# Chapter 10: Ours

The bass from the stage still vibrates in my ribs when I step out onto the concrete apron behind the club. The air is thick with exhaust, cigarette smoke, and the sharp tang of spilled liquor and sweat. It should smell like a headache. It smells like home.

I adjust the collar of my leather jacket, feeling the familiar weight of the rings on my fingers, the cool press of Knox’s signet ring against my middle finger where he’d shoved it that first night like a brand. I don’t take it off. Not ever. The club moves around me now, a living, breathing organism that I’ve stopped observing from the outside and started navigating like a second language. I know which floorboards creak near the bar. I know how to read a room before a bottle gets thrown. I know the exact cadence of boots on gravel when trouble is walking through the door, and I know how to disappear into the shadows when Knox needs space to work.

I’m not a guest anymore. I’m not a liability. I’m part of the ecosystem. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re late,” Knox’s voice cuts through the night, low and rough like gravel under tires. He’s leaning against the brick wall just beyond the service door, one boot propped behind him, arms crossed over his chest. The tattoos on his forearms shift with the movement, black ink coiled into serpents and barbed wire, covering every inch of skin that isn’t scarred or sun-weathered. His jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the dark mesh underneath and the hard line of his chest. His jaw is tight. His eyes are already on me, dark and heavy, scanning me from the top of my boots to the messy knot of my hair like he’s cataloging every detail, every breath.

I smile, slow and deliberate. “I was counting cards with Silas. You know how he gets when he’s losing.”

Knox pushes off the wall. The movement is all controlled violence, like a predator deciding whether to strike or stalk. He closes the distance in three long strides, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just below my lower lip. His knuckles are split. Fresh blood. He doesn’t flinch when I trace it with my tongue.

“Don’t play games with him,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that register that usually precedes a broken nose or a bent bat. “He’ll bleed you dry and leave you on the table.”

“I know how to read a deck, Knox. I’ve been learning.” I tilt my head into his palm, feeling the callouses, the heat, the unmistakable pull in my stomach that’s nothing like fear and everything like gravity. “And I know how to read you. You were worried.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his thumb strokes my bottom lip once, twice. A tell. Only I notice it. Only I get to. “I don’t worry.”

“You do.” I step into him, pressing my hips against the hard ridge already straining against his jeans. His breath hitches, just slightly. “Every time I’m ten minutes off, every time you see me talking to someone who isn’t you, every time I don’t look at you the second I walk through a room. You’re a possessive bastard, Knox. You don’t hide it. You wear it like armor.”

He leans down, his mouth a breath from mine. “Because I am.” The words are a growl, rough and absolute. “You’re mine, Poppy. You’ve always been mine. Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you fought it. You don’t get to run from that.”

“I’m not running.” I lift my chin. “I’m staying. I’m claiming you right back.”

His eyes darken. Something volatile flashes in them, but it’s checked, leashed, controlled by years of discipline and the quiet understanding that I am the only thing in his life he doesn’t want to break. He’s an enforcer. He breaks things for a living. But with me, he’s careful. Deliberate. Devoted.

He steps back, breaking the contact like it physically hurts. “Climb on. We’re going home.”

I don’t hesitate. I walk to the Harleys lined up against the brick wall, find his, and swing my leg over the seat. He settles behind me, his arms sliding around my waist to secure my hips, his chest a wall of heat and leather against my back. The engine roars to life, a thunderous, guttural sound that vibrates through both of us. When we hit the street, the city blurs into neon and shadow, but all I feel is him. The press of his forearms. The rhythm of his breathing. The unspoken promise that as long as I’m on that bike with him, I’m protected, I’m known, I’m never alone.

We stop at a red light near the edge of the warehouse district. The rain starts, soft at first, then heavier, drumming against our helmets. Knox’s hand shifts, one arm leaving my waist to reach down, fingers sliding under my jacket, finding the hem of my crop top. His palm is warm against my stomach. I arch into it, a quiet moan escaping my throat. He doesn’t pull away. He just drags his hand up, over my ribs, under my bra, until his fingers brush the peak of my nipple. I gasp. His thumb circles once, slow and deliberate, and I can feel the smile in his voice when he says, “You’re always so fucking wet when we’re out in public. Makes me want to drag you off this bike and bend you over the asphalt.”

I lean back against him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Then do it.”

He laughs, dark and low. “Not here. Not yet. You’ll ride me hard tonight, but I’ll take my time. I’ll have you so full you’ll forget your own name.”

The light turns. We ride. The city melts away until we’re pulling into the gated driveway of the loft I don’t even remember signing the lease for. Knox’s name is on everything. The deed. The utilities. The bank accounts. He never asked me to sign anything. He just started calling it ours, and I let it stick.

He kills the engine. The silence that follows is heavy, charged. We sit for a moment, breathing in the dark, the rain tapping against the roof. Then he swings his leg off, gets down, and comes around to help me. He doesn’t touch me until we’re inside, until the door is locked, until the deadbolt clicks like a gunshot.

He turns me to face him. His hands are on my waist, pushing my jacket off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Then my boots. My jeans. My top. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes with me. He strips me like he’s reading a sacred text, reverent and exacting, until I’m standing in nothing but my panties and the rings on my fingers. His eyes drag over me, dark and hungry, drinking in every curve, every scar, every piece of me that used to make me feel exposed and now just makes him look like a man who’s won a war.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Always have been. Even when you were trying so hard to look like something else.”

I reach up, fingers tracing the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. “I stopped trying.”

He catches my wrist, brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to my inner pulse point. His teeth graze the skin. I shiver. “Good,” he breathes. “Because you’re staying. Right here. With me. In this life. In this bed. In my skin.”

He turns me around, pushes my face down against the wall. Not rough. Not demanding. Just certain. My hands grip the cool plaster. His hips press against my back, his cock already hard, already straining against his jeans. He unbuckles his belt. The sound is loud in the quiet room. He steps out of his jeans and boxers, and then I feel him. Hot, thick, impossibly real, pressing against my slit through my panties. He groans, a low, broken sound.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he growls, one hand sliding around my waist to grab my hip, fingers digging in. The other hand tugs my panties down, kicking them aside. He doesn’t wait. He splits me open with two fingers, slick and quick, and I gasp, already dripping for him. He adds a third, curling them just right, and my knees buckle. He catches me, pressing me harder against the wall, his body caging me in.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “So fucking ready for me. Always are. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t feel it when you walk away from me? That pull in my chest? You’re mine, Poppy. Every breath. Every drop. You don’t get to pretend you’re not built for this life. For me.”

I turn my head, pressing my cheek against the wall, looking back at him over my shoulder. His eyes are black with hunger, his jaw clenched, his tattoos standing out in the low light. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen him break men. I’ve seen him stand over bodies without blinking. But here, in this room, with me, he’s just a man who’s utterly, completely gone for me. And I’m not afraid of the monster. I’m not trying to tame him. I’m claiming him.

“Then claim me,” I say, voice steady, unbroken. “Don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Just take what’s yours.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls his fingers out, slaps his cock against my slit, coating it in my wetness, and then he drives into me.

I cry out, back arching as he bottoms out, stretching me wide, filling me completely. He’s thick, all hard muscle and heat, and he moves like he was made to fit inside me. He grips my hips, fingers leaving bruises, and pulls back almost all the way before slamming forward again. The wall shakes. My breath hitches. He sets a brutal pace, relentless, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside me that makes my toes curl and my vision blur. I’m pinned, owned, used exactly the way I want to be used.

“You feel that?” he grits out, sweat dripping from his brow onto my shoulder. “That’s you. That’s all of you. You’re mine, Poppy. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, turning my head again to look at him. “I’m yours. Always have been.”

He curses, a raw, broken sound, and his pace changes. Faster. Harder. The slap of skin against skin echoes through the room. He leans over me, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking, marking. I can feel his heart hammering against my back, feel the tension in his muscles as he fights to keep control. He’s close. I can tell. He’s always so fucking controlled, but with me, he unravels. And I want him to.

“Come for me,” he growls against my skin. “Let me feel you break.”

I don’t wait. I let go. The pleasure crashes over me like a wave, violent and consuming, pulling a sob from my throat as I climax, my body trembling around him, my pussy clamping down on his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses. He groans, a deep, ragged sound, and his grip tightens. He doesn’t stop. He rides out my orgasm, thrusting through it, dragging me back down with him until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, trembling in his arms.

“I’m not done,” he promises, voice rough as sandpaper. He pulls out, turns me around, and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, instinctively, and he carries me to the bed, laying me down like I’m something sacred even as his hands are already on me again. He strips off his shirt, tosses it aside, and crawls over me like a predator claiming its kill. His tattoos press against my skin, warm and solid. His mouth crashes onto mine, fierce and demanding, tasting of whiskey and sin. I kiss him back, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He strips his cock free, guides it to my entrance, and pushes in slow at first, letting me adjust, letting me feel every inch. When he’s buried to the hilt, he stills, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing is ragged. His eyes are dark, intense, focused only on me.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

I do.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low, steady, absolute. “Not tonight. Not ever. This life? It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to be clean. But it’s ours. Just ours. No rings. No vows. No fucking fairy tales. Just you. Just me. Just this.”

I reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “I don’t want fairy tales, Knox. I want you. I want the blood. I want the late nights. I want the way you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you from burning the world down. I want this. All of it. With you.”

He exhales, a broken sound, and then he moves.

He fucks me like he’s trying to brand me from the inside out. Relentless. Deep. Every thrust a claim, every groan a confession. I wrap my legs higher around him, arching into him, taking every inch, meeting his pace stroke for stroke. My nails dig into his shoulders. He bites my collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark, and I cry out, climaxing again, my body shuddering around him as he follows me over the edge. He groans my name, a rough, reverent sound, as he empties inside me, his body going rigid, his grip tightening like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

We stay like that for a long time. Tangled. Breathing. Skin slick with sweat. The rain has stopped. The city outside is quiet. Inside, there’s only the sound of our hearts slowing, the weight of him on top of me, the familiar scent of leather and tobacco and him.

He shifts, rolling to his side but keeping me pinned against his chest. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His lips press against my temple. His hand comes up to stroke my hair, slow, repetitive, grounding.

“You’re really staying,” he murmurs into my hair. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A prayer.

“I’m staying,” I say, turning my head to look at him. His eyes are closed, but I can feel his awareness, his focus. “No marriage. No kids. No pretending this is something it’s not. Just us. Just this life. Just you.”

He opens his eyes. They’re still dark, still intense, but something softer has settled in them. Something I’ve only seen once before, the night he carried me out of that burning building after the fire. “You’re insane,” he says, voice rough but fond. “You know that, right? You’re completely fucking insane.”

I smile, pressing my lips to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Yeah. But I’m yours.”

He exhales, a quiet, broken sound, and pulls me tighter. His hand slides down my back, over my ass, gripping me possessively. “You’re mine,” he agrees, voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that still makes my skin prickle. “And I’m yours. Ours. That’s it. No changes. No compromises. Just this. Always.”

I don’t answer with words. I just shift against him, feeling the hard ridge of his cock stirring again, feeling the familiar pull in my stomach, feeling the weight of his claim settling over me like a second skin. I’m not afraid of the life he’s given me. I’m not afraid of the blood on his hands or the violence in his nature or the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him human. I embrace it. I claim it. I claim him.

Outside, the city sleeps. Inside, we’re awake. We’re alive. We’re ours.

And that’s enough. That’s everything.