Page 63 of Dagger

I glance around, my chest heaving as the adrenaline starts to wear off. The crates are still here, and more importantly, so are we.

Mason walks over, clapping me on the shoulder. “You did good, Dagger.”

“So did you,” I reply, my voice steady despite the chaos we’ve just survived.

“Let’s get the goods loaded up and get the hell out of here,” Mason says. “The Russians will be licking their wounds for a while, but we can’t let our guard down.”

As we load the crates onto our trucks, I can’t help but think of Chloe back at the clubhouse. This fight isn’t over, not by a long shot. But for tonight, we’ve sent a message loud and clear, The Iron Reapers aren’t to be fucked with.

We get back to the clubhouse, and everyone is there waiting on us. The tension in the room breaks as soon as Mason walks through the door, a rare smile spreading across his face. Before he can say anything, Carlie runs into his arms, and he picks herup, swinging her around. She laughs, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and for a moment, it’s like nothing else matters.

I’ve seen these hardass guys fall in love and be completely whipped by their women, but now I finally understand. As soon as Chloe spots me, she’s rushing toward me, her eyes scanning me for any sign of injury.

The moment she’s close enough, I scoop her up, and her legs wrap around my waist as her hands frame my face, checking me over. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice a mix of worry and relief.

“I’m fine, baby,” I say, my voice softening as I brush her hair back from her face. Before I can say more, she leans in and kisses me, her lips urgent and full of emotion.

“I love you, Dagger,” she says when she pulls back, her voice trembling slightly. “I know I’m not supposed to say it so soon, and I’m supposed to wait until you say it to me first, but—”

“Baby, shut up,” I cut her off, a grin tugging at my lips. “I love you too. I love you so damn much.”

She laughs, her forehead resting against mine as our mouths meet again. The kiss is deep and consuming, my hands gripping her thighs to hold her close. For a moment, it’s just us, the chaos of the world fading into the background.

Then someone clears their throat.

I glance up to see Hawk standing a few feet away, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet, then holds out his hand for me to shake. “Treat her right,” he says, his voice low and serious. “She deserves it and so much more.”

I take his hand, gripping it firmly. “I will. You have my word.”

Hawk nods once, then turns to walk away. But before he can get far, Chloe wriggles out of my arms and follows him, tapping him on the shoulder.

I watch as she says something to him, her voice too low for me to catch. Whatever it is makes Hawk smile, a genuine onethat reaches his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he leans down and pulls her into a big hug.

I know Hawk wanted her. Hell, he made it clear enough in the past. But she chose me. And damnit, I’ll never give her a reason to regret it.

TWENTY-THREE

DAGGER

The smellof blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon lingers in the air, warm and familiar, as I lean back in Chloe’s kitchen chair, sipping the last of my coffee. The sunlight streams through the windows, catching on the small specks of flour still dusted on the counter. Chloe’s perched across from me, her chin resting in her palm, watching me with those big, curious eyes that always seem to see more than I’m saying.

Beast, our growing ball of fur and chaos, is sprawled out in the middle of the kitchen floor, his belly rising and falling in contentment. He’d already swiped a slice of bacon off the edge of the counter when I wasn’t looking, and now he’s sprawled out, fat and happy, not a care in the world. Lucky bastard.

“You really outdid yourself this morning,” Chloe says, breaking the silence. Her voice is soft, teasing, the edges of her lips curving into a smile. “I could get used to this.”

“You mean the pancakes or the bacon?” I ask, cocking a brow. “Because I’ll have you know, those pancakes were a labor of love. Took me a whole ten minutes to perfect the recipe.”

She laughs, that light, carefree sound I don’t hear enough of. “I mean you being here. Cooking. Doing this.”

I glance across the table at Chloe, who’s sitting there with one hand curled around her coffee mug and the other resting on her belly. It’s getting bigger every day, a curve that speaks to the little life growing inside her—our son.

My son.

The thought hits me like it always does: equal parts pride and disbelief. I never imagined this would be my life—sitting here, making breakfast for the woman I love while she carries my child. But now that I’m in it, I can’t imagine wanting anything else.

Chloe catches me staring and arches an eyebrow, her lips quirking into that soft, knowing smile of hers. “What?” she asks, her voice light and teasing. “You’ve been staring at me for like a solid five minutes. Do I have syrup on my face or something?”

I shake my head, a slow grin spreading across my face. “No syrup. Just… you. You’re beautiful.”

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