She shook her head, furious tears leaking out again, cutting lines through the dirt on her cheeks. "You don't get it. He's not like us. My dad pulled him out of some Serbian war pit, and all he does is break things for fun. I saw him snap a guy's arm in three places just to make a point. The guy was already down. He didn't need to—"
She cut off, choking on the words.
I reached out, took her hands in mine. They were cold as ice and twitchy as live wires. "Look at me," I said.
She did, and I almost lost my nerve. I wasn’t built for speeches. But she deserved the truth.
"I’m not just doing this for the club. I’m doing it because I want us to have a chance. A real chance. You, me, and…" I glanced down at her stomach, still flat under the t-shirt, but already the center of the universe.
Her eyes followed mine, and for a second, the rage melted away, replaced by pure, shattering fear. She squeezed my hands so tight I thought the bones might crack.
"You know what Saint does first?" she said, voice barely there. "He breaks your fingers. Every match. He wants you to see your own hands ruined before you die."
I smiled, just a little. "That’s a tell. I’ll use it."
She stared at me like I was the one who’d lost my mind. "You’re not invincible, Augie. You’re not even at full strength. He’s gonna take you apart."
I kissed her, hard, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the tremble in her jaw. "Let him try," I said against her mouth. "He’s never fought anyone with something to lose before."
She melted into me then, shoulders sagging, breath coming in sharp gasps. I held her, let her sob it out, let her fists pound my back until the pain turned numb. For a minute we just stood there, locked together, the world outside as distant as the stars.
Then, a knock on the door. Hard, deliberate.
"Church in five," Seneca called, voice flat as a death announcement. "Then we train. Don’t make me drag you out, Williams."
I grinned, knowing he could and would.
Melissa pulled away, wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Don’t die, okay?" she said, trying for tough but missing by a mile.
"No promises," I said, and kissed her again, slower this time.
We walked out together. The world hadn’t changed, but we had. I felt it in the set of her shoulders, the way she didn’t hide her face from the brothers who saw us come out of that closet. They watched, of course. Some smirked, some looked away. Seneca was waiting in the hall, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
He flicked his gaze at Melissa. "You got anything I need to know, sweetheart?"
She glared at him. "Just that Saint likes to cheat. He carries a blade in his boot and keeps brass knuckles in his belt."
Seneca nodded, filing it away. "Thanks. We’ll make sure to return the favor."
He looked at me, then jerked his head toward the back lot. "Let’s get to work."
Melissa squeezed my arm, her fingers digging in deep. "Last chance," she whispered. "We could run. Right now. Fuck all of them."
I wanted to say yes. I wanted it more than anything. But the picture in my head—her, alone, hunted, looking over her shoulder every day until it broke her—killed the urge.
"Not today," I said. "Today we fight."
She let go, walked back down the hall, not looking back.
I watched her go, memorizing every step.
Seneca nudged my shoulder. "You ready to get your ass kicked?"
I shrugged, then followed him out.
I was ready for anything.
I had to be.
