Page 37 of Edge
“The day after?” I echoed softly, somehow not surprised he’d been that sure, that fast.
She nodded. “He knew right away. And he wanted this ready for when the time came.”
My fingers trembled as I reached for the vest, tracing the letters like they might vanish if I blinked. “I want it so badly.”
Because this wasn’t just a vest. It was Tatum’s claim on me, stitched in leather and thread.
“Then wear it.” Savannah leaned in, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “Edge can face down armed crews without blinking, but you’re the one thing that can make him doubt himself. Not about loving you—he’s already there. But about whether you can accept every piece of him since he’s only really ever had that from his brother.”
Emotion clogged my throat, thick and hot, leaving me nodding when words refused to come.
She smirked. “So if you want to show him you do? Wait for him while wearing this. And if you really want to make him lose his mind—in the best way—wear it with nothing else.”
Heat rushed up my neck so fast I nearly toppled off the exam table. “Savannah!”
Her laughter rang out, wicked and unapologetic. “Don’t pretend you’re not tempted.”
The edge of the exam table dug into my thighs as I clutched the vest to my chest, ignoring the sting of fresh bandages. None of it mattered compared to this.
Savannah was right. The idea of waiting for him like that—bare, marked as his in every way, in his room at the clubhouse of the brotherhood that meant so much to him—lit me up from the inside out.
15
EDGE
The ride back to the clubhouse felt longer than it was. My Harley hummed steadily beneath me, the thrum vibrating through my bones. But the adrenaline hadn’t drained yet. It was never quick.
Hours after the warehouse, after the screaming, the blood, and the way my knife had sung, my body still pulsed like a live wire. I could smell the iron drying on my skin beneath the leather of my cut, could feel the sting of scrapes where fists or boots had found me in the chaos. Every bruise pulsed in rhythm with my heart.
I’d washed most of the gore from my hands in a small bathroom before we left, but you never really washed it all off. The smell stuck. The taste stayed, caught in the back of your throat no matter how many times you swallowed. The warehouse was quiet now, but the storm of it still thundered in my chest.
And under it, darker and heavier, was the worry.
Not about me. Never about me.
About her.
Callie had seen me at my worst. Not just the blood or the bodies.
She’d seen the smile. The one that pulled wrong at my mouth, tilted and sharp as a blade. The grin I wore when I let the sadistic fucker inside me off the leash.
I didn’t know if she’d be able to look at me the same way after that.
Every bump in the road jarred me back into the thought of her blue eyes, wide and terrified, not at them—but at me. The psycho edge had burned bright tonight, and I hadn’t fought it. I’d embraced it. Enjoyed it. That was the part that gnawed at me as I rode under the empty stretch of Florida sky, the salty air thick and damp.
The clubhouse loomed ahead, its lights a steady glow against the dark. The bikes already lined out front told me the boys had made it back before me. I cut the engine, and the sudden silence rang in my ears, broken only by the soft tick of cooling pipes.
Kane was by the bar, a tumbler in hand, his beard shadowing his expression as he looked me over.
“Scraped up,” he muttered, his green eyes sharp. “But still breathing.”
“Always.” My voice came out rough as I walked to him, unzipping my cut and feeling the blood-stiff leather shift against my shoulders.
He studied me for a long beat, that brother-to-brother silence loaded with everything words couldn’t cover. He’d seen the switch flip in me tonight. He’d let it happen. He knew what it cost.
“You came back,” he said finally.
“Yeah.” I dragged a hand down my face, wincing at the sting from a shallow cut along my cheekbone. “But I don’t know if she’s gonna want me after seeing that.”
