I resented the choices I had made, the way I had put Travis in an impossible position—forcing him to choose me over the loyalty he felt for his club brothers. The guilt was heavy, but so was my anger. I despised the fact that my own brother had chosen to stay and fight, embracing the chaos when all I wanted was for him to be safe. My hatred extended to the Death Dogs, the biker world, and everything tied to it. The violence, the constant tension, and the stupid war that consumed us all—it was suffocating.
But more than anything else, I hated feeling useless. In the midst of all this turmoil, my inability to change things or protect those I loved was the hardest burden to bear.
Standing at the window, I watched as Dr. Rowen Shay and Dante sat together on the beach, their attention focused on Danika as she played in the sand. With careful, determined hands, my daughter built sandcastles, her concentration unwavering as each new tower took shape. Despite the turmoil and uncertainty that surrounded our lives, Danika remained untouched by it all, her spirit seemingly immune to the chaos. She laughed and smiled, lost in her own little paradise, aworld defined by innocence and happiness. In those precious moments, her universe was perfect—filled with love, laughter, and an unshakable joy that radiated from her every movement. That simple scene, framed by the window, was a gentle reminder of what truly mattered and of the jealousy that seeped deep into my bones.
Turning away from the window, I couldn’t bear to look anymore. The peaceful scene outside was too much to face, a painful reminder of everything I longed for but felt so distant from.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my head bowed and hands clenched tightly together. The swirling anger, hatred, and resentment inside me were physical, as they tightened my chest and clouded my thoughts. Each emotion seemed to battle for dominance, but none were easy to relinquish. Somewhere deep inside, I wondered if I deserved any peace at all. Part of me, however small, despised myself for staying in Nebraska, for allowing myself to be pulled back into the life I thought I had escaped.
Life in Oklahoma City brought me a sense of fulfillment I hadn’t known before. Surrounded by friends and supported by a close-knit community, I found comfort in the routines of my apartment and the satisfaction of working with my clients who counted on me. My job was more than just a way to pay the bills—it gave me a purpose, something I invested deeply in. There were moments when I genuinely felt content, even happy, as if I had finally found my footing in the world.
Yet, I should have realized that such peace and tranquility rarely came without a price. For me, the cost was steep: the return to a life I spent years trying to forget, a life that shaped my formative years with nothing but pain and suffering. A life that cost me my relationship with my brother and yet gave me my daughter and Travis.
That fleeting sense of calm and happiness I found was always shadowed by the sacrifices I had made. That the peace I experienced was not free; it was paid for with memories of old wounds I would never forget and the constant reminder of everything I had lost. My past was marked by hardship, shaping every part of who I became. Even as I tried to leave that world behind, it pulled me back, reminding me that pain and joy were often intertwined. In giving up my relationship with my brother for the life he loved, I gained a family—a daughter whose laughter lit up the darkest days, and a man whose love anchored me through the chaos. The price I paid for these blessings was undeniable, and they became the reason I kept moving forward, even when peace felt so far away.
I was reminded time and again that every decision carried the weight of consequences. That lesson, first impressed upon me in my freshman year of Psych 101, shaped my understanding of who I was and who I could become. I accepted that life was built upon choices, and I believed in the power they held. What proved most difficult, however, was learning how to live with the decisions I had made. The struggle wasn’t in choosing, but in accepting the aftermath and moving forward despite the weight those choices carried.
Ghost entered our room quietly, his voice soft as he greeted me. “Hey, baby,” he said. “What are you doing in here?”
I answered honestly, “Thinking about choices.”
Ghost lay down beside me, curling himself around my body for comfort. He rested his head in his hand and looked down, his eyes searching mine. “And what choices are you thinking about?” he asked gently.
I hesitated, then admitted, “Making you stay with me when you clearly wanted to be with your club brothers.”
Even as I said it, guilt pressed down on me with a familiar weight. I remembered all the times in my past when people hadchosen something, or someone else, over me—the way it left me feeling small, unworthy, and desperate to be enough. The fear that I’d somehow forced him to pick me, not out of love but out of obligation, twisted inside me. Deep down, I worried that if I were truly his first choice, I wouldn’t have felt the need to remind him of what he stood to lose.
That old insecurity—the one that whispered I wasn’t strong enough, or good enough, to be chosen freely—made me question everything. Maybe that was why it hurt so much to think I’d taken that decision away from him, because I was so afraid he wouldn’t have made it on his own.
Ghost didn’t respond immediately; instead, he turned his face away, his silence heavy. When he finally spoke, his words were calm but firm. “I chose you, Mellie. I will always choose you over everything else.”
Anger and frustration surged through me as I shot up from the bed. “But it was wrong of me to force you to choose!” I shouted. “Don’t you get it, Travis? I stacked the deck against you. I said the one thing I knew would get you to stay. I took your choice away from you.”
Ghost shook his head, refusing my accusation. “No, you didn’t.”
I pressed further, my voice trembling. “Are you telling me you would have stayed with me, even if I hadn’t mentioned my pregnancy?”
His answer was measured, ending the debate. “It doesn’t matter, ’cause that’s not what happened.”
“It matters to me!” I shouted. The silence that followed pressed in on us, a reminder that some questions never really found answers, only room in the space between two people. I felt tears prick at my eyes, not from sadness, but from the enormity of what it meant to be truly seen and chosen, flaws and all. In that moment, Ghost reached for my hand, his grip steadyand warm, anchoring me against the uncertainty swirling in my chest.
“Mellie, I’m not angry with you. I know why you said what you did. Maybe you were scared, maybe you doubted me, but I need you to understand—my loyalty to you isn’t something you can take away with words.” He paused, searching my face, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. “I’m here because I want to be, not because you made me.”
For a moment, the fight drained out of me, replaced by a quiet ache. His words echoed in the stillness, making me realize just how deeply I needed to believe him. All I could do was nod, hoping he saw the apology in my eyes.
“I chose you the moment I saw you in that bar. The day you walked into the clubhouse, I knew I wasn’t letting you go again, ever. Everything afterward means nothing, Mellie. You have always been my first choice, always will be, and when our baby is born, I will choose it first too.”
“What about the club, your brothers?”
“Ain’t gonna lie to you. I love being a Silver Shadow and I love my brothers, but they are not who I want to lie next to every night.” Ghost’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice fading. “They’ll always be my family, Mellie, but you and our child—this is my home now. The club will understand. They might not like it, but they’ll have to accept that my priorities have changed.” He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against my knuckles. “You’re my future.”
A hush fell between us, the kind that came not from emptiness but from resolution. For the first time in what felt like ages, hope flickered in my chest—a fragile, tentative thing, yet real all the same.
Chapter Nine
Rowen
Sinclair slipped into the house late, his entrance quiet but the air around him charged. The way he moved—shoulders tense, jaw set—suggested something had shifted. I’d learned not to press him when he returned like this, not until he was ready to let me in. Instead, I watched from across the room, studying the tight grip he kept on his glass of whiskey, the deliberate way he drank. For a moment, I wondered if he even saw me between sips, or if he was somewhere else entirely, lost in battles I couldn’t fight for him.
