His words hung heavy. Travis, once known as Ghost in the biker world, had been the man I planned to spend the rest of my life with—my partner, my protector, and the only person who ever saw the real me beneath the scars. The loss of him left a wound that refused to close.
My grief surged, too powerful to hold back. “He’s dead!” I yelled, fists tight as memories of Travis flashed behind my eyelids. The way his laughter used to fill the silence, the smell of leather and motor oil clinging to his jacket. “Travis is dead, Gunner, and he isn’t coming back!”
The fight drained from Gunner’s face, softening into something that might have been regret. “Mellie. Please come home. We all miss you. We all want you home.” He sounded somuch like the older brother who once patched up my knees after falling off my bike, not the man tangled in secrets and violence.
I shook my head, numb, avoiding the pleading in his gaze. I drifted toward the window, tracing the foggy glass with my fingertip. “I don’t have a home anymore, Gunner. And before you say Nebraska—that place was never home. I only stayed for Danika.”
My daughter. Her laughter, her tiny hand in mine—they were the only anchors keeping me from drifting away completely.
Gunner’s voice gentled, laced with old pain. “No, you stayed because you loved Ghost.” He used Travis’ club name, the one that tied him forever to the biker world—a world that had given me nothing but endless suffering.
My grief cracked open, raw and unfiltered. “Travis!” I screamed, turning toward Gunner as tears spilled, hot and relentless, down my cheeks. “His name was Travis! I’m so fucking tired of this. I can’t do it anymore.” It felt like my chest was collapsing—every breath sharp, every heartbeat a countdown to breaking.
Gunner’s anger faded, replaced by concern. He stepped forward, voice gentle, desperate to reach me. “Can’t do what anymore, Mellie?” Just then, Rowen and Haizley slipped into the room—their arrival quiet but heavy, as if afraid to disturb the fragile tension. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it pulsed with all the unsaid words, the shared history.
I doubled over, sobs wracking my body, grief flooding through me until I thought I might drown. The taste of salt on my lips, the burn in my throat, the way my hands shook as I wiped at my face with the back of my hand—all reminders that Travis was gone, and nothing would ever be the same. Gunner reached for me, but I recoiled, unable to accept comfort. My skin felt too thin, nerves exposed to the cold air.
He hung his head, shoulders hunched in defeat. “I just want you home, Mellie. I can’t protect you here.” His words echoed my own fear—no one could really protect me anymore, not after everything that had happened.
The hush between us thickened, pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I stared at the gray horizon outside—clouds heavy with rain, the world blurry and distant. My heart ached for the pieces of myself I’d lost, for the safety I’d never really had. “You can’t protect me, Gunner. You never could. Travis tried and died.”
Gunner squinted, confusion and worry etched on his face. “What the hell are you talking about, Mellie?”
“I know you helped Travis look for Jasper Michaels.” My voice was hollow. The past was never really dead; it lurked in every shadow.
“Mellie, you have to let me explain.” Gunner’s voice trembled, but I couldn’t hear reason over the storm inside me.
My hands shook as I curled them into fists, fighting for control. The pain was relentless, memories spooling in my mind—Travis’ smile, Danika’s sleepy giggles, the suffocating dread that had followed me since childhood. “What is there to explain, Gunner? You made your choices. Now we both have to live with them.”
My words sliced through the room, brittle and sharp.
“Travis died because he couldn’t let the past stay dead. And now you want me to go back to that life. I won’t do it. I can’t. Don’t you get it, Gunner? I hate everything about the world you live in—the lies, the violence, the endless wars. I’m not like you, and I never was. I didn’t ask for any of this. I was just a child when my world turned upside down. Yes, you took me away from all that, but the damage had already been done. I was surviving before Dante and Sypher walked into my office—before your world opened up old wounds. If it weren’t for mydaughter, I wouldn’t be standing here. And if it wasn’t for the man next to Haizley, I might not even be alive. I know you love me, Gunner. You’ll always be my brother, but I can’t—I won’t—be part of the biker world ever again.”
No one moved. The air felt brittle, as if the slightest word might shatter what was left of us. I could hear Haizley’s uneven breathing behind me, and the subtle shift of Rowen’s feet on the old wood floor. My throat ached from holding back everything I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a broken whisper: “I just want him back.” My admission, small and desperate, hung between us, exposing my rawest truth.
Rowen finally crossed the room and gathered me in his arms, holding me tight. “Breathe, honey. I’ve got you,” he said quietly, his voice steadier than I remembered and his command final. “I think it’s time you left,” he growled, his words weighted with both protection and sorrow—a stark reminder of everything that had been lost. Outside, the rain blurred the world beyond the window, its steady drumming a muted counterpoint to the tension inside, offering neither comfort nor demands.
Gunner’s defiance was immediate. His words clipped and sharp. “I’m not leaving my sister with you, asshole.”
Rowen’s reply was unyielding, his tone cold and resolute. “Your sister has made her decision,” he stated, voice hard as stone. “And just so I’m crystal clear here, while she’s grieving the loss of the man she loved, I’m grieving the loss of my brother.”
Gunner’s eyes widened, his shock evident as he stepped back. “What?”
Rowen didn’t hesitate. His confession unwavering. “That’s right, Michael. Travis was my brother. We shared the same father, so while you might call him brother, he was my blood. I don’t care about your world. I never did. All I care about is Melissa and the child she carries. My brother’s child. So make nomistake, I will do whatever she needs me to do, kill whomever and be the Devil she needs to ensure her happiness.”
Gunner’s rage erupted, his voice thunderous and unrestrained. “You son of a bitch!” he roared, venom lacing every syllable. Haizley hurried to his side, desperation in her movements, but she couldn’t reach him in time to stop the words that followed. Gunner’s accusation cut through the tense air, raw and spiteful. “You think you can replacemy brother! Is that what’s going on? You can’t get a woman on your own, so you wantmy brother’sleftovers!”
A split second later, the sharp sound of my hand connecting with Gunner’s cheek cracked through the room, reverberating with the force of my fury and heartbreak. The silence that followed was thick, every eye in the room locked on us, the consequences of his accusation hanging heavily between us.
The room recoiled at Gunner’s words, the venom hanging in the space between us like a coiled snake ready to strike. My heart hammered in my chest—rage and grief indistinguishable in their intensity. For a moment, I was certain Rowen would lunge, that the last fragile thread holding us together would finally snap.
Rowen’s jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. He glared at Gunner, his voice deadly calm, each syllable laced with unyielding resolve. “If you ever speak to her like that again, I will kill you. I don’t care about alliances or consequences—if you cross that line, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.” His threat hung in the air, not shouted but spoken with dangerous certainty, making clear the boundaries Rowen would protect at any cost.
Gunner’s face contorted with anger, and he shot back, his tone sharp and defiant, “Don’t threaten me, asshole.”
Rowen didn’t back down. He closed the distance between them, his posture tense but unwavering. “It wasn’t a threat,” he replied, his voice low and challenging. “You don’t know anything about me, Michael. I might seem unassuming, but make nomistake—you’d be facing a deadly adversary. So choose your next words wisely.” The intensity in Rowen’s stare left no doubt he meant every word, the room crackling with the threat of violence barely restrained.
“Gunner, please,” Haizley whispered. “This isn’t helping anyone.”
