Was it kinder to shield our child from the harsh reality, or was honesty the only way forward? My heart wavered between anger, grief, and a desperate need to protect.
“Life is about choices, Melissa. No one can see the future. Not even you. Travis made his choice. Don’t diminish him by second-guessing everything.”
“You’re wrong,” I spat, my voice trembling with anger. “He was never given a choice. The club dictated his every move. The one time he chose me—truly chose me—that damn club wouldn’t let him go.” I squeezed my fists, my nails digging into my palms until my knuckles turned white. Rage flared up, sharp and unexpected, cutting through my sorrow. I felt something inside me break open. For a heartbeat, pure animosity pierced through the grief, and I exhaled hard—a shaky, uneven breath that left my chest aching. Hatred flooded in, burning raw and relentless. “He’s gone because of them,” I choked out, voice cracking. “They never cared about him. Or me. Not once did they ask what we thought, what we needed. All that ever mattered was their precious fucking club.” Tears threatened to spill, blurring the world around me. I let myself feel it—every jagged edge of blame and loss—because I couldn’t hold it back anymore.
Rowen’s hand found mine, steady and warm—a lifeline in the storm. I gripped him tightly, grounding myself in his quiet strength. His presence reminded me that I wasn’t truly alone, not even now. “You’re not alone, Melissa,” he whispered, voice soft and sure. “No matter how deep the hurt runs, you don’t have to bear it by yourself.”
His words lingered in the air, heavy with truth. Silence settled between us, broken only by the distant laughter of children and the rustling of leaves overhead. I closed my eyes, letting the ache take root. Healing wouldn’t come easily—I knew that. But Rowen’s hand in mine made facing the uncertainty ahead a little less daunting. Vulnerability pressed close, yet I felt the faintest flicker of hope beneath the grief.
Rowen stayed quiet, his gaze fixed on the pond’s still surface. I felt his support in the gentle way his hand stayed close. Theanger slowly ebbed, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My body sagged beneath the weight of everything I’d lost. For a moment, the world was hushed, and I realized just how much I needed someone simply to listen to me—to see the storm raging inside me and not turn away.
A sigh slipped out as I let my shoulders drop. Guilt crept in, and I whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Rowen smiled gently. “No need to apologize,” he said, a knowing smirk on his lips. “You and I both understand that grief is a process. Like the ebb and flow of life, it comes and goes—sometimes washing over you all at once.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin. “It’s okay to be angry,” he murmured, his tone unwavering. “You loved him, Melissa. Loving someone means feeling every piece of the loss when they’re gone.”
“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission hung between us, fragile and uncertain. I felt lost, adrift in a world that seemed to expect so much when I could barely bring myself to move.
He met my gaze, voice gentle but steady. “There are no rules of decorum here. You do what you can when you can. Everyone will understand. If they don’t, screw them.” His words were both a shield and a challenge, giving me permission to chart my own path through grief and expectation.
I hesitated, searching his face for any sign of judgment. “And if I just want to stay in bed and forget the world?” I asked quietly, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me. He’d all but dragged me from the safety of my bed this morning, his determination unconcerned with my wants or needs.
His face softened as a trace of a smile lit his eyes. “Well, I think some time can be arranged for that, if you must.”
I managed a weak laugh, a momentary break in the heaviness. “Do you know how bossy you are?”
Rowen gave a playful shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Bossy gets results—and it got you out of that room, didn’t it?” he teased, his tone gentle, filled with an affection that wrapped around me like a blanket. His teasing eased some of the tension in my chest, and I breathed a little easier, grateful for his stubborn insistence that I didn’t retreat completely into myself.
Standing, he reached for my hands, pulling me from the bench. “And on that note, I think you’ve peopled enough for my satisfaction. Let’s get you home.”
Too tired to argue with him, I didn’t mention that I no longer had a home. That I had nothing left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowen
The house was silent as I sank onto my bed, the weight of exhaustion seeping into my bones. Darkness pressed against the windows, and the surrounding stillness only made the echo of Sinclair’s words louder in my mind. He’d spoken in riddles, hints drifting just out of reach, leaving me stranded—still grasping at whatever truth he refused to reveal. The cool sheets felt foreign beneath me as I stared up at the ceiling, the two phone numbers burning in my memory.
Illyria’s offer of help—was tangled with uncertainty. While Travis’ lifeline led to Dread, a name whispered with caution. Dread wasn’t just anyone; he was the president of the Twisted Dragons, an outlaw motorcycle club in Cocoa Beach, Florida. His reputation for running things with an iron fist and ruthless loyalty meant that asking for help could drag me into a world built on dangerous alliances and debts I might never repay. Even thinking about dialing his number made my stomach clench with equal parts dread and possibility.
Then there was Madigan Kelley. I remembered her as the little girl who played with Dante years ago, their laughter echoing through summer afternoons. But Madigan was now tangled in her family’s legacy—her mother, Caitlin Kelley, was sister to Braesal O’Malley, the infamous head of the Irish Mob in Boston. Their name carried power and danger, and reaching out could put me squarely in the crosshairs of a criminal empire known for protecting its own at any cost. Not to mention that Sinclair did business with O’Malley.
I felt trapped, caught between two worlds I wanted nothing to do with. Reaching out to either Dread or Madigan could open doors I might never be able to close. The stakes were impossibly high—damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Meanwhile, Sinclair hoarded information like a dragon, dispensing truths drip by drip. He wanted me desperate enough to beg, to accept another debt I couldn’t hope to repay. Every interaction with him felt like walking a tightrope above a pit. If I asked for help, it wouldn’t be given freely—there was always a price to be paid with Sinclair.
Now, in the hush of my room, uncertainty curled around me. The silence felt suffocating; my thoughts swirled between the unknown and hope. I wished I could disappear into sleep and escape the burden of choice, but I knew morning would come, and with it, the same impossible decision.
Sleep felt impossible; my mind raced with scenarios I couldn’t control. Every time I shut my eyes, images flickered behind my lids—Sinclair’s cryptic smile, Dread’s cold reputation, Madigan’s uncertain loyalty. I wondered if I was strong enough to make the call, or if fear would keep me paralyzed until the choice was made for me.
The quiet pressed in around me, amplifying all the uncertainty swirling in my chest. I lay there with nothing but my anxious heartbeat echoing through the darkness, longing for a certainty that never came. Just as I was beginning to sink deeper into my restless thoughts, I heard the soft creak of my door opening, then closing. The mattress dipped beneath someone’s weight, and I knew I wasn’t alone.
Before I even felt her beside me, her familiar scent wrapped itself around me. I stayed perfectly still, keeping my silence as she settled next to me—close enough for comfort, but not quite touching. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, her voice a soft whisper in the darkness.
I shifted just enough to let her know she was welcome. “Then you came to the right place,” I replied, offering solace with my words.
She turned slightly, her voice curious and concerned. “Why are you awake?”
I let out a sigh and tucked my hands beneath my head, my gaze remaining fixed on the ceiling. “Same old shit,” I said, my words heavy with fatigue. “Sinclair is playing another one of his games. Only this time, it concerns me.”
“I don’t like him.”
