Page 43 of Salvation

We stood like that for several minutes, watching a hawk circle lazily above the valley floor. The silence between us was comfortable, charged with potential rather than awkwardness. I found myself thinking about all the moments like this we could have in the future -- all the ordinary minutes made extraordinary simply because we were sharing them.

My gaze drifted to the town below, following the main street until I could just make out a particular storefront. A plan that had been forming in my mind since dawn crystallized into certainty.

“See that building there?” I pointed toward the town. “The one with the blue awning?”

Yulia squinted, following my gesture. “I think so.”

“It’s a jewelry store.” I turned to face her, suddenly nervous but determined. “I want to get you a proper ring.”

She blinked, her hand automatically moving to the plain gold band she’d worn for eleven years -- the one I’d slipped onto her finger during our courthouse ceremony when she was barely more than a girl. Her expression clouded slightly as she touched it.

“What’s wrong with this one?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

I caught her hand, running my thumb over the simple band. “Nothing. But it was part of our arrangement. Our protection plan.” I met her eyes steadily. “You deserve better than what I gave you back then. This is real now.”

Something flickered across her face -- surprise, followed by a softening around her eyes that made my heart stutter in my chest.

“You don’t have to,” she said, but I could tell the idea pleased her.

“I want to.” I pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “I want everyone to look at your hand and know you’re not just protected. You’re loved.”

The word still felt new on my tongue, but it came easier each time. Yulia’s eyes brightened with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant.

“Then yes,” she said simply. “I’d like that.”

I pulled her closer, kissing her properly this time -- a slow, deep kiss that held promise and certainty and the future all at once. When we broke apart, her cheeks were flushed again, but not from the ride.

“Ready?” I asked, nodding toward our bikes.

She nodded, squeezing my hand once more before releasing it. We walked back to the motorcycles, and I couldn’t help but notice the spring in her step, the new lightness in her movements. As we donned our helmets and fired up the engines, I caught her eye through her open visor and saw the same anticipation reflected there that I felt coursing through my own veins.

We pulled back onto the mountain road, angling downward now toward the town and what waited for us there. Not just a ring, but a first step into the life we should have been living all along.

* * *

The jewelry store looked smaller from the outside than I remembered, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop on the town’s main street. Its blue awning fluttered slightly in the breeze, gold lettering spelling out Hartman’s Fine Jewelry in an elegant script that had faded with time. We parked our bikes at the curb, and I kicked down the stand on mine before moving to help Yulia with hers. She removed her helmet, hair tumbling free around her shoulders, and I caught the momentary flash of uncertainty in her eyes as she looked up at the storefront.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked, smoothing her wind-tangled hair with one hand.

I nodded, taking her helmet and securing it to her bike. “A few times. For club business.” I didn’t elaborate that those visits had involved pawning items we’d acquired through less-than-legal means. Some parts of club life were better left unshared, even with her.

Yulia’s fingers fidgeted with the plain gold band on her left hand, twisting it nervously. I covered her hand with mine, stilling the movement.

“We don’t have to do this today,” I said quietly. “If you’re not ready.”

She shook her head, a determined set to her jaw that I recognized. “No, I want to. It’s just…” She glanced down at her riding gear, then back at the store with its polished windows and tasteful displays. “I’m not dressed for this.”

I laughed softly, gesturing to my own leather cut with its patches. “Neither am I. But our money spends the same as anyone else’s.”

That earned me a small smile, though the tension didn’t completely leave her shoulders. I took her hand, threading our fingers together in a way that still felt new and thrilling, and led her to the door. The small brass bell above it chimed as we entered, announcing our presence to the empty shop.

Inside, the store was cool and quiet, the air scented faintly with polish and leather. Glass cases lined three walls, their contents glittering under recessed lighting. The floor was dark hardwood, worn smooth by decades of customers, and soft classical music played from hidden speakers. It felt like stepping into another world -- one far removed from the compound, from motorcycles and club business, from the violence that had touched our lives just days ago.

A door behind the counter opened, and an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and neatly combed silver hair emerged. He paused momentarily at the sight of us -- taking in my cut, the tattoos visible on my forearms -- but recovered quickly, professional smile firmly in place. He wasn’t the man I usually dealt with, but I could tell he was in charge.

“Good morning,” he greeted us, his voice cultured but not unfriendly. “Welcome to Hartman’s. I’m Arthur Hartman. How may I assist you today?”

I felt Yulia’s hand tighten slightly in mine, her discomfort palpable. Before I could speak, she surprised me by stepping forward.

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