A mission.
Nothin’ more.
But fuck, the image of her—so brave, so goddamn beautiful—that wasn’t somethin’ a man forgot.
“Don’t go gettin’ tangled up, Chain,” I muttered, pushin’ off the bike. “You don’t even know her.”
Still, I looked back one last time before headin’ for the clubhouse.
Her name stayed with me long after I lay down, the rain pickin’ up again outside.
CHAPTER THREE
THAT BIKER WAStaking up entirely too muchof my headspace. He’d carried me out of hell, and somehow my thoughts kept circling back to him, the grit along his jaw, the heat of his arm around me, the way his voice had cut through the smoke like a promise.
I was supposed to be starting over. Fresh start. Clean slate. No room for a man—especiallyone built like temptation itself, all dark hair and eyes the color of a perfect blue sky.
But damn if he didn’t look handsome as the sin I was raised to fear.
His swagger alone made me want to throw every vow, every whispered rule I’d ever lived by straight into the wind.
“You okay?” Miriam’s voice broke through my thoughts. She lowered herself onto the porch swing beside me, the chain links squeaking in protest. “You look deep in thought, honey.”
“I’m just making plans,” I said, managing a small smile. “I’m ready to start living, Miriam.”
She chuckled low, warm as sunlight. “Oh, I remember that feelin’. Took me years to settle, even longer to believe I could have a life again. Zeke was still little back then, and I had to learn how to be someone other than scared.” Her mouth curved into a grin. “Once he grew up, though, I had some fun to make up for all those stolen years.”
Her words stirred something in me. Maybe longing. Maybe envy.
“So would it hurt your feelings,” I asked carefully, “if I said I don’t want to stay here long?”
She gave a knowing smile. “You won’t hurt my feelings one bit. This farm’s a place to rest, not to root. We all need different things in our life, honey. What are you plannin’?”
“I don’t know exactly.” I looked toward the field where the grass still glistened from the rain. “I want noise. Laughter. I want to hear life happening around me. Not just the creak of wood and the hum of quiet.”
Miriam laughed softly, reaching over to take my hand in hers. “You surprise me, Lark. After what you’ve been through—the things you saw, the scars you carry—most folks would’ve folded. But you? You’ve still got a spark burnin’. That’s rare.”
Her words landed deep, but I couldn’t tell her the truth, that my scars hadn’t shamed me back there because everyone was marked. Out here, I was the only one. Out here, they weren’t holy, they were reminders. Ugly. Visible.
And every time Chain’s gaze caught them, something in me twisted. Not shame. Not quite. But close.
Miriam’s thumb brushed my knuckles, soft and steady. “The women from the club’ll be here soon. They’ll help you find your footing. Talk to ’em, see what they can offer. They’re good people—fierce, loyal.”
“I will,” I said. “You’ve done enough already.”
“Nonsense.” She waved me off. “You earned your right to peace same as the rest of us.”
I stood, the porch boards cool under my bare feet, and looked out toward the long dirt road where last night’s storm had washed everything clean. The horizon stretched wide and wild, open in a way I hadn’t seen since I was a girl.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” I said, mostly to myself.
“Don’t go too far,” she warned, her accent softening the words. “Storm’ll roll back in soon.”
I smiled, tugged the shawl tighter, and stepped off the porch. The air smelled like wet cedar and freedom.
Maybe I wasn’t strong yet. Maybe I didn’t even know what that meant. But I knew one thing clear as sunrise, I was done living just to survive.
The sky deepened toward dusk, streaks of gold cutting through the last clouds. The air carried that clean after-rain scent, the kind that clings to everything it touches.
