Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Maybe, under the right circumstances, I would kill someone for Legion. If it was in the moment and it was Legion's life or someone else's... I think I could do it.
But I felt there was something more to what June was saying.
Or rather, not saying.
Kill for him. It could be literal. But it doesn't have to be. I think I heard those words between the lines. The sacrifice. The willingness to burn everything else down if that's what it takes.
To choose him, over and over, when the world gives you every reason not to.
PROPERTY OF DEMON. It's not just ink. It's a declaration. A promise.
But is it one I can keep?
The night air is cool, and Legion is warm, so I let go of all my thoughts and just enjoy the ride back to Badlands. The rumble of the engine vibrates through me, and I press my helmet against Legion's leather-clad back. For now, this is enough. This moment. This man. This choice.
We pull into the compound, the gates opening without Legion having to slow down. The prospects recognize his bike. They know who belongs.
The clubhouse is still alive when we arrive, music spilling out the open door, laughter punctuating the night air. Legion parks his bike in line with the others, and I notice how perfectly it fits—like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
I wonder if I'll ever fit that seamlessly.
We get off the bike, and I hand him my helmet. Our fingers brush, and it's like electricity. Even after everything—the public claiming, the tattoo, the drama—I still feel that spark.
I hope I always will.
Legion takes my hand as we walk inside. Heads turn our way. Not everyone, just a few. Watching. Always watching.
I recognize most of the faces now. Have a story to tell about them too.
Chains, who marked me with Sharpie before I got the real ink. Diesel, who fed me shots. Brick, who called the vote that let me stay. Mama Jo, who organized the gifting. Ratchet working on the bikes. Butch and his guns.
One day. That's how long I've been here.
What will the backside of twenty-three years look like if I stay?
Will I be like June? Strong and certain, with a home full of laughter and weapons hidden in every room? Will Legion and I have children with his wild hair and my blue eyes? Will I still feel this pull, this certainty that despite everything—my family, my inheritance, my carefully curated life—this is where I'm supposed to be?
Yes. I think it will look like that. Today feels like a preview.
A moment of clarity in a sea of chaos.
Legion nods at Diesel, who raises his beer in acknowledgment. No words needed. That's another thing I've noticed—these men communicate in silences, in the spaces between words. It's so different from the world I come from, where everything is performance, where words are weapons and shields all at once.
Legion tugs my hand, leading me toward the stairs. I follow without hesitation. This is new for me—this willingness to be led. I've spent my whole life being directed—posed for cameras, dressed for events, scripted for interviews—but never truly following someone by choice.
The bunkhouse hallway is quiet compared to the bar below. Our boots echo on the worn wooden floor.
Yesterday, Room 3 was Legion's room.
Today, it's ours.
The door creaks as he pushes it open.
It's still sparse. Still feels temporary. But now there's a piece of me here too. My hairbrush on the milk crate. My borrowed clothes folded neatly on the footlocker.
Legion closes the door behind us, and the music from downstairs becomes a distant thrum. He doesn't turn on the light. Doesn't need to. Moonlight spills through the small window, painting silver stripes across the bed.
"Shower?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. There's something different in his eyes tonight. Something that wasn't there before. I can't name it, but I feel it—a shift, a deepening.
The bathroom is tiny, but functional and connected to his room. We both take off our boots before entering. The tiles are cold beneath my feet as Legion turns on the water, steam quickly filling the small space.
We undress each other slowly. No rush now. No audience. No desperation.
Just us and eternity, all living together in the same space.
The water is hot against my skin, a welcome contrast to the cool night air. Legion steps in behind me, closing the flimsy curtain. His hands find my waist, steady and sure.
While the sex over the past twenty-four hours has mostly been desperate and rushed—like we were about to be ripped apart, every time the last time—this is different.
His lips find mine, and there are no words. No dirty talk, no declarations, no promises neither of us can keep. Just kisses, deep and consuming. His hands trace my body like he's memorizing it, like he's afraid I might disappear if he closes his eyes.