27. Ash

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ASH

M y gaze remained glued to Lamb’s back as it disappeared behind the closed door, not once having turned to look back at me before making his departure. Something deflated in my chest, and the cold walls of the doctor’s room felt smaller than they had before.

“Don’t worry, darling; I won’t bite,” Dr. Mabel Beckett, Lamb’s great-aunt, interjected as she hopped off her large office chair. It spun behind her, and she made her way around the desk. “Not unless you ask me to.”

I was taller than average, but not by much, so when the tiny woman came to stand before me, it was strange to meet her at eye level while I was sitting. I was sure she had been taller before time had placed a bend in her back and a hunch on her shoulders. There was much to process about her, stuff I had no time for as Lamb had ambushed and projected me into the doctor’s office.

“If you have questions, ask.” Mabel waved her hand as she began digging out different tools from under the paper mountain living on her desk. “Lift your arm.”

I complied with her as best as I could, fighting not to jerk away at the touch of her cold hands as she slid a blood pressure cuff up my arm. I was quiet while she went through the basic motions of the checkup, thinking about what I could ask. I did not need much imagination to see Lamb as a child; he would question every little detail about his life and tilt his head when he did not understand why someone might cry, or laugh, or yell. I knew it would not be all rosy; I was sure he had sat alone at lunch and hid behind textbooks and encyclopaedias, wondering why he was different.

“It must have been lonely …” The words slipped from my lips as I saw the parallels between us. Perhaps Lamb would not understand, maybe he could not. The cold loneliness that had plagued me might never have reached him, but it did not hurt my heart any less.

“Not really.” Mabel slapped the end of her stethoscope against my knee, and it jerked in return. “Lamb had lots of friends growing up …” She paused, her head tilting to one side as she thought it over. It was a lot more subtle than Lamb’s, but it made me smile to know the gesture was an inherited one. “Though they were more like slaves. While others were learning how to move their bodies and develop their brains, Lamb was already practising blackmail and bribery. Manipulation comes easy when you don’t have a sense of guilt or justice.”

A laugh startled us both. It was my own, and it jerked out of my chest before I could catch it, the image of Lamb already making bets and having children do his bidding.

Mabel smiled, wrapping her stethoscope back around her neck. “You’ve got a beautiful laugh, sweetheart,” she commented. “It makes me feel better about asking you to strip.”

My chest cooled, and the warmth seeped like the sea across the shore. My hands tightened into the hem of my shirt, my nails digging into my palms. Nervous anxiety fluttered over my chest.

Mabel waited quietly, stepping back so I had room. “Would you like me to turn around?”

“Is there much point when you are going to turn back and see me naked, anyway?”

“Not really.” Mabel shrugged, turning before I could answer. “But some people appreciate the courtesy.”

“Courtesy is not something I am familiar with,” I sighed, letting the comment sit in the still air as I plucked myself up and pulled off my jacket and the thin material of my shirt.

I was in a simple black bra and matching underwear, all chosen by Lamb, and now I could see why he had insisted on picking out my clothes this morning. I took off my shoes, and the jeans slipped right off. I laid them over the chair before turning back to her.

I felt cold and vulnerable, and the bright light of the room shimmered over my purple scars, looking harsh and dark against my pale skin. “I am ready.” It was barely a whisper.

Mabel turned around, and if she was shocked, her face betrayed nothing. She was clinical and professional as she stepped closer, eyes scanning and cataloguing things beyond my knowledge. She pressed against the wound on my stomach, her fingers firm and precise.

“Do you have any stomach issues, long term, since these have healed?” She asked as she moved onto another sitting just left of my hip.

“Not really,” I answered. “I only get minor side effects. The surgeons said I was lucky.”

“Then your surgeon and I have a different definition of lucky,” Mabel tutted, becoming more comfortable adjusting me like a pliable doll as she moved from one scar to the next.

Aside from the main two—one in my chest and the other in my stomach—my other gunshot wounds had been to extremities. I had six in total, and four were just minor; done to deal pain, not kill.

After a long time being poked and prodded, and a few thousand more questions, Mabel handed me back my clothes. Goosebumps prickled up my skin, and my body had begun to shiver as I struggled to pull back on my jeans and shirt.

“You’re healing well physically,” Mabel summarised, moving back around to her desk and hopping onto her chair with a grace not suited to a woman her age. “I’m going to give you a shot of some vitamins and all that other good stuff to help you with the post-effects of your detox, and I’d like to see you again in three months. By then, I’ll have more information on a treatment plan for your eyes. For now, I’ll give you some eye drops and a referral to an optician. They should be able to get you some glasses to help with your vision at least.”

I committed all the information to memory as Mabel printed out a small prescription slip and handed it to me. “Thank you,” I said, meeting her small brown eyes. “For seeing me. I’m sure you must be busy.”

Mabel smiled, and for a moment, it was soft and sweet, and then it was bitter and annoyed. “Let’s just say Lamb drives a hard sale,” she huffed. “I may have been able to fix his manners, but I hadn’t managed to change his soul.”

I laughed. “I do not think anyone can.”

Her attitude was subdued. “Be careful, Ash.” She reached over, her hand wrapping around mine. “Lamb is who he is. He gets easily obsessed with things and can be possessive with the few things he likes. Even with toys, he’d play with them until they broke, or he lost interest.” Mable held my gaze, her expression stern and fierce. She didn’t say the words with malice but with warning. “You’ll need to take him as he is or give him up entirely. He may be my great-nephew, but what you might find endearing makes him dangerous. A man like him could take everything from you if you are not cautious.”

Her words settled with unease in my chest. Not because of her tone, but because I knew it was the truth. Those moments, when darkness shone through his eyes, when I felt like gravity was pulling me in, threatening to consume me, I knew it was dangerous.

“Now, go get that boy before he starts banging down the door because I’ve kidnapped you for too long.” She patted my hand and let me go, waving me away with a flick of her wrist and turning back to her computer. Her fingers prattled over the old keyboard, and she did not turn her head back in my direction again.

“Thank you,” I said as I pulled open the door, Lamb’s voice carrying from down the hallway, arguing with the receptionist, most likely.

Mabel didn’t turn.

I smiled, pulling the door shut behind me.

“ I ce cream?” I stared down at the display of cold desserts. “In November?”

I would believe Lamb was confused about the season if it had not been for the bitter winds cutting across our skin on the walk over from the car park into the parlour.

In the last week alone, the warm grasp of autumn had slipped, and winter was announcing her arrival as the last leaves fell from the trees, and coats, hats, and scarves were becoming regular sights. The bright lights of the display hurt my eyes as it battled the growing gloom sapping away the daylight.

“Yes,” Lamb said, squeezing his hand tighter around mine, as if I might slip my leash and run for it at the sight of a ninety-nine.

My paranoia bloomed as we approached the counter, the line slowly moving forward. I would have thought an ice cream parlour would struggle as the weather turned colder, but a queue was nested around us, and many booths and tables were occupied.

People whispered and murmured, the occasional glance and look sent our way. I knew it was because of Lamb; he was good-looking and would attract attention regardless of where we were, but after years of hiding my face from even the casual passerby, the agitation was clawing it way up my spine.

I pressed closer into Lamb’s side, welcoming his bodily warmth and the shield from prying eyes.

“Relax,” Lamb leant towards me.

“It is fine for you to say,” I grumbled, wanting to bury my face into the leather of his jacket in the hopes the material would swallow me. It was not his normal club cut, but a warm brown one that fastened to his sharper frame and warmed the chocolatey depths of his eyes. “Someone might recognise me.”

“I doubt the people chasing you are hanging out in an ice cream parlour in Redwood.” Lamb chuckled.

“But—”

I was cut off by the weight pushing down on my head. The cap slid on smooth over my hair, and the brim tugged down over my face. I reached up, grabbing the foreign object before my eyes jumped to the hand holding it. Lamb’s smile sat on his face, soft and gentle, as if he might have been born human, after all. He moved to brush away stray hairs falling over my face, adjusting the hat a little bit here and there until he was satisfied before snapping off the price tag. “There,” Lamb murmured. “Better.”

“But—”

Soft lips planted on mine swallowed my words. It was fast and brief, but the warmth and sweetness lingered long after he had parted. “No one will look twice at a couple on an ice cream date. You’re safe with me.”

I buried my face into his arm, hiding the reddening burn flushing over my cheeks. I wanted to argue that there was no way someone would not notice, but I thought better of it as we made our way to the front counter, next in line to order.

“What are you choosing?” I squinted at the labels.

Lamb shrugged, careful not to jostle the hold I had on his arm. “I’ve never been picky about food. It doesn’t taste all that different, so any is fine for me.”

It was not a surprising answer.

“You?”

“I do not know,” I mumbled, looking over each of the distinguished colours. They were bright and vibrant, some with things mixed in or decorations on top. “I have never tried ice cream before.”

Lamb stiffened in my arms. If he wanted to ask something, he thought better of it. Instead, his silence was solemn and thick with thought as we moved further up the line. Panic rushed my nerves as we were about to pick up our order. I could not see the labels well enough to know what each one was, and the vast choices were overwhelming.

“What can I get for you?” The cashier turned to us. He was a young man with freckles over his face, and even he gave Lamb a long once-over. I could not tell if it was admiration or something more. Neither would surprise me.

“We’ll take the hat”—Lamb pointed to the souvenir hat now fixed onto my head—“and a double vanilla,” Lamb gave his order, and the boy quickly turned to me.

“And for you, miss?”

“Um …” I turned to the cabinet, briefly catching my warped reflection in the glass casing and the hat on my head; bright colours and big pops of writing I assumed spelt the name of the shop. It was horrible but better than nothing at all. I squinted past my face, the light reflecting off the surface of the rounded glass making it even harder to focus.

“One pecan, one dark chocolate, and a butterscotch,” Lamb interrupted, saving me from my social peril. “With all the trimmings.”

“Wait—that is too much.” I pulled on his hand, but Lamb had already decided. He had his phone out of his pocket and over the card machine before I could protest anymore.

“It’ll be over to your table in a jiffy.” The cashier beamed at Lamb before turning to me with an equally polite but much less enthusiastic smile. I did not return it.

We slid into a booth in the corner, my back turned to the room, closest to the wall. Lamb slid next to me on the same side, blocking me in. I wanted to protest, but even with my escape route blocked, I still felt better hidden behind him than if I was exposed on the edge. I mulled over the duality of my old sensitivity and new security as Lamb pulled out silver spoons from the pot on the table and arranged them in front of himself and me. I was amused by his meticulous procedure—folding napkins and moving the unnecessary cutlery away as he prepared our dessert set up.

It had truly been a “jiffy” as two large bowls of ice cream were slid onto the table in front of us by a young waitress whose eyes lingered on Lamb long enough for our ice cream to soften. Lamb paid her no mind, sliding my bowl closer and putting a spoon in my hand.

He did not bore over me like he had with breakfast, or any meal I had had to consume in front of him. Instead, he got to work on his own ice cream, taking in measured spoons of his dessert, his face neither changing from the sweet taste nor the cold temperature.

Left to my own devices, I looked down at the enormous bowl. The scoops were no bigger than a tennis ball, but they felt as big as footballs staring up at me.

I would try a bite. Just one. I could at least manage that.

I scooped a small curl of ice cream onto my spoon of the dark chocolate flavour and tried hard not to think much of it as I slipped it between my lips. And then I tried the pecan, and finally, the butterscotch.

My nose wrinkled at the bitterness of the dark chocolate, and although better, the thick buttery taste of the pecan was too heavy for my taste. And at last, the butterscotch was sweet on my tongue, melting into a warm, creamy texture that lingered long after I swallowed.

I went for a second spoon, scooping on more before sliding it back into my mouth. I revealed the duplicate sensation; how the cold pooled in my stomach, but the taste warmed my mouth.

I felt like Goldilocks, having found my perfect porridge and found the chore of eating subsiding as I enjoyed each bite I took.

Until I saw a rogue spoon coming my way, and then I became the bear.

I slashed at the spoon, nearly growling as I whirled on the assailant. Lamb’s brows bounced to his hairline, eyes wide and an amused smile pulling wide on his lips.

“I think you like that more than me,” Lamb grumbled, lowering his spoon but not dropping it completely. I eyed it wearily.

“I do.”

“You know, I think I’m becoming the jealous type.”

“Of ice cream?” I scoffed.

“Of everything.” Lamb’s eyes held mine, deadly serious. “You need to like me the most. I won’t stand for anything less.”

I rolled my eyes, returning to my ice cream. “Whatever.” As the cold ice cream burned in my stomach, I slipped another sweet spoon onto my tongue to try to soothe the rising heat.

Silver flickered past my eyes quicker than I could react. I had let my guard down and, in that second, a large spoonful had been snatched before my eyes.

I jerked my hand, clamping tight around the escaping spoon, and before Lamb could resist, I shoved it straight into my mouth, sucking it clean off.

I was smug and satisfied as Lamb watched me lick my lips, successfully thwarting his attempts to steal my ice cream. It was sweeter than any of my previous spoonsful, and I could feel myself becoming addicted. “Take that—”

Lamb’s lips pressed against mine, his tongue stealing my words. His hand held the back of my neck, and the sudden invasion of his warmth and pressure had me becoming malleable in his grip, responding to him in kind, the sweet butterscotch mixing on our tongues.

Lamb pulled back, and the white noise of the parlour grounded me back into the booth. I glared at him, but it was too late. He had a saccharine smile, his tongue soothing over his damp lips.

“You’re right,” he purred. “It’s sweet.”

My jaw dropped.

This man was beyond all reason and comprehension, going that far to steal a bite. It did not surprise me, as such, but the reality of being with this man in front of me was beginning to settle in.

I was screwed.

“Shut up and finish your ice cream,” I growled, cupping my bowl in my arm, and turning my back to him, hiding the hot red blush rushing over my face. I enjoyed my butterscotch ice cream but knew the taste on my lips would linger long after we left the parlour. The taste he had left behind.

T here was being proactive, and then there was being stupid.

The current swing of the party, the half-naked women, alcohol in every person’s hand, and the broadcasted foreplay on the centre couch was the latter. I knew the club was liberal, but when you had a kingpin resting the barrel of his gun right in your face, waiting to shoot at any moment, this type of party would have been the last thing I had expected.

I struggled to pick apart the partygoers. I could not distinguish whether they were club members, affiliates, or strangers as more piled in through the doors, the room tightened and the air thinned.

Lamb pressed his hand to the small of my back, tucking me into his side as people brushed past us, bottles, glasses, and cans held aloft my head.

“Lamb,” an older man greeted with a head nod. His gaze slid down to me, and I pressed closer into Lamb’s side, the warmth of his cedar body soap and sweat from the warm room smothering my nose.

Lamb nodded his head at the man in acknowledgement.

He offered no greeting to me before he moved along in the crowd. It was a great deal more than I had been expecting to receive. Not having someone spit in my face or threaten to kill me with their eyes was a good day considering my rocky relationship with the club.

“Are you sure we should be here?” I pushed onto my toes, my mouth pressed into Lamb’s ear.

His cheek rested against mine. “No better place than out in the open,” Lamb responded, his voice thrumming louder than the blaring bass music rippling through the floor. “No one will think we’re hiding an illegal convict with an open-door party.”

“But these strangers …” I let my eyes roam around. With a new pair of glasses, my vision had been given some clarity and distance. It was not a perfect fix and did not solve half my vision problems, but they did allow me to have some sense of normalcy. Or, in this case, paranoia. Even tucked into the corner of the room, a great vantage point over the whole party, I hated how it made my skin crawl. Any of these people could be lurking spies for my father, or worse—an assassin.

“I said open doors, not open gates.” Lamb shook his head, his hair brushing against my skin. He had been styling it less and less and had donned more of his heavy denim jeans and dark shirts, akin to his biker side than his fancier alter ego. Although his aura had more edge this way, his face looked younger and softer with his hair dropping gently around his temples.

“And the difference is …?”

“Open doors are for everyone club-related—old ladies, families, affiliates, and friends. But unless we recognise your face, you aren’t getting through the gate.”

“So, not strangers.”

“Not to me.” Lamb smirked, and his cheeks tightened against mine. Hearing him talk and feeling his expressions against my skin felt a thousand times more intimate. “But you won’t recognise a lot of them.”

It was expected that he was familiar with many people as the vice president, though I was sure it was not all business-related. He attracted every eye in the room, and though people knew him well enough to be weary with their words, their bodies were a different matter entirely.

I wonder how many he has slept with here.

I scanned around the room, leaning a little further away from him before my eyes landed on the corner couches that had already become a sex dungeon by the sheer amount of skin on display. There were tattoos, glitter, and … I stared hard at the girl who sat reverse cowgirl on a brother’s lap, watching the small blurry blobs of colour shake and shimmer. “ Are those tassels ?”

“Are you interested?” Lamb purred, his head now cocked away enough to see the sour expression simmering behind the frames of my glasses. “I’m sure I can get my hands on some.”

“No,” I snapped, whipping my head away from them fast, trying to erase the burned image of the swaying tassels from my irises. Surely those hurt? Perhaps it was part of the lure. “Do you like that type of thing?”

“I like whatever you like,” Lamb dodged the question neatly, and if it had been any other man, I would assume he was saying it to make me feel better. But Lamb was enough of an oddball that it was likely an honest answer. It was as sincere as someone with little preference for anything could get.

“And what do I like?” I purred, pressing my head back into the side of his neck, letting my teeth brush along his skin the way he often did mine. My glasses bumped at the edge of his neck, and I was beginning to think that maybe they were not worth it.

Lamb pressed his hand now firmly against my back, pinning me up against his washboard abs and the firm denim of his jeans grinding against the thin black leggings I wore. They offered me far fewer layers of insulation, and as his crotch ground against mine, I could feel him against my clit.

“I can think of a few things,” Lamb growled, twisting his head to playfully run his tongue along the top of my ear. I melted at his touch, tingling at the vibrations of his throat against my lips. His pulse quickened and the thrum of it against my skin had my own joining the race.

The room felt hot, and I desired to strip my thin layers.

“Want to show them to me?” I challenged, pulling back my head to investigate the face of the man I had every intention of climbing if he did not pick me up in the next two seconds.

Until I saw his face.

Lamb’s attention had shifted, his gaze no longer lingered at my level but shot far into the distance.

I turned, followed his gaze, and through the myriad of people, I struggled to see what he was looking at until, for a moment, the room so happened to clear just enough for me to make out the unmistakably massive figure at the bar.

Wolf.

I sighed, my burning, newfound libido deflating in disappointment. “Go,” I sighed, stepping back.

Lamb’s mouth quirked with a little smile before he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “I’ll come find you soon,” Lamb promised, his hand dropping from my waist. He stepped to move aside, but before I could even turn, hot, wet lips caught mine, and a tongue delved into my mouth.

He was hot and impatient, and the kiss set aflame my desires once more before Lamb pulled away, licking his damp lips, his heated gaze staring into my own. “I’ll show you everything you’re capable of,” Lamb promised, and without another beat, he turned and dissipated into the crowd of people, leaving me alone, horny and soaking wet in the corner of the room.

Great.

Unable to do anything about my wet panties, or my raging hormones, I chose to wander around the room, trying to find any quiet place to hide away. People were caught up in their indulgences—alcohol, sex, music, and more sex. Some even had the odd spliff in their hand, taking long drags into the air before passing it onto the girl in their lap then stripping off layers of clothes. Nothing went the full way out in the open, I noticed, but hands were in trousers and many knickers and bras had vanished into the void of the clubroom. They would never be seen again until the clean-up crew came in. I felt sorry for the poor person who had that job. I bet the pay was great, though.

Standing at the far edge of the room, my eyes sifted through the crowd, sorting faces I recognised from those I did not. There were many I saw and, for the first time, with some clarity from a distance. I could always recognise people, but the glasses extended the distance I could do that with.

It was interesting.

Until it was not.

A bright flash of red hair whisked through the crowd like a trail of smoke stolen by a strong breeze. I chased the colour through dark denim and black leather until they vanished from view. Part of me wished I had gotten a better view; another part was glad I had not. As sure as I was that they had managed to see and recognise me, I knew that it was likely Kay or Mallory who had seen me and that neither would have welcomed me.

There were two more people whom I had betrayed. Two more I had cast aside their goodwill and help. Two more people I had sinned against.

Feeling the overwhelming awareness of being the outsider looking in, I struggled to settle the uncomfortable weight on my chest. Many did not pay attention to me, and those who did were either too drunk to care or sober enough to know to ignore me.

I wanted out of this party, and out of this room, but the crowd was thick and dense, and just as I stepped foot, I realised I was trapped.

A large, bellied biker rocked up next to me, a beer swaying in his hand, the contents already sloshed over his hairy knuckles and down half of his shirt. His eyes were glazed and unfocused as he squinted down at me. I wasn’t small, but the man was much larger than I was, more so in width than height, but it was more than enough to make me concerned.

I stepped out of his reach, moving further down the wall my back had come against. The harsh chips and scratches in the raw wood rubbed against my shoulders as I shimmied past the other partygoers.

A hand snagged my wrist, and I spun, ready to break free.

Stale, warm beer splashed over my face and hair, the liquid running over my skin and into the dip of my shirt.

“Sorry, babe.” The man chuckled to himself, slurring the noise. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Get off me,” I seethed, tugging on my wrist wrapped tightly inside his meaty paw.

I took a breath, trying to curb my temper. I had no weapon, no strength, and no options. We were at a party where I already stood on thin ice. The last thing I needed was to cause a commotion and give the Black Angels another thousand reasons to kick me to the curb.

The beer drizzled through my lips, the bitter taste on the tip of my tongue. I had toyed with the idea of falling off the wagon. I had wondered what I would have tasted if I had even a sip of the whiskey Jax had obliterated into the bar. Wondered if even a drop of the alcohol’s bitter warmth would be enough to seduce me into oblivion.

Now, as just a drop slipped down my throat, I realised I was wrong.

I wretched, the taste of it like acid down my gullet, ready to project my earlier butterscotch ice cream all over the invasive man. I would return his favour in kind.

“Don’t be like that, sweet thing, I know you club sluts all want a piece.” He put the bottle to his lips, unable to lift it high enough to drink the tiny remnants left in the bottle. He didn’t notice, gasping as if he had swallowed a mouthful.

I wanted to retort his ridiculous comment, to tell him the only piece of him anyone would want would be a piece of the knife I would ram through his chest if he came any closer. No words came, though, as I slapped my hand over my mouth, the bitter bile cresting at the back of my mouth. I felt clammy and cold, and the longer the man held me, the smaller the room became.

I wanted out. Out of this situation. Out of this room. Just out.

“Let go, fatass,” a voice bit through my darkening world.

One moment, my hand was locked in his; the next, the man reeled back, holding his hand to his chest, anger red across his drunken face. I stared at it with the same shock he mirrored. But just as my hand was out of his, another latched around my wrist and dragged me into the crowd.

I tried to calm my breathing, taking short breaths in and long breaths out as I was all but hauled like cattle, knocking past body after body, some shouts and grunts whipping past until we both came stumbling into a quieter hallway.

It was short and vacant, but the noise of the party boomed dully behind me as my kidnapper swung the door shut.

“Absolute heathens, some folks.” A heavy southern accent filled my ears, and I managed to lift my head to see my saviour.

A woman, perhaps a few years older than I, stood with her arms propped on her side, tight shorts hugging long legs, one marred with a nasty scar, and long brown hair plaited over her back. Although I could not see the colour of her eyes in the dimly lit hallway, I could sense them burning with anger and her lips twisted in disgust. It faded in a heartbeat as she pulled her glare away from the door and pity softened over her features as she took me in.

“You okay?” she asked, leaning down to place a warm hand on my back, rubbing up and down in gentle strokes. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

“I am okay. I am just—” I righted myself into a full stand, no longer hunching over my stomach as I calmed the quivering muscles. “He just surprised me.”

“Being drunk ain’t no excuse for harassing anybody,” the woman sighed, her hand still stuck to my skin. “It’s your first time at one of these parties, isn’t it?”

“Um …” I shrugged. I did not recognise this girl, and although she seemed nice enough, I was not sure how much to share. “Yeah.”

“These things can be a little overwhelming at first.” She sighed, letting go of me at last, now sure I wasn’t about to topple over. My chest began easing, and my breathing loosened. “I’m still a fish out of water myself. Jax likes to keep me tied up at the farm—” She froze, a bright red blush rushing across her face at her words. Pieces began to fall into place, and intuition drove me forward.

“You are … with Jax?” I asked. I was unsure how to phrase it. What would he call his latest obsession with his arm? He was a flirt. And though he would never settle down, I felt a little bitter about this poor girl being dragged along with his sweet promises. She was nothing like the dozens of girls I had seen him with during my short stay last time.

“Shit, I didn’t introduce myself.” Energy flashed up her spine as her hand jumped out, a broad smile on her face. “Name’s Ronnie. I’m Jax’s old lady.”

“ Old lady? ” I could not hide my surprise. “Sorry, I—”

“I know, I know.” She laughed. “Don’t worry; that’s everyone’s first reaction when I say it. Still feels weird to say it myself.”

Her red blush had softened into a light pink over her tanned features. It suited her. This woman was sweet and far different from what I would have expected if someone had told me the man whore of the century would have settled down with.

“You came with Lamb, right?” Ronnie interjected my thoughts. Her eyes were wide and curious, and excitement breamed from her smile. “That’s just as surprising if you ask me. What bet did you lose to have to spend so much time with him? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to offend ya’ll, but he’s a little too sharp for my tastes.”

Our conversation became a monologue of Ronnie’s thoughts and feelings about Lamb, the other brothers, and the club. I paid as much attention as I could, but soon, her words filtered into the background and my own thoughts took hold.

She reminded me of the other old ladies. Of Mallory who I had met at the airport once, deciding to run away from her love out of fear and anger. I had given her the little push she needed to try again, to have courage when I could not. To have things I never could.

It was a hypocritical thought, looking back at it now. I was throwing stones in a glass house.

Even now, I stood on the aged wooden floors of a building I’d nearly destroyed with my actions, soaked with the blood of those caught in the crossfire, and the painful memories of those I had tortured with my words.

Lamb’s sweet promises had wormed into my ears, and I had, for a moment, believed them.

I believed that I could be a part of this world, a part of this club, and a part of Lamb’s life. Have a piece of this world of my own. I was a fool.

I did not belong.

The air vaporized from my lungs. A stone pressed on my chest, and my heart became a dozen horses galloping inside. The hallway began to close in, and the panic grew louder and louder and louder.

“Sorry, I have—” I struggled for breath, fighting to stay composed, to not draw attention. “I have got to go.”

Ronnie stopped speaking, her eyes growing with concern and frowned. “Oh, okay—”

I did not wait for her to finish talking. I turned, fleeing as fast as I could from the hallway, as far as possible from the party. My brisk walk turned into a run the second I turned the corner, and I bolted.

My lungs burned, my head spun, and my legs trembled as I pushed them harder and harder, the endless hallway disappearing under my feet a thousand miles a minute, yet I was going nowhere.

I could not escape.

I was trapped.

I needed to get out.

I n—

Metal slammed against my chest, and a bar lunged into my solar plexus as the emergency door tucked behind the corner flung open and cast me aside with it.

I stumbled, knees faltering beneath me as grass caught my collapse. My glasses fell from my face as the damp dew of the field soaked into my leggings and chilled between my fingers. Cold winds whipped at my exposed skin, and goosebumps scattered across my sweaty arms and face.

The noise of the party disappeared with the slam of the metal door behind me, and silence fell on my world. I was cold, and tired, and exhausted all at once, wanting nothing more than to drop into the earth in front of me and lay myself to rest, once and for all.

My eyes burned with unshed tears as I dropped my head against my muddy knuckles, letting the cool air run in and out of my lungs at a steady count in my mind. Four breaths in, eight breaths out.

With each cycle repeated, calm settled the gallop throbbing in my ears, soothing it into a tremoring hum. It brought quiet to my mind and outside noises began to seep back into my world—the white noise of the party smothered by the emergency door, the rustle of the wind in the dense trees surrounding the back of the compound, the soft buzz of crickets roaming even this late into winter, and the gentle release of a willowy breath.

I whirled, my escaped hair slapping against my face.

I was too far away to make out the face, but it did not matter. The pale skin, light hair, and the bright blur of red. I knew that figure. Would know it blindfolded. I saw it on the back of my eyelids when I slept and heard her voice in the hollow of my ears when all other noise would fade.

“Anna …”

Her name left my lips in a whisper, and those horses began to canter as I stumbled up from the grass, finding feeling in my limbs and shoving myself forwards.

I anchored myself out of reach, but now I could see her.

For the first time in a year.

White hair, longer than I had last seen it, was tied in a low ponytail, a few strands caught in the breeze. Her features were relaxed, cast in a golden glow from the security light, her mouth in a soft circle around her cigarette, embers glowing with her inhale.

She leant comfortably back into the wooden bench, one elbow propped up on the backrest, legs extended, ankles crossed.

Ice crept under my skin, my muscles turning to stone, and my once-racing mind was hollow. The last I had seen of Anna, she had been wielding back a fist, face full of fury and hurt. My jaw burned hot with the shadow of the punch Anna had landed, and I resisted the urge to reach up and soothe it.

I need to get out of here. I cannot do this. Not right now. Not with her.

A burn travelled into my limbs, fighting to break apart the stone shell encasing them. I lifted my foot and turned my body towards the door I had just come through. Even that hell would be better than this.

“Channel 2.” Anna’s voice cut through the chilling air. I stiffened. “Seven a.m. and eight thirty p.m.”

I turned, slowly and stiffly, to look at her. Anna had not moved, not an inch. Her baby blue eyes looked distantly over the field, taking another long drag of her cigarette.

“That’s when the national news is on,” Anna said. “Crime segments are usually the first; that’s where they announced dead bodies; the unsolved murders, suicides, and police fatalities.”

“What?” The word dropped from my mouth. I was struggling to catch up; it had been so long since we had seen each other, and she was talking about the news ?

“They even post photos of Jane and John Does. You know, the unidentified bodies, just in case people might recognise them.”

“What does that have to do with—” Ice water poured back over my skin, winter reaching its claws inside.

The Jane Does. Unidentified bodies. Suicides.

With the path I had been on, that channel had been my destination. Whether I had ended up killed in a drunk accident, found dead in a ditch somewhere with no identification, or if I had become another statistic of unsolved murders. It all would have been announced there.

“You never turned up,” Anna stated, her eyes sliding in my direction for the first time in over a year. Cold winds channelled in its wake. The claws dug deeper.

The baby blue was still bright, even in the dimming twilight and, as usual, they pierced straight into my soul. Anna had been the one person who knew me inside and out. No walls. No misdirection. No hiding.

False hope batted its wings for a fraction of a second before I staked it back into the cold earth. I stared at the person who had once been my entire world. Who, perhaps, still was. She had been a part of me I had carved out, only an empty, cold hole left hollow in its wake.

A different voice whispered in my ear. It was cruel, but it was honest. It looked between the lines of Anna’s words and the implications carried in them. The words I had never wanted to ask. The words I had hoped to bury in shadow came creeping forwards. The whispers grew into a shout, and from a shout into a scream.

“Were you relieved?” I breathed. “Or disappointed?”

My hand slapped against my mouth, the taste of dirt on my tongue and grass on my lips, but it was too late. The words were free.

I wanted to cover my ears and never hear the answer. My hands did not move.

Anna’s gaze flickered between my eyes. “I …” She frowned for a second before shaking it away. “ I don’t know. ”

My world crumbled beneath my feet. The tiny piece of her I had held onto all this time turned to dust between my fingers.

This is what you have done. You burned this bridge. You caused this. She hates you. No … less than hate. She does not even care anymore. You are nothing to her. And it is all your fault.

Anna’s footsteps jolted through the growing static of my brain.

“I will leave,” I belted, my body lunging forwards to block her path.

Promise not to look for me.

“Give me the word, and you will never see me again.”

Please do not walk away from me.

You walked away first.

“Do what you want.” Anna shrugged, not looking back. She swung open the door, her boots crossing the threshold as she walked away.

She was gone.