Her voice is soft. Sure. “You’ll be here soon?”
My chest tightens.
“Soon,” I promise.
She leans up and kisses me, not caring about the eyes on us.
A low whistle cuts through the yard.
“Damn,” someone mutters. “He’s gone.”
“Fully gone,” Ghost adds at my elbow.
I don’t turn. “Shut up.”
He smirks. “You used to roast Havoc and me for getting soft. Now look at you.”
I exhale through my nose. “This isn’t soft. It’s steel wrapped in skin.”
He grins. “Call it whatever you want. You’ve got that look. Like you’re already picturing Sunday mornings and matching mugs.”
“Ghost.”
He chuckles, then sobers. “Let’s go find the asshole who thought it was smart to text your girl.”
“Now you’re talking.”
We move for the gate. Time to follow the smoke back to the fire.
Chapter 9
Nadia
There’sawingofthe clubhouse with several bedrooms and a shared living area. The walls are painted in warm, lived-in colors. Pictures line the shelves. Quilts are folded with care. It doesn’t feel like a place built by outlaws, it feels like somewhere people care about each other.
Ava leads me to a small room with a twin bed, a dresser, and a tiny window overlooking the back lot. It’s simple, but safe. She hands me a stack of soft, worn-in clothes.
I’m already missing Saint, and I think it shows.
Ava catches it immediately. Her expression sobers. “It sticks, doesn’t it? The way they take care of you. The way they treat you like you matter.”
I nod, fingers brushing over the stitched pattern on the quilt. “It’s… overwhelming. I’m not used to it.”
“You deserve unconditional love, Nadia. No games. No proving yourself. Let Saint love you.” Her voice is quiet but strong. “And just know you’re safe here. Viper, Saint, Havoc, they’ll handle the threat. You just focus on you. Get some rest. We’ll talk more later.”
I lie down, and Ava tucks the blanket around me like she did when we were younger, sharing a room in a too-small house. Memories come rushing back. Whispered secrets under covers, the creak of floorboards outside our door, dreams we barely dared to say out loud.
We’re not those scared girls anymore. We made it out.
It’s not the life we imagined. But it’s ours.
As I drift off, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I flinch, pulse jumping—but it’s just a text.
Unknown number.
A photo of my stepfather sitting on a prison bench, smirking like the devil himself.
Under it:You can’t hide forever.
