Fuck. I’m not waiting for Ruth or Carol to get here.
I open the door and find Sasha kneeling on the tiles, upper body sprawled over the toilet.
“Shit, sweetheart," I groan, crouching by her side.
Her face is pale, and she looks a bit green around the gills. When’s the last time she ate a proper meal? Have the old ladies managed to get her to force something down?
After dampening a washcloth, I pull her into my arms and clean her mouth and chin, despite her weak protests. Her eyelids flutter open and closed, but she doesn’t focus on me. No point in trying to get her to brush her teeth, so I grab my mouthwash and force some into her mouth.
“Don’t drink it. Swish it around and spit,” I order, helping her over the toilet again. “Good girl,” I add when she obeys.
Feels too fucking good to call her that, and something inside me wakes up, rearing its perverted head out of the cesspool ofmy kinks. I always liked having control in the sack, dominating women. But it feels different with Sasha. I’m a sick fuck.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed,” I murmur, picking her up in my arms. She feels too light, like a stiff wind could knock her over. Helpless.
I manage to tuck her in without getting puked on, but she does groan a few more times as I jostle her. What if she throws up and chokes on it?
“God fucking damnit,” I mutter, sitting my ass down on the chair next to her bed. I’m going to feel this in the morning, that’s guaranteed. “Too old to sleep on chairs, darling.”
But I’ll do it anyway. Because this girl has already wormed her way in somehow. Not gonna risk it.
Things quiet down as brothers drink themselves into a coma or pair off with women for the night. It’s rarely silent here, though. That’s why we’ve been talking about making houses for members on the lot behind the clubhouse, leading up to the forest that borders our property. Maybe with Sasha here, I should make that a priority…
I don’t look away from her face as my eyes slowly close. A fucking angel, even now with her face red and puffy, her mouth slightly open in her sleep. Last thought I have before I drift off is that I’ll kill anyone who hurts her with my bare fucking hands.
5
SASHA
The bedroom is too quiet in the mornings. Dad always made noise—coffee grinder whirring, radio playing old rock songs, his off-key humming. Now there's just silence and the occasional rumble of motorcycles outside.
It’s been three days since we buried him, and I still expect to hear his voice calling me for breakfast. I stare at the unfamiliar ceiling of the clubhouse room they’ve given me. The walls are plain, the furniture sparse—nothing like my room at home with its photos and memories.
Home. That’s gone too.
I push myself up, wincing at my puffy eyes in the mirror. God, I look terrible. I pull my hair into a messy bun and change out of the oversized T-shirt I've been sleeping in. The clothes Ruth brought me hang loose—I haven't had much appetite.
Coffee. I need coffee.
The hallway is empty as I creep toward the kitchen. I've been avoiding most of the club members, staying in my room except when Ruth or Carol drag me out. They're kind, but their kindness feels like pity.
The kitchen smells like booze from last night, but someone's already made coffee. I reach for a mug, wondering if I'll run intoHavoc. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that feels like betrayal. How can I feel anything but grief right now? And for my father's friend—a man who must be at least twice my age?
Yet every time he looks at me with those intense blue eyes, something inside me responds.
I pour the coffee, adding too much sugar, the way Dad always complained about. The memory brings fresh tears, and I lean against the counter, letting them fall. I've cried more in three days than in the past ten years.
What would have happened if Dad had told me everything? If I'd known about the Wicked Sinners, about him being Viking, about enemies called Forsaken Kings?
And Havoc. Would knowing about him have avoided this confusing pull I feel?
The kitchen door swings open, startling me so badly I slosh coffee over my fingers. Two men walk in—one tall with dirty blond hair, the other dark-haired and heavily tattooed. I recognize them from the funeral, but we haven't been introduced.
"Morning," the blond one says, his voice surprisingly soft for someone his size. "You're Sasha, right? I'm Bullet."
I nod, setting my mug down and wiping my hands on my sweatpants. "Sorry, I didn't mean to invade your kitchen."
The dark-haired one snorts. "It's your kitchen too. Club's yours same as ours." He extends a hand. "Diesel. We didn't get to talk at the funeral."
