Page 7 of Salvation

“I’ll do it,” I said, grateful for the momentary reprieve. I stood, legs unsteady, and moved to the counter where he’d placed the plates earlier. The familiar task gave my hands something to do, my mind something to focus on besides the words lodged in my throat.

Plates. Silverware. Napkins. Simple tasks. Safe actions. But as I finished, the moment of truth loomed again. Salvation turned off the burner, shifting the pot to a cool element. Dinner was almost ready. She’d said she wouldn’t, but it wouldn’t be the first time she changed her mind. If I was going to speak, it had to be now, just in case Clover returned. Before we settled into our usual routine of polite conversation about safe topics.

I inhaled sharply, hands gripping the back of a chair for support. “Salvation, I --” I began, but stopped abruptly. The words died on my lips as he turned to face me, wooden spoon still in hand, his expression open and attentive.

His eyes -- those gentle, steady eyes -- fixed on mine. Waiting. The moment stretched between us, pregnant with possibility. My heart thundered so loudly I was certain he must hear it. Say it! Tell him. But my courage faltered, dissolving like sugar in hot tea.

“Never mind,” I finally said. “It’s nothing.”

Salvation studied my face, his gaze lingering longer than usual. Something flickered in his eyes -- curiosity? Concern? Something else entirely? For a breathless moment, I thought he might press me, might ask what I’d been about to say.

Instead, he nodded slowly and turned back to the stove.

But something had shifted. I felt it in the air between us, a subtle change in pressure. The way his shoulders tensed slightly. The careful way he avoided looking at me again as he took down two bowls and served the stew, then put slices of bread onto the small plates.

I moved mechanically, placing glasses on the table, filling them with water. We danced around each other in the small kitchen, suddenly hyperaware of the other’s presence. When his arm brushed mine as he set the rest of the bread on the table, I flinched as if burned. He murmured an apology, stepping back quickly.

“Should I call Clover?” I asked, desperate to break the awkward silence.

“You heard her. She’ll eat when she’s ready,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral.

I nodded, taking my usual seat at the table. Salvation remained standing, busying himself at the counter longer than necessary. The tension between us stretched taut, a rubber band pulled to its limit.

What would have happened if I’d spoken? If I’d laid my feelings bare? Would he have rejected me gently? Or worse, would he have accepted out of obligation, out of pity for the broken girl he’d rescued?

Or -- and this possibility terrified me most -- would he have revealed that he felt the same?

Salvation finally sat across from me, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. His eyes met mine briefly before dropping to his bowl.

“Smells delicious,” I offered, my voice unnaturally bright.

He nodded, breaking off a piece of bread. “Thanks.”

Another silence fell, heavy with unspoken words. I pushed my stew around with my spoon, appetite gone. The moment had passed. My chance slipped away like water through cupped hands.

Clover’s footsteps sounded in the hallway, drawing closer. Soon she would join us, and the strange tension would be diluted by her presence. Everything would return to normal -- or what passed for normal in our unusual arrangement.

But as Salvation’s gaze briefly met mine again across the table, I knew something fundamental had changed. That almost-conversation, those unspoken words, hung between us now. A question mark. A possibility.

If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change.

I hadn’t made my move. Not really. But something had changed anyway. And I wasn’t sure if it was terrifying or exhilarating.

Chapter Two

Yulia

The spring sun beat down on my shoulders as I cut across the compound, my steps quick and purposeful despite the uncertainty churning in my stomach. Eleven years at the Reckless Kings had taught me the quickest routes between buildings, how to avoid the areas where Prospects congregated, and most importantly -- who to trust with secrets that burned in my chest like embers. Today, that knowledge led me straight to the picnic area behind the main clubhouse, where I knew Whisper would be enjoying her midday break.

My hands trembled slightly, and I shoved them into my pockets. I’d rehearsed this conversation a dozen times since last night, when Salvation’s gaze had lingered on mine across the dinner table, making my heart race and my courage falter. But practice did nothing to ease the knot in my throat now.

I spotted her beneath the shade of an old oak tree, perched on a picnic table with a book in her lap. Whisper -- Brick’s adopted daughter and Forge’s wife -- was the club’s unofficial voice of reason. You would think it would have been Lyssa, the President’s woman, but she tended to be more aggressive than Whisper. If anyone could help me make sense of the mess inside my head, it would be her.

She looked up as I approached, a smile warming her face. “Yulia. This is a surprise.” She closed her book, marking her place with a finger. “Everything okay?”

“I…” The words stuck in my throat. I took a deep breath and sat beside her on the bench, leaving enough distance between us to feel comfortable. My fingers found the hem of my shirt, worrying the fabric between them. “I need advice.”

Whisper nodded, waiting patiently. The gentle breeze lifted strands of her hair, carrying the scent of her light perfume. In the distance, motorcycles revved as members came and went, but our corner remained peaceful.

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