I clink my glass against his and take a small sip, the whiskey burning a warm path down my throat. "To survival."
For a moment, we sit in silence, watching the celebration unfold around us. Despite the destruction, there's a powerful vitality to the scene. Men who faced death hours ago now laughing, drinking, living with renewed intensity.
"I keep thinking about what you said," I confess. "About Tommy not being the period at the end of my story. Just a bad chapter I survived."
Rage's expression softens. "It's true. Tonight was just the end of that chapter. The rest of the book is still yours to write."
"What if I don't know how?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can censor it. "I've spent so long just trying to survive each day. I'm not sure I remember how to actually live."
He considers this, taking a thoughtful sip of his whiskey. "You start small. One decision at a time. What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? Where do you want to go for a walk? Which book do you want to read next?" He shrugs. "The big stuff—where to live, what to do—that comes later. First, you practice making choices again."
Choices. Such a simple concept, yet one that's been foreign to me for so long. Tommy systematically eliminated my ability tochoose—what to wear, who to see, when to speak. Reclaiming that power won't happen overnight.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For finding me in that park. For bringing me here. For..." I gesture vaguely around us, encompassing the battle-scarred room. "For all of this."
"Don't thank me for the firefight," he says with a wry smile. "That wasn't exactly in the plan."
"No, but you kept your promise. You kept me safe."
His expression turns serious. "Always would have. From the moment I met you, I knew you were worth protecting."
Across the room, Eli has fallen asleep on a pile of jackets, exhaustion finally claiming him despite the noise. Rage follows my gaze, his face softening at the sight of his son.
"Should probably get him home soon," he says. "He's had a hell of a day."
"Where will I stay tonight?" I ask. "The room I was in is probably..."
"Trashed," Rage confirms. "Most of the residential wing got hit hard." He hesitates, seeming to weigh something in his mind. "We have a spare room at our place. If you want. Or Luna and King have space at their house. Your choice."
There's that word again. Choice. A decision that is mine alone to make.
I think about Rage's house, the home he's created for his son. The way Eli hugged me earlier, his small arms surprisingly strong, his trust complete despite barely knowing me.
"I'd like to stay with you," I say. "If it's not an imposition."
"It's not," he assures me quickly. "The guest room's all made up. And I think Eli would like having you there. He's already decided you're his friend."
The simple acceptance of a child, untainted by suspicion or judgment, brings a lump to my throat. "He's a special kid."
"Yeah, he is." Pride fills Rage's voice. "Better than his old man deserves, that's for sure."
Before I can contradict this unfair self-assessment, King calls for attention from atop an overturned table. The room gradually quiets, all eyes turning to the club president.
"Brothers," he begins, his deep voice carrying easily through the hall. "Tonight, we faced an enemy who thought they could destroy us. Who thought they could walk into our home and take what's ours." He pauses, surveying the room. "They were wrong."
A cheer rises from the assembled men.
"We lost no brothers tonight," King continues once the noise subsides. "We defended our territory. We sent the Eagles running with their tails between their legs." Another cheer, louder this time. "But make no mistake. This isn't over. Vulture escaped. He's wounded, desperate, and now he's lost most of his men. That makes him more dangerous, not less."
The room sobers slightly at this reminder.
"Tomorrow, we hunt," King declares. "We find Vulture, we end this threat permanently. But tonight—" he raises his glass, "—tonight, we celebrate being alive. To the Savage Riders!"
"To the Savage Riders!" comes the thunderous response.
Glasses are raised, liquor flows, and the celebration resumes with renewed vigor. Luna appears at King's side, her handfinding his as naturally as breathing. He leans down to kiss her, a private moment of tenderness amidst the rowdy celebration.
Watching them, I feel a twinge of something I haven't experienced in a very long time: hope. Not just for survival, but for the possibility of happiness, of connection. If Luna, Amelia and Jenny found love and safety after their ordeal, perhaps there's hope for me too.
