SEVEN
ASHES IN THE MORNING
STEEL
I wake to the kind of silence that doesn’t trust itself. No wind, no hum of the heater, no sound except the faint rhythm of Aria’s breathing beside me. Her long, dark hair fans across the pillow, tangled, streaked with the faint glow of dawn that sneaks through the front-rimmed windows. For a second, I let myself believe this is what peace feels like.
Her cheek is pressed to my arm, her breath is warm against my skin. The snow outside throws pink, then gold, then white light across her face. The color shifts like she’s half-caught between two worlds, one I belong to and one I never will.
The smell of smoke still clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of her perfume. The room feels too still, like the whole world’s holding its breath. My arm’s half-numb from where she’s been lying, but I don’t dare move. Not yet.
I should move. Should get up, get dressed, and start checking on possible damage to the Compound. The storm might’ve buried half the property, and the crew will be waiting. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I just lie here, memorizing the quiet.
Her hand shifts against the blanket, fingers brushing mine in her sleep. The smallest touch, but it cracks something open inside me. Last night’s heat still lives under my skin. Her voice, the way she whispered my name like it was a promise and a sin all at once.
Aria’s fingers are curled like she’s still clutching something from a dream. Her lips part when she exhales, a soft sound that breaks whatever armor I’ve got left.
I study her face. The faint bruise of exhaustion under her eyes, the tiny scar near her lip, I used to trace with my thumb. The kind of details you forget until you see them again and realize they never left you. Christ, I forgot what this felt like. Waking up and wanting to stay with her in my arms. I know it’s not possible. She’ll run before the frost melts.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, I imagine her staying. Her in my kitchen, coffee in hand, sunlight catching the silver chain around her neck. The image hits so hard I almost believe it, until I remember what it costs to keep someone in my world.
The sun climbs higher, slicing through the snow glare. Light spills across the bed, catching on the Saint’s ring I left on the nightstand. Tama’s ring. I stare at it until the shine turns to memory.
The last time I saw it on his finger was the day we lowered him into the ground. The day she walked away. Two ghosts buried in one afternoon. I reach for it without thinking. The metal’s cold enough to bite.
The fire’s burned down to faint coals. My clothes are still scattered on the floor. My jeans twisted near the bench, my cut draped over the chair where she threw it last night. I pull it on anyway, the leather stiff from cold, the patch rough against bare skin.
The weight settles differently this morning. Heavier, like it knows what I did.
Outside, the storm’s aftermath hums a low groan of ice shifting on the roof, the distant creak of tree limbs snapping free of snow. Inside, the air smells like smoke and her. I’m caught between them, not sure which one will fade first.
I look back at her sleeping form. The way she’s curled toward where I was lying, like her body didn’t get the memo I left. Aria shifts, rustling the sheets. I glance back and see her half awake, one eye open, confusion and softness mixed together.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Go back to sleep.”
“You’re bossy,” she mumbles, but her smile’s small and tired.
“Part of the job description.” She snorts, curling deeper into the blanket. I turn away before I start believing this could work.
I pick up Tama’s ring again and roll it between my fingers. It’s the same one he wore every day. Saint’s Outlaw insignia carved deep, edges worn smooth from years of gripping throttles and gavel handles. The last piece of him that still feels real.
I’ve carried it since the funeral. Never took it off the chain, never gave it up. Not until now.
My thumb catches the faint groove on the inside of the band. He had it inscribed years ago:Earn peace.I didn’t understand it then. I do now.
Maybe peace isn’t what you chase on the road or buy with loyalty. Maybe it’s the look she gave me last night when I finally stopped fighting the inevitable. Maybe it’s her.
Maybe this is what he meant. Maybe peace isn’t something you win. Maybe it’s something you hand over to the one person who can still believe you deserve it. The thought terrifies me more than any bullet.
I dress in silence, the movements automatic. Jeans, boots, T-shirt. Every sound feels louder than it should, like the universe is reminding me I’m not built for soft mornings.
The clock on the wall ticks slowly. The heater kicks in, hissing once before settling into a low hum. The faint light glints off her phone on the workbench. The same phone that lit up last night with that message neither of us wanted to see.
I check her phone. No new messages since that one. The threat still sits there on the screen, black text on white.
