Page 38 of Burned in Stone
I swallow hard, because I’ve been around the MC enough to know what this means. The vest isn’t a wedding ring, but it’s the closest thing this world has. It’s a public declaration. It’s him standing on the roof and screaming that I’m his, and he’ll burn anyone who looks at me sideways again.
All I’ve done is push him away. For months. I was literally packed to leave yesterday, ready to disappear without a word. And his response to that is... this? A hand-stitched vest with his name on it? A public claim in front of his entire family?
How is he so sure? What does he see that I can’t?
Because when I look at myself, I see a woman who ran from one man and is about to drag another into a war he didn’t sign up for. I see someone who’s better at leaving than staying. But when Cash looks at me, he sees someone worth fighting for. Worth claiming. Worth keeping.
I don’t understand it. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I just have to trust that he knows what he’s choosing.
But I hold his gaze. I want this, and I want him, and I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t. Tired of running before I’m proven not worth staying for.
“Can I see?” I whisper, holding out my hand as my eyes lock with his.
Cash sets the vest in my outstretched hands. The leather is unexpectedly supple, warm where he’s already handled it, and heavier than I would have guessed. The back of my throat burns. I turn it over, feeling out the seams, the fat block letters stitched in a certainty I don’t remember ever getting for myself.
‘PROPERTY OF CASH’ is so blatant, so possessive. Gabriel used to introduce me as ‘my wife’ with the same possessive weight, like I was an acquisition. A thing he owned. But this feels different. This feels like Cash is saying ‘mine to protect’ not ‘mine to use.’ I’ve seen the way this club treats their ‘old ladies’. They’re held in such high regard, worshipped even. Still, the words make my hands shake. What if I’m wrong? What if all that was a facade, and at the end of the day all men who claim ownership eventually show their true colors?
Fuck. This is so hard. I want to trust my gut. But after everything I’ve lived through—can my gut be trusted?
“You know,” Duck clears his throat, “Maggie stayed up all night finishing that. Hand-stitched every letter herself.”
Maggie shrugs, but I catch the way her eyes don’t quite meet mine. She’s trying to act like the hours of careful work mean nothing, like she didn’t lose sleep making something for a woman she barely knows.
“Maggie, this is beautiful.” I run my fingers over the neat embroidery, the quality of the leather. “Thank you.”
She waves me off, but there’s a pleased flush to her cheeks. “Every old lady needs a proper cut.”
But it’s not just a cut. I can see that in the way everyone’s watching, waiting.
I think about the country club Gabriel used to drag me to twice a week. Tennis on Tuesdays, luncheons on Saturdays. There were rules there too—unspoken ones about which fork to use, which wines to order, whose wife ranked where in the invisible hierarchy. Breaking those rules meant whispered gossip, cold shoulders, Gabriel’s fury in the car ride home.
Those rules were about making people smaller. About fitting in by shrinking down.
This cut, these people. They’re not asking me to be less. They’re offering to stand between me and anyone who tries to make me small again. The patch isn’t about ownership the way Gabriel’s ring was. It’s a shield with Cash’s name on it.
At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe.
I slip it on. The fit is perfect—Maggie’s a wizard for guessing my size—and the weight of it settles around my torso.
Cash’s hands rest lightly on my upper arms, like he’s making sure I don’t tip over from the shock of all this belonging.
Kya whistles, slow and appreciative. “Now that is an upgrade. You look badass, Mercy.”
“I always knew a cut would suit you.” Ginger smirks, but there’s something proud and pleased underneath it. “Now if only you’d let Cash rip those mom jeans, you’d complete the aesthetic.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Cash murmurs near my ear, low enough I doubt anyone else hears. “My name looks good on you.”
“Damn right it does,” Ginger announces. “Welcome to the club, sister.”
Kya raises her coffee mug in toast. “To Mercy—newest member of the ‘I’m sleeping with a criminal’ club.”
I open my mouth to remind her I’m not sleeping with anyone, but I decide not to. Because who am I kidding? Cash and I are inevitable. Pretending otherwise just made things hurt more.
“Soon,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. But Cash’s hands tighten slightly on my shoulders, and I can practically feelhis smirk without looking. He bends to kiss the side of my head, barely grazing my temple, but it’s enough to make my eyes sting.
For the first time since I left Gabriel, I don’t feel like I need to be ready to run at a moment’s notice. The threat at my back feels further off. I want to stay.
“All right, enough,” Stone says, but there’s amusement in his voice. “Some of us have actual work to do. Cash, I need those books balanced before noon.”
