Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Get on the bike, Melissa.” His voice is sharp but low. A warning from exhausted lips.
My shoulders sag, pulled down by the weight that never seems to leave for long. The loss. The kind of tired that soaks into marrow and won’t let go.
My tongue flicks against my lips, trying to smooth out the sudden dryness.
He lifts his brow the way he does when he’s holding onto patience with both hands. With a little jerk of his foot, he flips up the stand, the move so easy it seems built into him.
He swings his leg off the customized Harley, jeans folding and stretching over his thigh, and for a split-second time stands still.
He removes his hat and runs his hand over his hair. A nervous tick, I guess, since this is the second time I’ve seen him do it. Can’t remember the first time.
His fingers linger at the nape of his neck for just a second before he places the hat back on backwards, adjusting it with a slight tug.
Leaning against his pride and joy, one hand rests possessively on the custom leather seat; the other hangs loosely at his side.
“Get on the bike, babe,” he says, his voice softer now. “I'll take you to your car.” His blue eyes flash. He knows. He knows I’m done with everything.
A soft whisper escapes me. “I can't fight anymore, Hella.”
He pushes off the bike and advances, each stride done with confidence.
I hesitate, stepping back. “I'm tired, Hux. I'm drained.” It’s true. I am. I was done with our fights soon after they started.
His boots stop moving against the gravel.
My gaze travels up the length of him, over worn denim, across the leather vest stretched tight over his chest, until I meet those deep blue eyes.
“You win,” I whisper.
“I'm not doing anything, Melissa. I just wanna make sure you get home, no bullshit.”
“Okay.” The word scratches past the tightness in my throat. I swallow hard. “You can take me to my car.”
Because then I'm leaving.
For good.
HELLA
His tongue was all fucked up.
That was the first thing that hit me when I found him swinging under that tree behind the shitty roadside motel. Too swollen, too dark. Eyes bulged out like he’s still trying to say something and ran out of air before he got to the punchline.
It’s quiet. Just the creak of rope and the sound of farm animals. No gunfire, no engines, no chaos to blame. Just him. Just the choice.
That image keeps looping, even now, sitting at the Chapel table like a good little soldier.
I stare at the empty chair to my left and keep seeing him hanging there instead.
Beast rests his elbows on the carved wood, fingers laced so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. Candle’s gavel is in front of him, but he hasn’t touched it once. There’s a cigarette burning down between two fingers, ash long, smoke curling toward the ceiling and disappearing into the old timber.
“We’re not gonna bullshit this,” he says, voice rough. He drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts. “Nyx checked himself out.”
Checked himself out.
My jaw tightens. Checked himself out. Like it’s a motel room, not a body on a branch with its cut folded neat at the base of the trunk. I keep wondering whether his hands shook. If he hesitated. If he thought about his ma and younger sister. Even as the thoughts pass through my mind, I shove them away. It ain't about that when it's that bad. I understand that.
“He did it on a run,” Beast goes on. “Away from home. Away from his ma. Away from the clubhouses.” His eyes sweep the table, catching on every single one of us. “You know what that tells me?”
Frost shifts in his seat, jaw clenched. Bull’s staring at his big hands like answers might be tattooed there. Ripper’s just still. Too still.
“He didn’t want to bring in anyone here who wasn't the club, our charter. He didn't want Jada finding him hanging off a rafter where her kid plays. So he waits till we’re on the road long enough to need to stop for the night, and he goes and picks a fucking tree.”
The word tree hits my stomach like a boot.
I see rope burns on bark. His boots a few meters away, like he kicked them off and changed his mind.
“Prez,” Bull rumbles, low. “We don’t know what was in his head.”
“Exactly.” Beast points at him with the cigarette. “We don’t know. We never fuckin’ know. So I’m saying this now, and I’m saying it straight.” He leans in, eyes flaring. “You feel alone? You feel like you’re losing your shit? Like the walls are too fuckin’ close and your own head’s trying to choke you out?”
He thumps a hand on the table. “You go to Toke. You talk. To him, to me, to Frost, I don’t give a fuck who. You don’t get to decide we’d rather attend your funeral than hear your pain. You hear me?”