"I know that, sugar." Her expression softens fractionally. "But he spent a long time believing otherwise. That kind of hurt doesn't heal overnight."
"I know about hurt," I say, more sharply than intended.
"I bet you do." She doesn't flinch from my tone. "Different kind, though. That's the problem, isn't it? Your pain and his—they don't translate."
I stare into my coffee, watching ripples form from my unsteady hands. "How do you break through that? When someone won't even listen?"
"Some walls gotta come down from the inside." Tessa slides off the counter. "Give him time. And in the meantime, take care of yourself. You're safe here—the whole club's got your back."
"Why?" The question slips out. "You don't know me."
"We know enough." She gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "Plus, the other women you came in with? Most of them have been moved to safe houses, but they all asked about you. Said you looked out for them in that hellhole. Said you took beatings meant for the younger ones."
Heat rises to my cheeks. "I just did what anyone would do."
"No, honey." Tessa smiles grimly. "You did what a sister would do. That means something here."
After she leaves, I wander through the clubhouse, testing my strength. The common room is empty, pool table standing sentinel under dim lights. Photos line the walls—club events, memorials for fallen members, celebrations. I scan them without thinking, then freeze.
There, in the back of a group shot from what looks like a summer barbecue, is Falcon. His arm is slung around another woman, his smile not reaching his eyes. The date stamp in the corner reads three years ago. Two years after I disappeared.
Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. Did he love her? Is she still in his life? I have no right to feel this hollow ache, but it's there anyway.
"That's Serena." The voice startles me, and I turn to find Doc watching me. "She didn't last long."
"I wasn't—" I start, embarrassed at being caught.
"Sure you were." He approaches slowly, hands visible, the way they all move around me now. "He tried to replace you. Several times. Never stuck."
I don't know what to say to that, so I change the subject. "Thanks for taking care of me. When they brought me in."
"Just doing my job." He shrugs, but his kind eyes betray him. "How's the pain today?"
"Manageable."
He nods, then reaches into a bag I hadn't noticed he was carrying. "Brought you something. Figured you might be tired of borrowed clothes."
He hands me a small stack of clothing—jeans, t-shirts, a hoodie. Simple things, but clean and new. Something tightens in my chest at this small kindness.
"Thank you," I whisper, running my fingers over the soft fabric. Five years of wearing whatever they threw at me, often filthy and torn. This feels like riches.
"There's a coat, too." He pulls out a leather jacket, women's cut, simple but well-made. "Nights get cold around here."
I take it carefully, as if it might disappear. "I can't accept all this."
"Sure you can." He smiles, lines crinkling around his eyes. "Club takes care of its own."
"I'm not?—"
"You are." He cuts me off gently. "Whatever you were to Falcon before, you're one of us now. That's how it works."
I blink back unexpected tears. "He hates me."
Doc sighs, lowering himself into a nearby chair. "Falcon doesn't hate easily. And never without reason." He studies me for a moment. "After you disappeared, he tore this town apart looking for you."
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Three months of searching. Calling in every favor. Breaking down doors. Nearly got himself killed a couple times." Doc rubs his beard. "Then he found your credit card. Used two states away, security footage showing some woman who looked enough like you to raise doubts."
