“Oh yeah,” I mutter. “And now, I’m sleeping in her spare room like some distant cousin while he’s tucked up with my old lady.”
Diesel lets out a low chuckle. “Shit, Pres. I almost feel bad for you. How’s this guy still breathing?”
I scrub a hand down my face, dragging it over my beard. “She hates me, D. I can see it. It’s right there in her eyes.” My throat tightens. “There’s so much she wants to say to me, but she’s holding back. And I don’t want to add another reason for her to look at me like that.”
“Killing her new man might push her over the edge,” he agrees lightly.
“I’ll keep it as a last resort,” I mutter.
“So, what’s the plan?” Diesel asks. “You heading back early?”
“No.” I drop onto the bed, sinking into the unfamiliar pillows, staring up at a ceiling that isn’t mine. “Not without Eden. And not without my kid.” My chest aches at the words. “I’m staying. I need her to see I’m sorry.” I pause for a beat. “Everything okay back there?”
“Yeah,” Diesel replies. “Two runs done today. Three booked for tomorrow. Club’s steady. I’ve got it covered.”
“Good,” I murmur, even though my mind is miles away, locked in on a room down the hall, on a woman I broke, and on the realisation that someone else might be holding her together now.
I wake up early. It’s not habit, more reflex. My body doesn’t know how to rest properly anymore.
I lie there for a moment in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for signs of life.
It’s silent. No Eden moving around. No soft footsteps. No kettle boiling. And more importantly, no moaning or sounds of pleasure.
I drag myself up and head downstairs, rolling my shoulders like I’m gearing up for a fight. The kitchen light flicks on, harsh and white, and I stand there for a second, staring at a space, trying to picture Eden here, living without me.
I open cupboards and find pans, eggs, bread.
Cooking has never been my thing. Maggie feeds the club, Eden fedme. But right now, standing still feels pointless. I need to make every minute count if I want to win her back, starting with change.
So, I cook.
Bacon hits the pan and sizzles loud enough to fill the room. I crack eggs with more force than necessary, shells biting into myfingers. The smell starts to build—grease, toast, something warm and almost normal—and for a second, it tricks me into thinking this is just another morning back at the clubhouse.
Like she’s going to walk in half-asleep, steal a piece of bacon, and complain about the mess while perching on my lap.
I’m flipping eggs when footsteps sound on the stairs. I don’t turn right away. Then I hear her voice. Soft. Morning-rough. Too familiar.
“God, that smells—”
I turn.
Eden stands in the doorway, wrapped in a cardigan that hangs loose over her bump. And beside her . . .
Peter.
He’s freshly showered, relaxed, one arm resting casually at her back like it belongs there.
My jaw tightens.
She blinks when she sees me. Surprise flickers across her face, quickly masked by something neutral and polite.
“You’re cooking?” she asks.
I huff a breath. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I am shocked,” she replies quietly. “I’ve never seen you cook.”
There’s a dozen things I could say to that, but I settle on the safest. “There’s a lot you haven’t seen yet.”
