The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 183

Chapter 98-2

Claim

I look up into his face, my breath catching slightly as his hips press against mine. He really can move. It’s an absurdly graceful rhythm for a man built like a tank, but then again, shouldn’t be surprised. A man who performs the way he does in the bedroom was bound to have rhythm in the kitchen.

“You’re a nut,” I tell him, leaning my head back to meet his gaze. “A nut who can dance, but still…”

“I’m feeding you,” he says, his gray eyes flashing with a wicked, playful spark. He dips me back slightly, supporting my spine with one massive arm, his face hovering just inches over mine. “Which makes me the most important person in your life right now.”

“Jade makes a better margarita,” I tease softly.

Locke’s jaw tightens in a mock threat, his eyes darkening to slate.Take it back.”

“Make me.”

“Say what?”

“Make me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Locke brings his mouth down on mine, catching my lips in a deep, hot, possessive kiss that steals the air right out of my lungs. He tastes like dark coffee and sweet maple syrup, his thumb tracing the curve of my jawline, tilting my face up to take everything he wants.

My hands find his bare shoulders, my fingers sinking into the warm, solid muscle of his back, anchoring myself to him as the kitchen, the music, and the morning sun melt into a golden blur.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is coming a little faster, his dark eyes burning down into mine with an intensity that sets my skin on fire.

“Margaritas,” he grunts low against my mouth. “Cannot compete with my pancakes.”

“A very fair point,” I whisper, my cheeks flushed, my heart hammering a sweet, frantic rhythm against my

ribs.

He presses one last, soft kiss to the tip of my nose before straightening up, grabbing a clean mug from the rack, and filling it with steaming black coffee. He stirs in a splash of cream and two sugars, exactly the way I like it, and hands it to me.

“Sit,” he commands, pointing toward the high-backed chairs at the far end of the dining table. “Before the bacon gets cold and my reputation as a culinary genius is ruined.”

I take the mug, and walk over to the massive window.

The view from the penthouse this morning is staggering. Below us, the city spreads out like a quiet grid of glass and steel, fading into the dark blue expanse of the ocean to the west, while the jagged, mist-shrouded peaks of the mountain range rise up to the north. The sun catches the water, making the water glitter like scattered diamonds.

I sink into the comfortable leather chair, taking a slow sip of the coffee, watching Locke plate up the food. He brings over two massive plates piled high with fluffy blueberry pancakes, thick strips of crispy bacon,

Chapter 92-2-

serambled eggs, and fresh fruit, setting them down with a flourish.

Claim

“Bon appétit,” he says, sliding into the chair beside me, his long legs stretching out beneath the table until his knee rests firmly against mine.

“This looks incredible, Locke,” I say, drizzling syrup onto a pancake. The first bite is perfection: fluffy, sweet, and bursting with berries. “Okay, fine. You win. You’re better than the margaritas.”

“Write that down,” he says, grabbing a piece of bacon. “I want it in writing.”

We eat in a comfortable, easy rhythm, trading quiet jokes and effortless banter. It feels so light, so deeply

For days and days now, between my slow recovery, the constant threat of Knox, the shadow of Willow, and the heavy cloud of club business, our effortless back-and-forth had felt somewhat buried under the weight of surviving. But sitting here right now, with the sun washing over the table and Locke teasing me about his 80s playlist, it feels like we’ve finally reclaimed our foundation.

He reaches across the table, grabbing my hand and lacing his fingers through mine, resting our joined hands on the wood between our plates.

I look down at our hands, then out at the towering mountains in the distance.

A quiet, poignant stillness settles in my chest. I know what today brings.

I know that in a little less than an hour, Dad, Mayhem and the club officers will all arrive, the tactical maps will be rolled out across this very table, and the dark, bloody business of the MC will swallow us whole again. I know the strike on Route 9 is coming, and I know the world is about to get very loud, very violent, and very dangerous.

I don’t know what comes after that. I don’t know what Knox has built to throw at us.

But as Locke leans over, bringing my hand to his mouth to press a soft, linger kiss to my knuckles, his eyes watching me with absolute, unwavering faith, I make a silent promise to myself:

I’m going to hold onto this moment.

I’m going to lock the sound of his laugh, the taste of maple on his lips, the 80s music, and the sight of his bare shoulders in the morning sun, deep inside my heart.

No matter how dark the shadows get on Route 9, this light is what we’re fighting for.

“What are you thinking about?” Locke asks softly, his thumb gently smoothing over my skin. “You look pensive.”

I look at him, letting a genuine, radiant smile spread across my face.

“I’m thinking,” I say. “That you’re going to have to dance with me again tomorrow morning.”

Locke’s smirk returns, sharp, warm, and full of desire. “Zara, I’ll dance with you every single morning for the rest of my life.”

“Is that a promise, handsome?”