Page 49 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

I swallow. She’s right. I hate that she’s right.

lso,” Mama M adds, “you killed a man in our basement without flinching. That takes guts.”

“Guts or damage,” I murmur.

“Here, those are the same thing.” She pats my hand. Once. Brief. Warm. “Eat your eggs.”

I eat my eggs.

Chapter Fourteen

Unbroken Promises

Walker

The club’s constant white noise annoys the shit out of me but this is Poppy’s natural environment. At least, in part. Hanging around the clubhouse is what she knows, thanks to her father. She serves beers like she was born to it, and she gives the brothers shit as though they are beneath her.

None of it is a stress to her, and everything is by her choice. I didn’t ask her to work and neither did Savage or Saint, at least to my knowledge. One morning I came out and she had the bar cleaned, the top shelf reorganized by label and the beer tubs restocked. Today, Mama M has her feet up and Poppy is arm wrestling with Saint. Crimson looks on, his lip curled in what could be a sneer or the remnants of last night’s hangover. Jury is out on that one.

I have to admit that the moment I woke and Poppy wasn’t in my bed, I thought she’d run. My boots hit the floor and I didn’t waste time hauling ass down the stairs, keys in hand.

When I stumble across my little domestic biker disaster, the sort of dopey ass grin that never crossed my face before bloomed. I lean against the doorframe to the torture room where we’d ended Mutt together and take the black coffee Savage passes me.

“She fits well,” he murmurs under the cheers as Saint wins their arm-wrestling round.

I nod. “She does.” I like that he didn’t let her win or give her false hope. She strained and gave him a good run for his money, though. The sort of broad smile I love seeing on her face—not the fake shit she slapped there that said she was either brewing trouble or about to kill someone—but the genuine sort lights the room. I rock back on my heels, and sip my brew. “She fits here.”

“So do you.”

I roll my shoulders that grow tighter with every night we stay here. We’re up to what, six, seven? Everything is blurring together, and this is the point where I left last time. When the days and nights merged and I couldn’t keep track of my existence versus the club’s. Before I blinked, I’d spent years doing the club’s work and my life ebbed away.

I ceased to exist.

Sometimes, that blur is what club life’s about but I need to feel the pain on a minute-to-minute basis to live. Otherwise, what the fuck is the point of any of it? I might as well be dead right now.

I don’t want that again, and I don’t want it for her.

The walls close around us as I shove away from Savage and place my coffee on the end of the bar, reaching around it to snag Poppy’s waist. “Are you coming for a ride?”

If I’d thought her eyes couldn’t get brighter, or that smile bigger, I was oh-so-motherfucking wrong.

“Gotta go.” She love-taps Saint’s cheek and the man blushes.

“Christ, cosita,” I grumble. “You’re not meant to have them all offer you their cut by the end of the week.”

She tosses her luscious hair over her shoulder and shoots me a sultry look. Hips that I could follow for days sway in a rhythm that draws every eye in the place whether that man has a woman or not. “There’s only one name I’ll wear.”

Those words echo in a silent clubhouse as she strolls out of the building like she didn’t just lay down in front of the club I abandoned years ago who just took us in.

A hard hand claps my shoulder. “You gonna go claim that before someone else does?” Crimson growls in my ear.

I shove off his good-natured taunt and force my stone feet to move. My heart slams in my chest as I follow my leather miniskirt-clad hellhound from the Son’s clubhouse. She’s already preening on my bike, legs astride the seat, creamy thighs and the faintest hint of lace-edged panties on display. She’s beyond perfect. And she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Light fingers trail across the seat as she peers at me through her lashes. A few wayward dark curls tumble forward, obscuring my view of her stunning face. I wrap those around my fist and tug gently so she looks up at me where I stand beside her, barely breathing.

“What are you doing, Poppy?” I say tightly.

“Aren’t we going for a ride?” She’s all innocence on the outside, but I know this woman and she’s a devil in creamy skin and leather pleats waiting for me to strip her and bend her over the seat of my bike. Anywhere on a long ride. Here in the yard. Wherever we stop to call home.