He doesn’t answer, and that’s the answer.
“Tell him to stop,” I whisper. “Tell him I don’t want this.”
Legend’s eyes go flint-hard. “You think this is about want?”
I flinch like he hit me. He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“Count your blessings, darling. He stepped in front of something ugly. Not many men do that without expecting something in return.”
My throat burns. “He ain’t expecting anything.”
“No,” Legend agrees. “He ain’t.”
That’s what scares me.
The town shifts around me after that. First it whispers. Then it pities. There’s something worse than being hated in Hell, and that’s being looked at like you’re a tragedy that might be contagious.
No longer accused of murder, I’m the poor young girl who got wrapped up with the wrong biker. An older outlaw biker so mean and so enthralled with me, a girl way too young for the likes of him, he pushed his wife into the lake.
The diner regulars start leaving extra cash on the table when I refill their coffee. Mrs. Hanley presses fifty dollars into my hand and tells me it’s “for rent.” I don’t even have a place to rent yet. A bake sale pops up outside the hardware store with a hand-painted sign that saysSUPPORT BRITTANYin sloppy red letters like somebody tried to do kindness with a hammer.
I want to crawl under the counter and disappear.
Lottie squeezes my shoulder while Mason runs circles around my legs at the pawn shop. “They mean well,” she says gently.
“I don’t want charity,” I mutter.
“You don’t get to choose how people care about you,” she replies.
That’s the problem. Nobody asks what I want. Not the club. Not Oaks. Not this town. Not the law. Not the rumor mill that’s turned my name into entertainment.
I go through the motions. Work. Smile. Nod. Pretend I’m sleeping at night when really I’m staring at the ceiling and replaying the sound of cuffs clicking around his wrists. I can’t shake the last look he gave me.
Calm. Certain. Like he’d already accepted whatever came next.
I’m alone at the pawn shop. There ain’t been any gloves or notes or strange men lurking. Elijah’s texts have stopped. It’slike Hell got what it wanted. The Vice President of the Kings of Anarchy MC behind bars. So, I’m alone.
The bell above the door jingles bright and cheerful like nothing is wrong in the world.
Bethany looks like she stepped out of a magazine. Perfect lipstick. Hair smooth and shining. Nails immaculate.
For a second, my brain refuses to take her in. It feels like a hallucination, like grief invented a villain because it couldn’t stand the empty space.
“You look surprised,” she says, smiling.
My heart stops.
“You’re…” My throat closes around the word.
“Alive?” She tilts her head. “Last I checked. I’ve been in Cincinnati,” she says casually. “Spa. Massage. Detox wrap. You’d love it.”
It checks out. Her skin’s glowing like she’s been somewhere with filtered water and cucumber slices over her eyes. She doesn’t look like a missing person. She looks like a woman who got exactly what she wanted and slept like a baby afterward.
She touches her cheek. “The makeup works, but make no mistake, I’m still bruised.”
The room goes too small. I can’t breathe.
“You let them think I killed you,” I whisper.
