He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to feel anything.
But the problem was he felt everything.
He swung a leg off the bike but didn’t move toward the door. His boots sank slightly into the wet gravel as he stood there, helmet dangling from his fingers, rain soaking through his clothes.
He should’ve walked away tonight. Should’ve left her in that car and kept riding until the storm swallowed him whole.
But the second he saw her, wet hair, trembling hands, eyes red, he was eighteen again, watching her pack her life into a suitcase and walk away from him without looking back.
He’d told himself he was over it.
He was a liar.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, water and rain mixing on his skin. His fingers trembled. He curled them into a fist until the shaking stopped.
He’d worked too damn hard to become the man he was now. Disciplined, dangerous, carved into something the club could rely on.
Rook didn’t break. Rook didn’t bend.
But Noah?
Noah was the part of him he’d locked behind iron doors. And she’d cracked them open with a single word.
He exhaled sharply, breath fogging in the cold air. His chest felt too tight, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out. He pressed a hand to the tank of his bike, grounding himself in the cold metal.
He didn’t want to go inside.
Didn’t want the brothers to see the storm he’d brought back with him. Didn’t want their jokes, their knowing looks, their questions. Didn’t want to admit—even to himself—that one glimpse of Avery Brooks had undone seven years of discipline and distance.
But the door swung open before he reached it.
Warm light spilled out onto the gravel, cutting through the rain.
And Rook straightened, jaw tight, shoulders squared, forcing the storm inside him back behind the walls he’d built long ago.
He wasn’t ready but walked in anyway.
The door hadn’t even shut behind him before he caught the tail end of a conversation.
Stone’s voice carried first. “Near the county line. Two bikes. Didn’t stop.”
Grim muttered, “Reapers don’t come this far out unless they want something.”
Havoc snorted. “Or unless they’re lost. Dumbasses probably took a wrong turn.”
Ledger didn’t laugh. “They weren’t lost.”
A beat of silence. Heavy. Knowing.
Rook’s shoulders tightened before he could stop them. He didn’t turn toward the group, didn’t ask for details. He didn’t need to. The wordReapersalone was enough to put a cold edge under his skin.
Stone noticed him then, the shift in the room immediate, the tension folding itself away, the brothers straightening like they hadn’t been talking about anything at all.
“Rook,” Stone said, voice steady. “You’re late.”
Stone stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, expression carved from rock. The overhead light caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes, the weight he carried like a second cut.
Grim leaned against the wall beside him, tattooed arms crossed, smirk already forming like he smelled trouble. Havoc perched on the pool table behind them, boots swinging, golden-brown hair a chaotic mess. Ledger sat at the bar, quiet, observant, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against a glass.
