I don’t move. Don’tdaremove.
My fingers trace slow, absent patterns along her back, just enough to feel her—just enough to remind myself she’s real. That this isn’t some fucked-up dream I’m going to wake up from any second.
Strands of her hair spill across my chest, tickling my skin. A few lay over her flushed cheek, and I finally get to tuck them behind her ear—my fingers lingering for just a second too long.
Then I press a soft kiss to her forehead, still somewhat baffled that she chose this. Chose me. And I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life being worthy of that.
I’m about to drift off when she stirs slightly, snuggling closer with a soft, needy whimper.
Fuck it. I’m getting a ring.
Very,verysoon.
EPILOGUE ONE
Charlotte
ONE MONTH LATER
Grief.
A new feeling added to my already limited repertoire.
People who have mastered the art of avoiding it usually have tells, subtle enough to slip past you. Subtle enough to make you believe they’re untouched by it.
Some people—like me—don’t need to master it at all. I’ve barely even begun to understand it.
It’s not that I don’t feel it. Ido. But when it comes, it never comes alone. It crashes into everything else; fear, anger, guilt. Until I can’t separate one from the other.
The club mourns him.
Wolf.
But most of them seem allergic to actually expressing it. I see it in conversations that cut off mid-sentence—triggered by a single word. In stories that start off light and somehow end up haunted by him.
In the way the air thins every time someone saysPrezout loud.
And then there’s Theo. The man who still flinches at the title. Who refuses to order another cut, even though he’s alreadystepped into the role. Who shuts down any conversation that revolves around arranging a funeral.
His grief isn’t quiet. It’s just restrained. And I fear it’s morphing into reluctanthope. But it’s there. It’s in everything. It has been for over a month now.
Every single brother who looks at him does the same thing—lets their gaze dip, just for half a second, to theVice Presidentpatch still stitched across his chest… before moving on as if nothing happened. Like nothing’s changed. Likeeverythinghasn’t.
Which is exactly why I became a thief this afternoon.
The door chain on my apartment door is locked, something I’ve never done. But Theo’s got his own set of keys now. And I can’t have him enter unannounced.
His cut—the one he keeps forgetting in my bed—is draped across my lap. I run my fingers over the worn leather, jaw tightening.
I’ll be damned if he gets to stay stuck like this. Because if he doesn’t move forward and make the change to his cut, then neither can Ryder. Or Hound. Or Shane—who’s being patched in as the new Road Captain today. Though maybe I should start calling him Spike again.
His demotion to prospect was lifted the day he finally woke up three weeks ago. And today ishisday. Taking over as Road Captain. A title that still leaves a bitter taste behind—because of the man who held it before him.
Fucking Scar.
I mentally shake off the thoughts of the dead man.
It’s been a month, and I can’t wait for the transition tonight.
