We're plating bacon when I hear them.
Motorcycles.
The distinctive rumble of Harleys, a sound I'd know anywhere.
My heart stops.
"That's—" I can't finish the sentence.
Siren looks out the window, grins. "Your dad's here."
I run.
Out of the kitchen, through the clubhouse, out the front door into the morning sun.
Five motorcycles pulling into the Reapers Rejects compound.
Shotgun Saints cuts.
Dad. Thunder. Blaze. Blight. Rogue.
My father's here.
Dad gets off his bike first, pulls off his helmet, and his eyes find me immediately.
I freeze.
Is he still angry? Will he even look at me after what I did?
Then he opens his arms. "Come here, baby girl."
I run.
Full sprint across the parking lot, and I crash into my father's chest so hard it probably hurts both of us, but I don't care.
He catches me, holds me tight, and I'm crying.
"I'm sorry," I sob into his cut. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. For everything. For lying. For running. For Shadow. For all of it."
"Shh." Phantom's voice is rough, thick with emotion I can hear even if his face stays stoic. "You got nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. You hear me?"
"I thought you hated me. Thought you'd never forgive me."
Phantom pulls back enough to look at me, and I can see it in his eyes—the hurt, the worry, the relief. All of it fighting for space on a face that's trying to stay composed.
His jaw is tight, his expression controlled, but his eyes are wet.
My stoic father, on the verge of tears.
"Grace, you're my daughter. I could never hate you." His hands frame my face, and I feel them trembling slightly. "Pissed? Yeah. Hurt that you didn't tell me about Shadow? Absolutely. But hate you? Never. Not possible."
I can see it now—the toll my leaving took on him.
The lines around his eyes are deeper.
The gray in his beard is more pronounced.
He looks older, more worn.
