The confirmation hits like a physical blow. Dad never told me how Mom died—just that there had been an accident. Another lie in a lifetime of them.
"I don't understand why they're after me," I whisper. "I'm nobody."
"You're Viking's blood," Bullet says simply, like that explains everything.
Before I can ask more, the kitchen door swings open and Ruth bustles in, her graying hair pulled back in a neat bun. She takes one look at me and clucks her tongue.
"Lord, child, you're nothing but skin and bones. Those eggs aren't nearly enough."
She moves toward the stove, and Bullet immediately steps aside, surrendering the spatula without argument. It's subtle but telling—the way these huge, intimidating men defer to her without question.
"Morning, Ruth," Diesel says, his tone softening slightly. "Coffee's fresh."
She nods, already pulling bacon from the fridge and firing up another burner. "Tank's looking for you boys. Something about perimeter checks."
Both men straighten, immediately alert. Diesel drains his coffee in one gulp, and they head for the door with brief nods in my direction.
I watch Ruth move efficiently around the kitchen, adding cheese to my eggs, laying bacon in the pan. The clubhouse might be full of bikers, but it's clearly Ruth who rules this domain.
"Did you know my mom well?" I ask suddenly.
Ruth's hands pause for just a moment. "Savannah was like a daughter to me. Queen of this place, she was." She slides the eggs onto my plate. "Had the whole club wrapped around her finger, just like your daddy."
I stare at the food, my appetite vanishing. This world of cuts and patches, queens and presidents—it feels like a parallel universe where versions of my parents lived lives I never knew existed.
The kitchen door swings open again, and this time it's Havoc who walks in. My heart does a ridiculous little flip that makes me angry at myself. His silver hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he's wearing a simple black T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. When his blue eyes land on me, a zap of lightning passes between us.
Ruth smiles at him. "Morning, Prez. Coffee?"
"Thanks, Ruth." His voice is deep, gravelly. He takes the mug she offers and leans against the counter, several feet away from me. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain propriety.
I stare down at my plate, pushing eggs around. Ruth mentioned yesterday how Havoc and my dad were inseparable once—best friends who ran this club together before everything fell apart. She told me stories of their loyalty to each other, how Dad trusted Havoc above everyone else.
Which makes the heat that floods my body whenever he's near feel even more wrong.
"Sleep okay?" Havoc asks, his eyes on me but his body carefully angled away.
"Fine," I lie, not wanting to admit I spent half the night crying.
"Eat your breakfast, child," Ruth instructs, adding bacon onto my plate before wiping her hands on her apron. "I need to check on Tank. You two behave." She gives Havoc a pointed look before leaving us alone.
The silence stretches between us, thick with things unsaid. I can feel him watching me, that same intensity he's had since the funeral.
"Thank you," I finally say, "for everything you're doing."
He nods. "Don't need thanks. I promised your dad I'd keep you safe if anything happened to him."
"Is that the only reason?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, the careful distance between us seems to shrink. "What other reason would there be?"
We both know the answer to that question.
I look down at my plate, brushing off his question with silence. What was I thinking, asking something so forward? Heat creeps up my neck as I stab at my eggs, feigning sudden interest in my breakfast.
Havoc sets his coffee mug on the counter with a soft clink. Then his boots scrape against the linoleum as he moves around the island. My pulse quickens when he stops beside me, close enough that I can smell his soap and leather. He doesn't touch me, but his presence feels like physical contact anyway.
"Sasha." His voice is lower now, intimate. "Look at me."
