had depended on it.

Hannah’s fingers tightened on my waist.Not pulling, just holding, the way she’d held my hand in the truck and my rings on the gravel and now this—the solid fact of me, present and accounted for, in a cabin that had stopped being just mine the day she’d hung herbs on the windowsill and decided, without announcing it, that she was staying.

I kissed her again.Slower this time, if that was possible, and the fire kept burning behind us, and the cabin held the heat the way it always did, and somewhere in the space between one breath and the next, the mountain outside stopped being a hiding place and started being exactly what it had always been underneath everything, a home, waiting for someone to come back to it, and for the first time in twenty years, I had.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mustang

The clubhouse hit me like a closed fist — low ceiling, scarred leather couches pushed against wood-paneled walls, the whole place smelling like twenty years of motor oil and cigarette smoke baked into everything that couldn’t run away.Patches covered every inch of wall space that wasn’t claimed by framed photos — men on bikes, men standing in front of this same building at different stages of its life, men with their arms around each other’s shoulders in the way of people who’d bled for each other and didn’t need to say it out loud.A long bar ran along the back wall, lined with mismatched stools that looked like they’d been salvaged from half the dive bars in the county, and behind it, bottles glinted in the dim light like promises no one was in a hurry to keep.

Six men were scattered around the room when we came through the door.I clocked them in the half-second before conversation died — Loch leaning against the bar with a pool cue balanced across his palms, his ice-blue eyes doing that thing where they didn’t quite land on you but saw everything anyway.Socket and Screwball at a table near the far wall, coffee mugs between them, their postures the loose readiness of men who spent more time on guard than off.J.D.stood near the door where a Prospect was supposed to stand, his expression carefully neutral, though something moved behind his eyes when he saw me — not judgment, not exactly.The look of someone recalibrating.

Then Mustang’s hand settled at the small of my back, warm through the leather of my jacket, and the room went quiet.

Not the polite quiet of strangers making space.The dense, textured quiet of a room full of men who’d known each other for decades and were now watching their president walk in with a woman at his side — not a club girl, not a one-night ride, but me, in my jeans and boots and the jacket I’d borrowed from Mustang’s closet because mine had been left behind in a kitchen I wasn’t going back to.My red hair fell loose over my shoulders, and I could feel every eye in the room tracking the way Mustang’s hand rested against my spine, proprietary and calm, like he’d already made his decision and was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He stopped in the center of the room.Didn’t step forward.Didn’t raise his voice.Just stood there with his hand on my back and his shoulders square under his cut, and when he spoke, the words came out the way everything came out of Mustang’s mouth, flat, certain, taking up exactly as much space as they needed and no more.

“She’s mine.”

Two words.That was it.No explanation, no qualifying language, no softening for the men who’d known him when the phrase “old lady” was something he mocked other brothers for chasing.Just she’s mine, delivered to a room that had gone so still I could hear the fridge humming behind the bar.