“I scared you,” he whispered, his throat working as he swallowed. “I saw it in your eyes.”
The torment was clear on his face, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
“You didn’t scare me,” I whispered back. “But you were out of control.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. They were dark and blue, and full of turbulence.
“I don’t know if I would’ve stopped. The pain . . . the anger . . . I couldn’t hold it back any longer,” he said and I could hear the anguish in every word.
“But you did.”
“Only because you stopped me.” His brows drew in. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”
“You would’ve stopped,” I reassured him.
“Do you really think so?”
I nodded gently. “But I don’t live my life with what ifs. I think if you’re concerned, then you should speak to someone.”
He chuckled softly. “Spoken like a true doctor.”
“Counseling is for big bad bikers, too,” I teased softly with a playful raise of an eyebrow.
That was when Cade opened up to me and told me about seeing a psychologist after I had left for college. How his counselor, a sincerely nice guy named Donnie, had helped him cope with his emotions through counseling and journaling. I let him speak without interruption, and it all spilled out of him. About the desperation he’d felt after our breakup and his inability to cope with the loss of our relationship. How he had struggled with his father’s death less than a year later. And then with Donnie’s death in a car accident not long after.
I reached for his bandaged hand and brought his fingertips to my lips.
“I’ve got you,” I said softly, pressing a kiss into them. “And I won’t ever let you go.”
His eyes roamed my face, absorbing what I had said and looking for signs that I meant it. He reached up and tenderly pushed my hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
“Will you marry me?” he asked quietly.
I nodded gently.
“Yes,” I whispered.
His smile was tender, barely showing on his face, but registering brightly in his beautiful eyes. “I don’t want to wait. I want you to be my wife as soon as possible.”
I curled my fingers around his. “And I want to be your wife more than anything in the whole world.”
He linked our forearms together and held them to his chest, and I could feel the gentle thump of his heart. When he bent his head and kissed the top of my hand, I was consumed by love for him.
“Do you want a big, white wedding?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I just want to be married to you. I don’t care how we do it.”
And it was true. I wasn’t a white wedding kind of girl. I’d never fantasized about a wedding. Because I had already had it when I was nine years old, when I had married my best friend in the backyard, in front of my brother Bolt.
I smiled and pressed my forehead to his. “Plus, we already had our big wedding when we were nine, remember?”
He laughed softly, barely a whisper, but his smile was warm. “I love you so much, Indy. Please don’t give up on me.”
His words killed me. I reached up and cupped his jaw with my hand, and kissed his beautiful lips. He was a big man. Physically powerful and broad. He was tall and intimidating, strong and protective in every way. But in that moment, he needed me. He needed to know that I was standing beside him through everything, no matter what. And it killed me to know that he needed that reassurance. Because he had it. No matter what happened. I would rise up as his queen and stand next to my king. “I will never give up on you . . . on us. I’ve got you, baby. Whatever you need from me. Whatever I can do. Whatever I can give you. It’s yours.”
I felt his breath leave him. Felt his body relax.
We didn’t make love. We just held each other, united by the emotion in the room. He drew me into his arms and held me against the warmth of his chest, his fingers trailing up and down my arms in blissful whispers. And I made a silent vow to this man. To always stand proudly by his side through every storm, and to love him with every beat of my aching and abundant heart.
CADE
The party to celebrate my vote in as Vice President was held a week later and it was huge. Some bikers from visiting chapters lingered for the party at the clubhouse. Bull was adamant the celebration went ahead because we needed something good to bring us all together, rather than a fucking funeral.
The vibe was good. Everyone was ready to celebrate. To be happy. To put the grief behind us and have a good time. A live band played. We had caterers bring in a spit roast with roast potatoes and all the trimmings. Bourbon flowed. Tequila was shot. Weed was blown. Coke was racked up and enjoyed.