We sit at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee growing cold between us.
I've told her everything.
The whole story, from the beginning—how I met Cain, how the abuse started, how it escalated.
The isolation. The fear. The night I showed up at the clubhouse with blood on my face.
I told her about Leviathan, about the club, about what happened to Cain without saying exactly what happened.
She didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions.
Just sat there with tears streaming down her face, her hands clenched around her mug, listening.
When I finish, the silence stretches between us.
"I should have known," she finally says. Her voice is raw. Broken. "I should have seen it. You're my daughter. How did I not see?"
"I didn't want you to see." I reach across the table, covering her hands with mine. "I hid it, Mom. I was ashamed. And scared. And I didn't want you to get hurt."
"Get hurt?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Ripley, you were getting hurt. Every day, for years, and I didn't—I couldn't—" She breaks off, pressing a hand to her mouth.
"It's not your fault."
"How can you say that? I'm your mother. It's my job to protect you."
"You can't protect me from everything." The words come out gentler than I expected. "Cain was good at hiding what he was. He charmed everyone—you, my friends, the whole world. That's how abusers work. They make sure no one sees the monster under the mask."
"I should have seen." She's crying harder now, tears dripping off her chin onto the table. "When you stopped coming around as much, when you started canceling plans, when you seemedso... so dim all the time. I thought you were just busy. I thought—" She shakes her head. "I made excuses instead of asking questions."
"Mom." I squeeze her hands. "Look at me."
She does. Her eyes are red-rimmed, devastated.
"I'm okay," I say. "I got out. I'm safe now. And none of what happened was your fault. The only person responsible for Cain's actions is Cain."
"Where is he now?" Her voice hardens. "I want to look that bastard in the eye and?—"
"He's gone."
She stops. Studies my face. "Gone how?"
"Just... gone." I hold her gaze, steady. "He's never going to hurt me again. That's all that matters."
My mother is no fool.
She's lived in Pittsburgh her whole life, knows how the world works.
I see the moment she realizes what happened in her eyes—the pieces clicking into place.
"The man who brought you," she says slowly. "The one waiting outside. He's part of that motorcycle club, isn't he? The Saint's Outlaws?"
"Yes."
"And the man you're staying with. The one you mentioned on the phone. He's one of them too?"
"He's their President."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can see her processing, weighing, deciding how she feels about her daughter being involved with an outlaw motorcycle club.
