Dawn made the windows glow with watery light; she was going to have to get up and head down to the stable soon—
Stable. That one word turned on all the lights in Phoebe’s mind, and she remembered everything that had happened in the stable the day before. Now that her memory was awake, she could feel the sting and ache in her face, too, where Lydia Copperman had struck her.
She had killed a woman.
Though Phoebe had been hurt in Afghanistan before she’d been deployed a full year, she’d been on an infantry fireteam. She had killed people: three whom she’d seen die by a bullet she’d shot—one at close range—and very likely more in the chaotic engagements where bullets flew back and forth in a swarm. She recalled each of the three with crystal clarity and was sure she’d remember them until her dying breath.
But that was war, and those men had been trying to kill her at the same time. She was deeply affected by the lives she’d ended, but wouldn’t say she felt guilty about any of them.
Yesterday she had killed a woman in her own stable. In her home.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
Her memory of the day before felt like an old sponge, stiff and porous. She knew what had happened, but her mind couldn’t absorb it as something that had happened to her. It was more like watching an old movie on a malfunctioning projector. She saw herself hiding behind the propane tank, texting Vin and Margot, running to the stable. She saw Copperman come in. She saw their truncated argument, saw Vin come in, saw Copperman fly at him and knock him down. She saw herself grab her, saw them start to fight.
After that, there was nothing but noise and red fog, like film getting jammed in a projector. And then Duncan was there.
Nothing about yesterday felt real, but she knew it all was.
She had killed a woman.
The impact of that sentence should have been seismic. She had killed a civilian. In her own home.
No matter how many times she thought those words, however, they never accrued any power.
She didn’t care that Copperman was dead, and she didn’t care that she was involved in it happening.
God. That made her a monster, didn’t it? No matter how horrible the dead person had been, a normal, decent person would feel guilt or loss or at least worry about what might happen next. She felt none of that.
Finally Phoebe identified the emotion she felt most keenly this morning: relief.
She was glad Lydia Copperman was dead. She didn’t care that she’d been involved in making it happen. If that made her a monster, so be it. The people who loved her, her family, would understand.
A new thought stepped into the spotlight, and Phoebe sat bolt upright. Lydia Copperman was dead, and Duncan had done something to get rid of her body. There was nothing more that woman could do to hurt her.
“Hey,” Duncan mumbled sleepily as he sat up. “Hey, it’s okay.” He put his arms around her again. “I got you.”
Phoebe settled into the comfort of that embrace, but she said, “I’m okay, Dunc. Really.”
He leaned back and peered into her eyes. “Yeah?”
She smiled and set her hands on his hair, smoothing his bedhead. “Yeah. It probably makes me a monster, but I’m not fucked up about yesterday.”
“You were pretty fucked up yesterday.”
“I know. That’s all weird in my head, like it’s underwater or something, but I think that was about Afghanistan more than yesterday. Or maybe it’s all tangled up into one nasty mess, like a trauma bomb. But I’m okay about what happened. I’m relieved, actually.”
He blinked. As he shifted to lean against the headboard, he brought her along with him, and she settled in under his arm, with her back against his chest.
“Wow,” he said softly.
Now she felt a little anxiety. “Are you thinking I’m an awful person?” She really needed him to understand.
“No, not at all,” he answered right away. “I’m just surprised. After yesterday, I thought you’d have a rough time for a while.”
She shook her head. “I think ... like I said, I think yesterday was more about the Army and what happened over there than what happened in front of me in the stable, or feeling guilty about it. I guess I would have been scared what would happen if Margot or Vin had called 911 and gotten the cops involved.” She shifted in his hold and smiled back at him. “But they called you. And you and ... Dex?”
“Yep. Dex, and my dad, and Eight Ball, our president. They came with me.”
“And you all helped me.” Remembering the big gap in her memories, a gap into which Copperman’s body had disappeared, she asked, “What did you do?”
Duncan surprised her when he shook his head. “I think you’re better off not knowing what we did. Probably you’ll never hear about that woman again, but we made it look like she had trouble after she left here. If cops do look into it, it’s better if you can say she came, you made her leave, you don’t know what happened afterward. As much truth as possible.”
So maybe it wasn’t completely over. Maybe cops would come and ask if she’d seen Lydia Copperman. Strangely, that thought didn’t feel dangerous. A new worry entered her thoughts, but her mind didn’t get noisy or muddy or numb. She was simply worried.
When Duncan moved her so he could comfortably look her in the eyes, when his hand slipped gently over her cheek, his fingertips brushing the scratches there, and the butterfly bandages over them, that new thrum of manageable worry quieted almost to nothing.
He was why she wasn’t afraid. Duncan, and Vin, and Margot. Her family. And Duncan had brought even more to her life—his family, his club. They’d helped him help her. They’d been there for her, no doubt at risk to themselves. Because Duncan was who he was, because he was a Bull, she was protected.
Whatever happened, she’d be okay. She had support. She had family, one she’d built herself. And a motorcycle club at their backs.
“Hey.” He tipped her chin up so she looked him in the eye. “Whatever happens, you’re gonna be okay. I promise. We’ll figure it out.”
We’ll figure it out. We. She really was going to be okay.
“I love you, Duncan. Throwing a rod on the highway was pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Laughing, he pulled her against his chest again. “That night completely rearranged my life. I like it better this way.” He pressed his lips to her head and whispered, “I love you so much.”
Phoebe felt good. She was home, in the arms of a man who loved her, and she felt strong and safe and like everything was going to be okay. Wanting to be as close to Duncan as she could get, she turned in his arms, so they were almost completely chest to chest. Still not as close as she wanted, she threw her leg over his and straddled him—and discovered that he was completely naked, and he was completely hard.
In fact, he grunted lustily as she landed on his thighs. “Babe,” he rasped.
In that earthy, almost pained sound, she heard a warning and understood. He was hard for her, but he didn’t want to push to make anything happen. He was being careful with her.
This was real love. Fire and passion, yes, but also warmth and calm. Above all things, love was care.
She didn’t think she’d understood that until right now.