Her hand lifts toward mine, slow, deliberate, like she’s approaching something wild.
I want her to touch me more than I want air, but I step back. Distance keeps me safe. Keeps the club safe.
Her eyes harden. “Right,” she whispers, her voice cracking around the word.
She turns, boots crunching through the snow, each step a little faster than the last. The distance between us grows in the space of a heartbeat. Five steps, ten, and I still don’t move. Aria’s hand hesitates on the door handle, shoulders trembling under the streetlight’s glow. Then the engine fires, loud and final. The taillights smear red across the storm, fading until they’re just another ghost.
I tell myself not to chase her. Saints don’t run after angels. But my fingers twitch around the ring of keys in my pocket until I can’t feel the tips anymore.
Saint Motors is silent when I unlock it. The air smells like oil and grief.
I light the barrel heater, strip off my cut, and pull Tama’s bike onto the stand. The Harley’s frame is scarred, chrome dulled from thousands of miles. The sound of a socket wrench is steadier than my heartbeat.
I work until the skin splits on my knuckles again. Every clang of metal-on-metal sounds like his laugh. Once I have his bike tuned, I fire it up.
A flashback hits. My old man behind me, cigarette clenched in his teeth, saying,“A Saint rides what he builds. You trust what you make, not what you’re given.”
I was sixteen and thought I’d never forget that voice. I kill the engine, but the ghosts keep humming.
When I dig through his toolbox, my fingers brush something small and cold. His ring. The silver Saint cross dulled by soot. I wipe it clean with the hem of my shirt. The metal catches the firelight, glowing blood-red for a heartbeat.
He built an empire out of blood and metal.
Now it’s mine to keep from rusting.
I thread the ring onto a chain, loop it around my neck. It hits my skin like ice.
“No more weakness,” I whisper. The sound barely leaves my mouth before the heater flickers, flame reflecting in the shop window. For a second, I swear he’s standing there in the glass, smoke rising from his cigarette, smiling like he knows I’m lying.
Snow’s coming down hard when I step outside. The night is quiet except for the crunch of boots and the hiss of falling flakes.
I light a cigarette. The first drag burns hot enough to feel alive again. Smoke curls around my face, ghosts in the making.
The phone in my pocket buzzes.
Aria: Just checking you got through today.
I typeI’m fine.Delete it. TypeMiss you.Delete that too. Start a third time, nothing fits. I slide the phone back into my pocket. The cigarette burns to the filter. I drop it, crush it under my boot, sparks dying fast in the snow.
The ring glints when I move, firelight trapped in steel.
Every Saint has a secret. Mine’s still alive.
