When I pull back, the kitchen doorway is no longer empty. James Mercer stands there, watching us with undisguised disgust, his split lip curled in a sneer.
"Isn't this fucking sweet," he spits, his words slurred slightly. "My sister, the club whore."
Before I can react, Holly is on her feet, crossing the space between them with surprising speed. The crack of her palm against his cheek echoes in the kitchen.
"Don't you ever call me that again," she says, her voice deadly quiet. "Not after everything I've sacrificed for you."
James looks stunned, his hand coming up to touch his reddening cheek. I move to Holly's side, ready to intervene if her brother retaliates, but he just stands there, shock gradually giving way to shame.
"We're leaving at sunset," I tell him, my arm settling around Holly's shoulders. "Pack your things. And sober up. Where we're going, you'll need your wits about you."
He nods jerkily, his eyes darting between Holly and me before he turns and disappears down the hallway.
"I've never slapped him before," Holly says quietly, trembling slightly under my arm. "Not once in all these years, no matter what he did."
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Maybe it was long overdue."
She leans into me, her body fitting against mine like it was designed to be there. "Maybe everything that's happening was long overdue. Maybe I needed my entire life to fall apart to finally start putting it back together the right way."
Her words strike a chord deep within me. I've been going through the motions for years—fixing bikes, following orders, existing rather than living. I joined the club after King stood by me during my trouble with the townspeople, grateful for the protection and brotherhood, but never fully embracing the violence that comes with this life. I've always been the fixer, the mechanic, the one who makes things work rather than the one who breaks them.
Until now. Until Holly. Until I found something—someone—worth fighting for, worth changing for.
"We'll figure it out," I promise, both to her and to myself. "Whatever comes next, we'll face it together."
What I don't say, what I can't bring myself to voice aloud, is the fear that haunts the edges of my newfound hope. The fear that once she truly knows me… The violence I'm capable of, the blood on my hands, the darkness I keep leashed, she'll realize she deserves better than a broken man trying to build something good from the wreckage of his life.
But looking at her now, feeling her warmth against me, I allow myself to hope. Because if King found redemption with Luna, if Tank found peace with Amelia, if Beast found tenderness with Jenny, if Rage found purpose with Claire, if Torch foundbelonging with Sidney and Max, maybe, just maybe, I can find my future with Holly.
Chapter 8 - Holly
I can't stop staring at my right hand as I gather my meager belongings in the small guest room. The sting has long faded, but I swear I can still feel the impact of my palm against James's cheek.
In all our years together, through his gambling, his obsessive behavior with women, his drinking, his endless broken promises, I've never once raised a hand to him. I've yelled, I've cried, I've begged, but I've never struck him.
Until today.
The look of shock in his eyes replays in my mind. Not anger, not hatred, just pure, undiluted surprise that his doormat of a sister finally pushed back. And what triggered it? Not the gambling that's destroyed our finances. Not the restraining orders from women he's stalked. Not even his attempt to leave the clubhouse and potentially get us both killed.
No, it was him calling me a whore.
The old Holly, the one who existed before bullets tore through our apartment, before Jacob's hands and mouth taught me what my body was capable of feeling, would have swallowed the insult, made excuses for James, shouldered the blame as she always did.
But I'm not that Holly anymore.
I fold the clean shirt Luna provided, placing it in my backpack alongside the photo of our parents I managed to grab during our escape. So little to show for twenty-one years of life. Everything I own could fit in a child's school bag, and yet I feel strangely unburdened by the realization.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call, expecting Jacob or maybe Luna.
Instead, James stands in the doorway, his posture uncharacteristically hesitant. The bruise on his cheek from Beast's fist has darkened to a mottled purple, now complemented by the reddening mark my own hand left. He looks terrible: disheveled, hungover, diminished somehow.
"Can we talk?" he asks, his voice hoarse.
I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest. "Are you sober enough for a conversation?"
He winces at my directness. "Yeah. I am."
