Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Lyric

I'm slicing tomatoes when Dad bursts through the kitchen door like a storm. His face is tight, eyes hard with that look he gets when life's gone sideways after an operation gone wrong.

"Gwen," he pants, his voice edged with something that sounds like fear.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I ask, dropping the knife, my heart kicking up a notch.

He's never this rattled. Dad is a plastic surgeon, and there's not much he hasn't seen.

His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me like a physical touch. "Those women…" he starts, and there's a tremor in his hands that doesn't belong, "… the ones your friends brought in."

I swallow and wipe my hands on my jeans, feeling the weight of his stare. "Yes?" I prod, trying to keep my tone level.

"One's just a kid, Gwen." He's at my side now. "Fifteen, maybe. She's… God." He is gripping the counter like it's the only thing keeping him up. "She's been…"

I don't need him to finish. My stomach twists into a hard knot, and I feel the color drain from my face.

"Beaten? Raped?" The words taste like bile.

"Both," he confirms, and the simple word is a punch to the gut.

"Jesus, Dad…" I reach out and touch his arm, trying to ground us both.

"Can't let this stand," he mutters, looking past me now toward the phone—toward calling in the cavalry that can't come.

"Wait, Dad." I catch his eye. "Trust me, okay? Just… trust me."

He nods once, sharp and tight. But I see it in his eyes, the battle he's fighting to do his job or to be my father. It's tearing him up inside.

"All right, Lyric." My club name sounds rough. "But you better have a damn good plan."

I nod because I have to, but there's no other choice, and when Highway trusts you with something, you don't let it fall apart. Not if you can help it.

"Got it, Dad. We'll fix this… somehow. You can't call the police, Dad," I say without preamble. "Please trust us, trust me."

"Gwen, these women—" he starts, anxiety etching deeper lines into his face.

"Trust," I repeat, locking eyes with him.

He nods, but I can tell he's not convinced. Dad goes back the way he came, and I stride out of the kitchen, my heart hammering against my chest. I'm searching for Lucy and find her standing with Justice. She's listening to him speak out near the bonfire.

They turn to me as I approach.

Justice's jaw is set, a muscle ticking there as he speaks, "Reaper gave his word they'd be okay, but we can't risk them talking. Not after what they saw."

"Damn Crimson Wheelers," Lucy mutters, her voice low and dangerous.

"Exactly. They've seen too much. We need to be sure they won't go running to the cops."

"You're talking about the women? Dad just said one of them, she's only fifteen, has been raped and beaten."

Once upon a time, I was out there, camera in hand, capturing life at its rawest. Now, here I am, caught up in the gritty reality of the Royal Bastards, where loyalty runs deeper than blood.

I glance back at the clubhouse, its walls holding secrets and safety—my new home. There's no way they would harm those women.

But what's the next move?

A shiver runs through me, not from fear but from the unknown.

What will we do with them?

How do we prove to the women that we're not the monsters they think we are?

"Lyric," Lucy calls out, pulling me back to the moment. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Justice nods, and I do, too, but I can't help but think those women have no reason to trust us. We've kidnapped them from one MC to another. How do I get them to keep the Royal Bastards' secrets? Can they ever leave the MC?

Lucy grabs my hand, and we weave through the crowded clubhouse, our steps quick and purposeful. Dad is in the infirmary, his face drawn with concern, his doctor's hands steady as they tend to the wounded. The air is thick with antiseptic and fear.

"Dad, can we help?"

His gaze flickers over to Jet, who stands like a bruised sentinel at the edge of the room. Her defiance is tangible, a shield she wields fiercely.

"I could use some bottled water and food for these women." He looks up at the ceiling, then back at us. "They could use showers and clean clothes."

Justice steps into the threshold, his frame filling the doorway. "Anything I can do?"

"Get out!" Jet's voice spits, her distrust a palpable force pushing against Justice's solid presence.

He raises his hands in a gesture of peace and backs away.

"Let's find Highway," I mutter to Lucy, and she nods, understanding.

The kitchen is empty, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I gather up bread, cold cuts, and a knife. My hands move automatically, assembling a sandwich with practiced ease. Food always tastes better after chaos. I learned that in Afghanistan.

"Highway?" I call out softly, stepping into the dim hallway that leads to our room.

A shadow moves, and then he's there, his presence calming the storm inside me.

"Hey, Lyric," he greets, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.

"Made you something to eat," I say, leading him back to our sanctuary.

Once inside, I hand him the plate and sit close, needing the warmth of his body, the certainty of his strength.

"Talk to me. What happened at the Crimson Wheelers' compound?"

He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then meets my gaze. "They're done. No more threats from that corner of the world."

"Dead," I whisper, and he nods once, confirming the finality of it all.

"And the women?" I ask, my heart hammering with the weight of what's to come.

"They're safe, Lyric. As long as the Diablos are kept at bay and the cops aren't sniffing around, they'll be free to go."

"Promise?" The word hangs between us.

"Promise," he replies, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in closer.

"Thanks, Highway," I breathe out, relief mingling with worry, my mind already racing ahead to the next battle.

I press my lips to Highway's in a quick, fierce kiss. "Be right back," I murmur against his mouth, then slip away before he can pull me back.

The hallway is thick with people, but I navigate through them and reach the door where the women are located. I knock twice, softly, and push it open.

Inside, the smell of antiseptic stings my nostrils. My father, whose face is pinched with concern, hovers over a girl lying on a bed.

"This is Mia," Dad says with a smile.

The girl looks up at me, and she must be the fifteen-year-old. Her eyes are too old for her face. Her back is a mess of angry red welts. My stomach clenches as bile rises.

"Hey, Mia," I say gently, kneeling beside her. "You're safe now, okay? You're with us."

"Am I?" she whispers, her voice barely there.

"Yes," I insist, brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead.

"Can I have a phone?" Jet's voice cuts through the thick air. She stands in the corner, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding herself together.

"Why?" I ask.

"I need to call my mom," she says, a tremble in her voice. "Been almost a year since—"

"Since what, Jet?" I prod.

"Since Hawk died," she blurts out. "My brother. He was friends with Reaper and wanted to be in the Royal Bastards till a bullet ended that dream."

"Jesus…" I whisper.

"Didn't know MCs saw women as nothing, but…" She doesn't finish.

"The Royal Bastards aren't like that," I say. "They protect their own."

"Can I leave then?" Jet challenges, her eyes sparking with rebellion.

"Gwen…" Dad's warning tone slices through the tension. "They were forced here."

"Doesn't feel safe," Jet spits, disbelief etched in every line of her face. "Feels like a cage."

"Trust me," I plead, my heart a drumbeat in my chest. "We're the good guys."

Jet just stares, her gaze loaded with doubt. The tension in the room is so thick it's like trying to breathe through a wet blanket.

Lucy bursts in, her eyes scanning the scene. "You're not prisoners. Diablos could be on your tails if you step out," she adds, but there's a softness there, too, a crack in her tough-girl fa?ade.

That's when Devil struts into the chaos, that wild Aussie spark in her eyes. "No need to be worried about nothing, loves." She chuckles, waving off the concern with a flick of her wrist. "If you want to leave, door's open. But trust me, this is the safest bloody place for you." She turns to Jet. "Come shopping with me? We need food and clothes for you lot."

Jet's eyes narrow suspiciously. "What's the catch?"

Devil giggles, a sound that seems too carefree for this heavy room. "No catch. Just help me pick the stuff and carry it back. Yes?"

Before anyone can process that, Justice swings in, all swagger and smirks. "Ready, Devil?" he asks, his gaze locking on Jet.

"Are we?" Devil echoes, challenging.

Jet hesitates, then shakes her head slightly, but not in refusal. It's more like she's shaking off her doubts.

Justice leans in, his grin wicked. "Don't tell me you're scared," he teases, and I can see the interest sparking in his eyes.

Jet straightens up, her spine steeling. She might be wounded, but she's no damsel. "Never," she fires back, and there's a flash of the girl she must've been before all this.

And just like that, we're a convoy of unlikely allies.

Devil leads the way, Justice at her side, and Jet sandwiched between them. I fall in behind, my heart hammering a rhythm of anticipation. Devil climbs into the driver's seat of an SUV and Justice into the front passenger seat, which leaves the back seat for Jet and me and we drive.

The Walmart parking lot is a concrete sea of people rushing to and from the building's entrance. Justice climbs out of the SUV and opens the door for Jet with a flourish.

"Ma'am," he drawls as she gets out.

She frowns up at him, unimpressed. "You're all about chivalry?"

"Sometimes," Justice counters with a lazy grin, leaning against the frame. "Just being neighborly."

"Neighborly?" She scoffs, a harsh laugh escaping her lips. "There's no such thing." She brushes past him.

"Oi!" Devil's voice cuts through the tension like a whipcrack. "Eyes peeled, Justice. We're not here for a bloody picnic." She throws a pointed look my way. "In and out, yeah?"

"Got it, boss lady," Justice mutters, but there's a glint of respect in his eyes as he slams the door shut behind Jet.

We navigate inside the huge Walmart with Devil leading the way.

"Stay close," I whisper to Jet, watching her survey the aisles like they're enemy territory.

"Thought this was supposed to be safe," she mutters back, even though her gaze keeps darting to the entrance where more of our guys have taken up posts.

"Appearances can be deceiving," I say, but my words feel hollow.

How do I explain that these men, who look like they could cause a riot with a single word, are really here to protect us?

"Looks like a damn guard detail," Jet observes, her tone edged with suspicion.

"Protection, not prison," I assure her, but the skepticism in her eyes doesn't fade.

It's Devil who changes the tune, her laughter bouncing off the shelves. "Relax, love! They're just making sure no one messes with our discount deals." She snags a bright red cart and starts loading it with food like we're stocking up for an apocalypse.

Jet watches, still bristling with wariness, but I can see the edges of her resolve softening. Maybe it's how Devil cracks jokes with those around her or how she tosses a bag of cookies into the cart, declaring them essential for mental health.

"See," I nudge Jet, gesturing at Devil's easy demeanor. "Not all MCs run like the one you were in."

She doesn't respond but follows Devil's whirlwind energy, her eyes slowly absorbing the scene. It's when our brothers step aside for an Ol' Lady, nodding with something like reverence, that I see the flicker of realization in Jet's eyes.

"Maybe," she concedes, the word almost lost beneath the store's tinny music.

Devil pushes the cart at Justice. "Go on and start ringing this up. I'm taking the girls on a trip through the clothing aisles."

"Devil, Creed will have my balls in a glass jar if anything happens to you."

Devil laughs. "We'll be fine." She opens her jacket to reveal a gun in its holster. "This was a present from Winchester, and he showed me how to use it. Now, go."

She is already walking away from him to get another cart. He looks at Jet and me briefly, shakes his head, and moves toward the checkout.

Devil links one arm with Jet and pushes the cart with the other. "Okay, you know your friends better than we do. They'll need at least two sets of clothes with underwear, so let's get shopping."

"What do I pick?"

Devil picks up a pink tank top and holds it against herself. "Whatever you think they will be most comfortable in." She tosses the tank into the cart.

Jet takes a tentative step forward and looks at the jeans. "I'm not sure of sizes."

"Best guess will do." Devil holds up a pair of jeans to Jet. "Do you like skinny jeans?"

"Ahh, no. I like bootleg."

Devil nudges her. "Me, too, but Creed likes skinny jeans."

Jet looks down at Devil's bootleg jeans. "But you're not wearing those."

Devil waves a hand in the air as she picks up another pair of jeans. "Girl, of course not." She smiles at Jet. "But I do wear them on date night."

"Date night?"

"We're married, not dead. Yeah, date night."

Jet looks from me to Devil. "I don't understand."

Moving forward, I pick up a shirt off the rack. "What don't you understand?"

"She's wearing bootleg jeans, and she's going on dates with the biker who claimed her."

Devil frowns, her normally sunny disposition fading a little. "Honey, Creed and I are a couple. We fight, we make up, but he doesn't own me. I love Creed, and he loves me."

Jet's eyes widen, but she says nothing.

"I really like Highway."

Devil laughs at me. "I think that boy more than likes you."

"Wait. You're not forced to be there? You can leave?"

"Yes. And as soon as they think it's safe for you, you can leave too. Now, let's get picking clothes. It looks like Justice is finished ringing up the groceries, so he's going to be back any second. He'll be bitching and moaning we're taking too long." Devil begins throwing tank tops into the cart, then stops and looks at Jet. "Do you need shoes?"

Jet looks down at her worn-out sneakers. "Could I have boots?"

Devil grins. "Sure, if they've got them."

Jet returns her smile, and it lights up her whole face.

By the time we're finished, there's shoes, underwear, and more than two sets of clothes for everyone, but Devil keeps insisting no one will mind.

***

We arrive back at the clubhouse. It echoes with the growl of bikes and the distant clash of beer bottles. Devil's strides are purposeful as she rounds the SUV, her eyes glinting with mischief. She hands Jet a cell phone.

"Call your mum, love," she says, her Aussie accent wrapping around the words.

Jet's fingers tremble as they wrap around the phone, her tough fa?ade cracking like pavement under a sledgehammer. Tears well up, spilling over, and she blinks hard—once, twice—before they cascade down her cheeks.

"Wh-why?" Jet stammers, her voice a broken whisper.

"Because family's everything," Devil replies. Her smile softens as she wraps an arm around Jet.

Justice moves in, his presence a solid reassurance. He lays a hand on Jet's shoulder, gently, nothing like the hard grips I've seen him use in fights.

"Let it out. It's okay," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as comforting as a warm blanket on a cold night.

Jet looks at him, her confusion raw and open. "But you… you're one of them."

"Doesn't mean I'm not human," Justice counters, his eyes locking onto hers.

I watch from the sidelines, my heart caught somewhere between pride and something else for the man who stands with us.

"Go on, then." Devil nudges Jet gently. "Before your tears short-circuit the bloody thing."

A small laugh hiccups through Jet's sobs, and I can't help but grin. Devil has a way about her that can turn a storm into a drizzle.

With shaking hands, Jet dials, each beep a step closer to a world she's been torn from for too long. The call connects, and her voice is a quiet murmur, words meant only for the person on the other side of the line.

"Mom? It's me… Jet."

Something inside me eases as I watch her, this girl who's seen too much darkness finding a sliver of light. And Justice, this brute of a man with a heart bigger than his biceps, stands by her, unwavering.

I leave them to their moment, stepping quietly away, my boots echoing softly on the gravel driveway. I keep going through the clubhouse and upstairs. The door to our room creaks open, revealing Highway stretched out on the bed, his chest rising and falling with the deep, even breaths of sleep.

Creeping in, I toe off my boots and slide under the covers beside him, careful not to wake him. His warmth seeps into me.

In the quiet of our room, with Highway's steady breathing for company, I let my mind wander back to Jet, Justice, and the strange, twisted family we've become.

Outside, the world might be gunning for us, danger lurking in every shadow.

But here, now, there's peace and hope.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to keep the darkness at bay.

***

The stillness of the night is a lie.

My eyes snap open, my heart hammering against my ribcage, the afterimage of dreams fading fast. Darkness wraps around me like a shroud, but I'm alert now, senses sharp as shattered glass.

"Trouble's brewing," I murmur, words barely a whisper in the charged air.

Highway stirs beside me. "Bad dream?" he grunts, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"Yeah." I slide out from under the covers, my feet planted firmly on the cold floor.

"Come back to bed. I'll chase your demons away." A dark promise is in his tone as he sits up, muscles coiling.

"Not sure I can sleep."

"Then we can play," Highway teases.

Shaking my head, I say, "You ever feel tired and awake at the same time?" I lay back down next to him.

"Yes." Highway nods, the shadow of a smile on his face.

"Do I need to worry about the Diablos?"

He turns and brushes a few strands of hair off my face. "Creed has a plan. Trust in him, and you'll be safe while you're here. I promise."

Highway pulls me in closer, his arms wrap around me, and I drift off to sleep in the safety of his arms.