“Remi,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “You’re coming home with me.” She doesn’t answer. She looks at the mess surrounding her. “You asked me to walk away, but I can’t. We might be chaos and mess, and fuck, I reckon the second you’re back on your feet, you might kick my arse for being a complete prick to you, but right now, you’re all outta fight, darlin’, and I’m all outta patience. We belong together, Remi, and it took me way too long to see it. So, until you’re well enough to argue with me on the subject, you’re coming home with me.”
She nods, slow and tiny, and when I help her up, she’s weightless in my arms.
“Knife,” I bark out, not to anyone in particular. One of my brothers thrusts a flick blade into my hand. Remi eyes it for a second, and I smile to reassure her. “You ain’t coming on my bike in another man’s jumper,” I tell her, gripping the hem and slicing the material right up the middle. I tuck the blade away and pull the hoody from her shoulders, throwing it to the ground.
I loop my kutte around her, and she grabs at it, pressing her nose to the collar and inhaling deeply. I carry her to the bike like she’s my lifeline. And she is, I know that now.
“Are we ending this?” Axel asks, his eyes burning into mine. With one quick nod, the deal is done. No questions asked. No hesitation. Colin will burn here tonight, freeing my old lady from whatever hell he’s put her through.
I get on the bike behind Remi, making sure she’s wrapped around me like a baby koala, and then the engine catches under my feet.
As we pull away, the house shrinking in my mirror, I let the rage burn down to something colder and harder. This part of her life is done now. Tomorrow, we make plans for our future.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Remi
The ride back is a blur of cold air and engine roar. I don’t remember the gates. I don’t remember the clubhouse door or the way heads turned.
I only remember his hand on mine. Firm. Steady. Promising.
He doesn’t speak. I don’t either. But his words from earlier play over in my brain, trying to build hope in my chest, which I crush back down. We’ve been here before.
He leads me upstairs like he’s done a thousand times, as if I never left.
The door clicks shut behind us, and the quiet rushes in so fast, it’s dizzying. He turns to me and slides the kutte from my shoulders, placing it on the hook on the back of his door. Then he reaches for my shirt, lifting it carefully until I raise my arms like a child, and he removes it. I don’t bother to cover up my bra-less chest. He’s seen it all before, and honestly, I have no energy. In fact, my entire body sways with fatigue so heavy, I almost collapse.
Shadow sees it, steadying me before flicking the button of my worn jeans. My fingers twitch like they should stop him, but they don’t. He crouches before me, pulling them down my legs and tapping my ankle until I step out. Then the socks follow.
Shadow leans back on his heels, his eyes filled with pity as he scans my body. I already know exactly what he sees—broken and dirty. I can imagine the bruises littering my skin from where Colin kicked me, punched me, bit me. There’s dirt under my nails from my endless cleaning tasks, and my fingers are sore from scrubbing. And I smell, I know I do, like sweat and filth. Colin wouldn’t let me wash my hands, let alone my body. I wait, feeling exposed under the yellow lighting while shame silences me and pity plays out on Shadow’s face.
He takes a deep breath, pushing to his feet again, and then he begins to strip. I watch with a furrowed brow. He stops when he gets down to his shorts, then he gives me a warm smile before closing the distance and scooping me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
The bathroom light flickers on, and he sets me down in the shower. The tiles are cold beneath my feet. He turns the water on and checks the temperature with his wrist, silent the entire time. Warm water hits my skin, and I flinch. It hurts. Everything hurts.
Dirt runs first, washing down my body and hitting the white tiles, reminding how much I needed this. It’s followed by a thin wash of red, like watercolour bleeding out.
His jaw flexes as he watches it swirl down the drain.
He takes soap in his hands and works it into a lather then touches me like I’m made of glass. No questions. No accusations. No words at all.
He washes my arms, slow strokes. My shoulders. My back. Careful around the bruises.Gentle over the places that still ache.
And I don’t look at him. I can’t.
Instead, I watch the water as it runs off me and turns clear again, as though I’m becoming someone new.
When his hands reach my face, my breath catches. His thumb moves over my cheekbone, barely touching where the skin is swollen and purple.
His voice is a whisper, hoarse and ragged from everything we’ve said and not said. “Remi.”
A sob slips out before I can swallow it. He cups the back of my head and pulls my forehead to his chest. Water hits his skin and runs down mine. I breathe him in. Leather. Soap. Warmth.
And I don’t have to hold myself up any longer.
He does it for me.
We stay like that until the water runs cold, then he shuts it off, wraps me in a towel, and carries me back to the bed like I’m something small and breakable.
