Chapter Twenty-Five
Melissa
The next morning, I woke to find the house eerily quiet. It was as though the whole place was holding its breath, the silence so fragile that even the faintest sound might shatter it completely. With each movement, I felt the tension mounting, unable to explain the unease that settled over me as I slowly climbed out of bed. Rubbing my arms, I noticed goosebumps rising on my skin, a physical response to the heaviness that seemed to press down on me from all sides. The air itself felt thick and almost suffocating, wrapping around me like a heavy cloak and making it hard to breathe.
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered to no one, my voice barely audible in the oppressive silence. With a sense of urgency, I grabbed my robe and headed downstairs, each step echoing in the stillness as I braced myself for whatever might be waiting below.
I lingered at the edge of the hallway, letting the quiet settle in and listening for any sign of movement. The familiar rhythms of the morning seemed absent, as if the house itself was uncertain how to proceed. Sunlight crept in through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor, but even the light felt muted, restrained by the tension that clung to the walls.
I hesitated, pausing as I heard the faint crackle of a fire coming from the living room. Moving quietly toward the sound, I stepped into the room and spotted Rowen sitting in one of the leather chairs. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, his gaze locked on the flickering flames before him. The clothes he worewere the same as yesterday, rumpled and unchanged. His face gave away nothing—void of emotion, unreadable—as he lifted the glass tumbler to his lips and took a slow drink.
Refusing to move from where I stood, I held myself tightly, arms wrapped around my torso as if I needed the physical comfort to brace for whatever was coming next. My voice was cautious, barely above a whisper, as I asked, “Rowen?” The uncertainty in the air pressed in around me, intensifying the tension that seemed to fill every corner of the room.
Rowen let out a weary sigh, the sound heavy and drawn out. He set his glass down on the arm of his chair, still refusing to meet my eyes. His entire body was coiled with tension, muscles tight and rigid, as he spoke in a harsh, gravelly voice, “Not now, Melissa.” His words were clipped, carrying a weight that made it clear he was barely holding himself together.
A chill ran through me and I stiffened, my heart thudding anxiously in my chest. My stomach knotted, the sense of dread growing stronger as I instinctively braced myself for whatever revelation might follow. My voice faltered as I muttered, “What happened?” The question hung in the air between us, weighted with fear and uncertainty.
Rowen’s voice was barely more than a whisper, the tension in his words drawing the air taut between us. “Reaper called last night,” he said, struggling to get the rest out. My body remained frozen, caught between disbelief and dread as he added, “Gideon is on life support. It’s not good.” The weight of his announcement pressed down, thickening the silence that already felt so oppressive in the room.
Pushing aside my own shock, I crossed the space between us and kneeled before him. Gently, I took the whiskey tumbler from his grasp and set it on the coffee table, needing his full attention. I looked straight into his eyes and wrapped my hands aroundhis, grounding us both with the simple comfort of touch. My voice was steady but urgent. “Where is Sinclair?”
He didn’t look at me right away, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he shifted in his seat. “He left right after we got the news. He and Arianwen are heading to Nebraska.” His tone was distant, words spilling out as though on autopilot. He pulled his hand away from mine, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands, shoulders rounding as if bracing against another blow. The exhaustion in his posture spoke louder than any words.
My heart pounded as I watched him, piecing together the gravity of everything left unsaid. I swallowed, finally voicing the fear that hovered in the air. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Rowen dragged his hands down his face, the motion slow and weary, before finally turning to look at me. His eyes were rimmed with red, brimming with tears he was fighting not to shed, and disbelief still clouded his features. He took a ragged, shuddering breath as though steadying himself before he could speak or find the strength to continue. “There is a video.”
Confused, I blinked, trying to understand what he was telling me. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and for a moment, I struggled to piece together the meaning behind Rowen’s statement.
Rowen’s voice was low, his tone edged with exhaustion as he continued, “Before the Death Dogs attacked the clubhouse, King, Reaper, and Montana reached out to a few people they could trust. They wanted proof of everything, so they wired up the clubhouse.” His words painted a picture of desperate preparation and a need to uncover the truth, revealing that those at the heart of the matter had taken steps to document what was coming.
I swallowed, trying to steady my nerves. “Did you look at it?” I asked, my voice barely audible, grasping for clarity in the uncertainty swirling around us.
He nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, but it was enough to confirm what I feared. The reality of what had been captured was etched in his weary expression.
I hesitated, then pressed further. “What did you see?” The question lingered, demanding an answer that neither of us truly wanted to hear.
Rowen’s response was stark and final. “Death.”
That single word echoed in the room, a chilling summary of the horrors the video contained and an affirmation of everything I feared... he knew who killed Travis.
For a moment, neither of us moved—just two souls caught in the aftermath, clutching at the edges of a reality that had shifted without warning. I could almost feel the chill of that finality, as though the very air had grown colder with Rowen’s admission.
“Who was it?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, thick with dread. Rowen’s eyes flickered with pain, and he shook his head, turning away. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back a flood of memories too brutal to name. A tense silence stretched between us before I pleaded again, “Tell me.”
Rowen exhaled shakily, his gaze growing distant as he wrestled with the weight of his confession. Finally, he spoke, his words measured. “There was a man—a former up-and-coming fighter in the underground scene. He was good—really good. Everyone believed he was on the verge of something big, that he was destined for greatness. He had a reputation for showing immense promise.” Rowen’s voice trembled with memory. “But then, on the night before the fight that was supposed to change his life, everything went wrong. He was supposedly killed in an accident before he ever had the chance to step into the ring.”
A cold shiver ran along my spine as I tried to process his words. Uncertainty clouded my thoughts, and I struggled to make sense of it all. “I don’t understand,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “How can you be so sure it washim?” The question tumbled out, a desperate attempt to find something solid amid the confusion and dread swirling in my mind.
Rowen’s eyes met mine, his expression unwavering yet filled with sorrow. His answer came quietly, but his words carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Because the night before his big fight, I killed him.”
“What do you mean, you killed him?” I asked, holding my breath, praying it was a slip of the tongue or something. The room seemed to shrink around us, the walls pressing in with the weight of Rowen’s admission. My breath caught in my throat, torn between disbelief and the cold, hard truth settling in my chest. I searched his face for any sign of remorse, of hope—anything that might undo the inevitability of his words—but found only a haunted resignation that mirrored my own unraveling thoughts.
He stayed silent, his gaze locked with mine, and the truth finally settled over me, heavy and undeniable. My thoughts raced, swirling with unspoken questions that caught in my throat, unable to form words.
“I saw it all. From beginning to end,” he continued as I grappled with what he was telling me. “It was bad, Melissa. There was no regard for life. They just came in and started shooting. It was total chaos. They wanted to destroy the Silver Shadows and anyone in their way, and they almost did.”
“You saw who killed Travis?” I asked, my voice trembling as the truth threatened to shatter the last fragments of hope I held inside.
