“That night,” she chokes out. “He told me there had been an accident. A gang shooting. That Declan was just… in the wrong place. That’s what I’ve believed for seven years.” Her face is a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. “But the news… the video… to see him… to see Winston… oh, God, Darla.” She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine, her touch trembling and cold. “You knew. You knew this whole time he murdered your... your other half. And you carried that all by yourself.”
The dam inside me breaks. A single hot tear escapes and slides down my cheek. My grief for him, for Declan, is a constant, raw wound, and she just pressed her thumb into it. She sees it. Her own tears fall freely now. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, her voice a wrecked, broken thing. “I am so, so sorry. Not just for what he did. But that I wasn’t there for you. That I let you face that monster all alone.”
She doesn’t ask for forgiveness. She doesn’t ask for anything. Instead, she sits there, her apology a raw, open wound. I look at this broken woman, a stranger who wears my mother’s face, andfor once, I don’t see a monster. I see another victim. Another survivor of Winston Graves.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I say, my voice quiet, honest. “Not yet.”
She nods, a small, accepting movement. “I know.” She squeezes my hand. “Can I… can we just… start here? Can I just… be your mother, a little? Even if it’s too late.”
The plea hangs in the air, fragile and full of a desperate, uncertain hope. I look past her, at East leaning against the bar, his arms crossed, his eyes never leaving me. He is a solid, unmovable mountain of support, and the sheer force of his protective gaze makes my heart ache. I look at my new sisters, my army, who are watching from a distance, giving me space but ready to go to war for me at a moment’s notice. I can hear Ruby’s low, angry whisper, Candace’s quiet strength. And I know that I’m not the same broken girl who needed a mother to save her.
I look back at her, at this stranger who wants to be my mom. For the first time, I feel a flicker of something other than anger or pain. It’s not forgiveness. But it’s not nothing.
“You’re here now,” I say, and for today, that is enough.
Chapter 43
Darla
Thescentofgrilledburgers and blooming honeysuckle hangs heavy in the warm afternoon air, mingling with the low thrum of classic rock and the chaotic symphony of a hundred conversations. The clubhouse yard, once a sanctuary for outlaws, has been transformed. String lights crisscross between the garage and the old oak tree, casting a soft, golden glow that will soon warm the dusk. Kids—actual kids, not just club prospects—are running through sprinklers near the fence line. Townspeople mingle with bikers, their cautious curiosity slowly melting into laughter.
I stand on the clubhouse porch, a glass of iced tea in my hand, taking it all in. This is Willowridge, rebuilding. And this is my home.
Just a few short weeks ago, I ran onto this very porch, bloody and terrified, a hunted woman. Now, I’m… hosting. The contrast is so stark, it almost takes my breath away. East’s mom, Carol, waves me over to the table she’s set up near the gazebo—the one draped with a banner reading “Regent Theater Restoration Fund.” It’s our project now, ours and a growing list of enthusiastic town volunteers. My purpose, outside of East and the club, is taking shape.
“Darla, honey, can you hand out some of these flyers?” Carol asks, her face glowing with the civic pride I’ve never witnessed up close.
As I hand out brochures for upcoming fundraisers, I let my gaze sweep across the yard, cataloging my new family.
Near the grill, James is flipping burgers with the concentration of a surgeon, while Maggie chats animatedly with him, occasionally wiping a smudge of charcoal from his cheek. It’s a comfortable, domestic picture, a testament to the quiet, fierce love between them.
A little further out, Ruby is a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated chaos. She’s not just running a raffle; she’s corralling a small, feisty pygmy goat on a leash. An actual living, breathing farm animal with surprisingly sharp little horns. The goat, which Ruby has clearly named ‘Nasty Nash Jr.’ judging by the sparkly collar, is attempting to eat a tablecloth.
“Last chance to win the grand prize!” she shrieks, waving a bright pink ticket above her head, narrowly missing the goat’s head. “A lovingly pre-owned… something! You know you want it!”
Then, the winner is called. “And the lucky winner is… Nash!” Ruby beams, utterly delighted.
Nash, who had been leaning against a tree looking as stoic and unapproachable as ever, visibly cringes. I see his shoulders tense, a silent fuck passing over his features. Ruby marches over, a ridiculous, oversized, fluffy pink unicorn tucked under her arm. With a triumphant flourish, she shoves it into his arms.
“Here you go, Sergeant-at-Arms! Don’t say I never gave you anything!” she chirps, giving him a playful pat on his now-ruffled hair. The goat, sensing a moment of weakness, tugs hard on its leash, pulling Ruby directly into Nash’s personal space.
Nash catches Ruby, so she doesn’t fall, glares at the unicorn, then at the goat, then at Ruby, who is practically vibrating with glee. He’s forced to carry it around for the rest of the party, a picture of misery that only makes Ruby’s grin wider. It’s a perfect snapshot of their infuriating, irresistible dynamic.
I catch sight of Sloane at the edge of the crowd, looking slightly overwhelmed but also genuinely at ease. A young woman, maybe eighteen, with bright, newly hopeful eyes approaches her. It’s one of the girls from the shipyard rescue, now looking healthy and strong.
“Nurse Mercer?” the girl asks hesitantly, then corrects herself with a shy, grateful smile. “I mean, Sloane. Thank you. For everything.”
Sloane’s shoulders visibly tense for a second. She’s never been good with overt gratitude. But her expression softens, and a genuine warmth flickers in her eyes. “You’re welcome, honey. Just… keep going.” She gives the girl a rare, gentle smile.
From across the yard, Knox is watching the interaction with a thoughtful, almost pensive look on his face. He’s clocked Sloane’s discomfort, but also the flicker of quiet pride. He catches my eye for a second, and a silent, complex question passes between us. What does it all mean?
Frankie is by the back door of the clubhouse, carefully wrapping a plate of James’s grilled chicken and potato salad. Candace walks up.
“Who’s that for, Frankie?” Candace asks, a teasing note in her voice.
Frankie gives a cryptic, witchy smile. “For the stray. He’s finally getting his appetite back.”
She glances toward the woods behind the club, a flash of something unreadable in her eyes. A second later, Arden appears from the treeline, his eyes sweeping over the party with his usual unnerving intensity. He and Frankie share a quick, hushed conversation, her hand brushing his arm as he nods toward the packed plate. Another secret.
