But all it does is want his hands all over me again. His mouth in places it certainly shouldn’t be.
Clenching my eyes shut, I let out a frustrated groan.
The shower calls to me like absolution I don’t deserve, so I open my eyes, moving to the alcove. I twist the faucet as hot as it will go, steam billowing into the small space within seconds. Moving inside, the water hits my skin with punishing heat, but I don’t adjust it.
I want it to hurt.
I want it to wash away the guilt that’s settled into my bones, the smell of his cologne that still clings to my hair, the memory of his hands on my body.
I scrub at my skin until it’s red and raw, but I can still feel him.
Every touch, every kiss, every moment I let myself forget why I was really there.
Marcus.
His name hits me like a physical blow, and I brace my hands against the tile wall, letting the water cascade over my neck and head. My brother’s face flashes through my mind—his laugh, the way he used to ruffle my hair, the last time I saw him alive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the steam. “I’m so sorry.”
But sorry doesn’t change what I did. Sorry doesn’t erase the fact that I protected them in that briefing room, and that I willingly withheld evidence from Moretti. That I’m falling for the very man who might have answers about Marcus’ death, but I’m too much of a coward to ask the hard questions.
The hot water starts to run cold, shocking me back to reality. I shut it off and stand here dripping, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s taking pieces of me with it. Letting out a long exhale, I know I can’t stand here and wallow, so I dry off mechanically, my movements automatic. Then I reach for my clothes, the armor that reminds me who I am supposed to be.
Dark jeans that hug my hips. A black tank top. My worn leather jacket that smells like home, like the person I was before I met Sin. Combat boots that make me feel grounded, powerful, ready for whatever comes next.
I drag a brush through my wet hair, not bothering to style it. Let it air dry. Let it be messy. This version of me doesn’t have to be perfect. But as I look at myself one last time before leaving, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m putting on another costume. Just trading one mask for another.
Who are you really, Victoria?
I don’t have an answer.
The clubhouse is only a twenty-minute drive, but it feels like I’m traveling to a different planet. With every mile, my anxiety ratchets higher. My fingers drum against the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm I can’t control.
Ghost’s face keeps flashing through my mind. That look he gave me in the parking lot during the New Year’s party was skeptical. Knowing. Like he could see right through me.
I park in the lot and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt. Through the windshield, I see the clubhouse. It looks different in the afternoon light, less intimidating, more like a home. Empty beer bottles are stacked near the entrance, evidence of last night’s celebration. A few bikes are parked haphazardly, their owners probably still sleeping off their hangovers.
“You can do this. Just act normal. Be Elizabeth,” I murmur to myself.
I grab my camera bag from the passenger seat, my journalist cover, my excuse for being here, and force myself out of the car. Each step toward the entrance feels weighted, like I’m walking through water.
The door swings open easily. Inside, the clubhouse has that lived-in, morning-after feel. Nitro is sprawled on one of the couches, an arm thrown over his eyes. Deek shuffles past me toward the kitchen, grunting what might be a greeting. Someone, I think it’s Mace, groans from somewhere deeper in the building.
“Hey, Elizabeth,” Ro calls from behind the bar, where she’s organizing bottles. She looks surprisingly fresh for someone who was drinking heavily last night. “You want coffee? Pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping anyone vertical today.”
“I’m good, thanks.” My voice sounds almost normal.
Almost.
I lift my camera, pretending to survey the space for good shots. Through the viewfinder, everything feels distant, manageable. I snap a few pictures of the aftermath, the decorations still hanging, the evidence of celebration, the brothers in various states of recovery.
But my heart isn’t in it.
Instead, my heart is hammering against my ribs, screaming at me to run.
“Elizabeth,” the voice behind me is flat, emotionless. I freeze mid-shot, my finger still on the shutter button.
Ghost.
