I barely remember the Amelia who existed before Derek. The one who laughed without checking first to see if it was allowed. The one who wore bright colors and spoke her mind and believed in happy endings.
But standing here in this dimly lit hallway, watching Tank's awkward discomfort at being caught in an act of kindness, I feel a flicker of her stirring somewhere deep inside me. A tiny spark of the person I used to be.
"Do you want some tea or something?" I ask, suddenly desperate to prolong this moment.
To stay in this strange bubble where monsters can be defeated by bears, where scary men use their intimidation to protect rather than harm.
Tank looks momentarily surprised by the offer, then nods. "Sure. Tea would be good."
We move to the kitchen, slowly and quietly not to disturb Beast, who sits vigilant by the front window. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, aware of Tank's massive presence behind me. He takes up so much space. Not just physically, but somehow energetically, yet unlike with Derek, I don't feel crowded or threatened. If anything, the solid wall of him at my back feels reassuring.
"You're good with her," I say, reaching for mugs in the cabinet. "With Anna. I wouldn't have expected that."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "Kids are usually terrified of me."
"Not Anna." I smile, thinking of my daughter's fascination with this man who resembles a grizzly bear yet spins bedtime stories about brave rabbits. "She sees right through the scary exterior."
"Smart kid."
"She is." Pride swells in my chest. "Too smart, sometimes. She notices everything. Processes it all." My smile fades. "That's part of what scares me about...all this. She understands more than she should at her age."
The kettle begins to whistle, and I quickly remove it from the heat, pouring hot water over tea bags in two mugs. The familiar ritual soothes me, gives my hands something to do besides twist anxiously in my lap.
"Chamomile okay?" I ask, sliding his mug across the counter.
He wraps his large hands around it, nodding. "Fine, thanks."
We stand in silence for a moment, steam rising between us, the quiet of the cabin broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden structure settling. I study him over the rim of my mug. This imposing man who just told my five-year-old daughter a bedtime story about brave rabbits and protective bears. There's more to him than the hardened biker exterior suggests.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally venture, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Shoot."
I hesitate, not sure how to phrase the question that's been nagging at me since we arrived.
"Why are you really helping us? I know Jenny is your sister, but you hadn't spoken in years. You're in the middle of some conflict with another club. You barely know us." I swallow hard before adding, "You don't owe us anything."
Tank stares into his tea for a long moment, the steam rising between us like ghosts of all the words unsaid. When he finally looks up, there's something in his eyes I didn't expect to see: vulnerability.
"When I left home," he begins slowly, "I told myself it was to protect Jenny. That I could send money back, check in by phone, make sure she was okay from a distance." He shakes his head. "Truth is, I was running. From my father. From responsibilities. From emotions I didn't know how to handle."
I understand that impulse all too well. The desperate need to escape, to run until the pain can't follow. I'd wanted to run from Derek for years before I finally found the courage to actually do it.
"By the time I realized what a mistake I'd made," Tank continues, "it seemed too late to fix it. Jenny was grown. Had her own life. And I'd become..." He gestures to himself, to the leather cut with the Savage Riders insignia. "This. Someone she probably wouldn't even recognize anymore."
"But she did," I point out. "She knew exactly who to turn to when we needed help."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Yeah. Guess she did."
I wait, sensing there's more he wants to say.
"When Beast called me tonight, told me my sister was at the clubhouse..." He pauses, searching for words. "It felt like a second chance. A chance to be the brother I should have been years ago before I left our town."
"Why did you leave?" I ask him, "What happened while you were a cop? I understand if you don't feel comfortable telling me."
"There was this domestic call," He starts, "Wife beaten so badly she could barely see through the swelling. Husband was a citycouncilman's brother. My partner told me to write it up as a household accident. Said the wife was hysterical, imagining things."
"What did you do?" I ask, hands trembling.
