Page 75 of Wings
A year. It seemed both forever and no time at all.
"There's one more thing," Tyson said, producing a small black box from his jacket. "A gift from the club, recognizing this moment."
Gabe accepted the box, opening it to reveal two items: a small silver lock and a matching key on a chain. My breath caught understanding the symbolism.
"Thank you," Gabe said roughly, clearly moved. The brotherhood's acknowledgment of our dynamic, their blessing in tangible form, meant everything.
"Take your time," Tyson said, gathering the contracts. "The room is yours as long as you need it."
He left with another formal nod, taking the signed documents and leaving us with the weight of what we'd just done. The candles had burned lower during our negotiations, casting dancing shadows that made everything feel dream-like.
"How do you feel?" Gabe asked, turning to face me fully.
"Like I just got married," I admitted, then blushed at the comparison. "Not that this is—I mean—"
"It's exactly that serious," he interrupted, pulling me against him. "We just made vows, baby girl. Witnessed and sealed. That's marriage in every way that matters to me."
My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall. Not now, not when everything was perfect. His arms around me, the contract signed, our future mapped out in careful detail—I'd never felt so safe, so claimed, so utterly certain of my place in the world.
"My contract girl," he murmured against my hair. "My owned, collared, documented submissive."
"Yours," I agreed, the word carrying more weight now. Legal weight. Witnessed weight.
We stayed wrapped in each other as the candles flickered, neither wanting to break the spell. But eventually, reality intruded. It was late, we both had early mornings, and the emotional weight of the evening was catching up to me.
"Ready to go home?" Gabe asked, pulling back enough to study my face.
"Ready," I confirmed, already missing the warmth of his arms as we separated.
He helped me with my coat—the temperature had dropped while we were inside—and gathered the gifts from Tyson. I took a last look around the transformed meeting room, wanting to remember every detail. The candles, the formal arrangement, the place where we'd made it official.
The clubhouse was quieter now, most members having headed home or to their rooms upstairs. A few nodded as we passed, knowing smiles acknowledging what we'd done. No judgment, just recognition.
The parking lot stretched before us, lit by security lights that pushed back the darkness.
That's when I saw it.
A motorcycle idled at the far edge of the lot, engine rumbling low like a predator's growl. Not a Harley—the sound was wrong, higher pitched and aggressive. A sport bike, sleek and black, barely visible except for the gleam of chrome where light caught it.
The rider wore a full helmet, features completely hidden. But something about the build, the way he sat, the particular angle of his shoulders...
My blood turned to ice.
The bike had custom pipes—I'd heard that exact note too many times, usually at three in the morning when he'd come home high and aggressive. The way the rider's left hand drummed against the tank, a nervous tick I'd watched for three years. The slight favor of his right side, compensating for the badly healed rib from a fight years ago.
Alex.
I couldn't be sure. Not completely. The helmet obscured everything, and lots of people rode sport bikes. But my body knew, some primitive part that had learned to recognize danger. The hair on my arms stood up, heart rate spiking from ceremony calm to prey alertness.
"Baby girl?" Gabe had noticed my stillness, was already scanning for threats. "What's wrong?"
"I thought I saw . . ." But I couldn't finish, couldn't ruin this perfect moment with paranoia. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe my mind was playing tricks, seeing threats where none existed.
The bike's engine revved once, deliberately, before the rider pulled away in a spray of gravel. The taillight disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of pipes and my racing pulse.
"Kiara." Gabe's voice had shifted to command mode. "Tell me what you saw."
"That bike," I managed, forcing my voice steady. "Sport bike, watching us. The rider . . . the way he sat . . ."
