Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
brI
It’s been… what? Four days since my sister group-chat ambushed me about Blade like they were staging an intervention for a drug problem. Four very long days of me professionally ignoring them like it’s my full-time job.
And, look, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.
Maybe. But that whole thing pissed me off.
I get it. I’m the baby. The one they think still needs training wheels for life.
But they didn’t react with concern or curiosity.
They reacted like I told them I was moving into a van with a murder clown I met online.
As if I’ve been living under a rock this whole time. Like I don’t know Blade has demons. Like I haven’t seen how carefully he handles the people he cares about. Like I’m incapable of making my own choices without a permission slip from Big Sister HQ.
And yeah… maybe I should call them and clear the air. Be the mature one. But I’m not ready to listen to them try and talk me out of something that feels real. Something that scares me in the best possible way.
So for now? Petty mode is still fully active.
I sigh and drop my head back against my office chair at Iron Reapers Customs, staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended me.
The guys are out in the garage working and blasting music loud enough to rattle the freaking floor.
Voices carry through the walls, laughter mixed with tools clanging.
It’s homey in a chaotic, grease-scented kind of way.
My phone lights up on the desk. Brooke’s name flashes again. Nope. I hit ignore and chuck the phone into my drawer like that solves everything. Not even ten seconds later… it rings again. I groan. “Persistent little pest.” I yank it open and swipe to answer. “What?”
Brooke’s sigh is loud enough to travel through radio waves. “You know exactly why I’m calling. We’re worried. You’ve gone dark, and Bella’s convinced you’ve been kidnapped by wolves.”
“I would gladly join a wolf pack to avoid this conversation.”
“Bri—”
“Brooke, I’m working. I can’t right now. Seriously.”
“You’re working?” she asks slowly.
“Yes,” I snap, gesturing wildly to an empty room like she can see it.
“Funny,” she says, voice flattening, “because I’m standing right behind you.”
My entire soul leaves my body. I spin in my chair so fast I nearly catapult myself to the floor.
And there she is, looking like she stepped straight out of a luxury car commercial and into a motorcycle shop just to personally ruin my life.
She’s in a fitted cream blouse tucked into tailored high-waisted pants that probably cost more than my rent, stylish heels clicking against the concrete like she’s daring someone to challenge her authority.
Her hair is smooth and glossy, not a strand daring to fall out of line, and her makeup is subtle but perfect in that I-woke-up-flawless kind of way.
A designer purse hangs from her arm, the kind that screams old-money confidence even though we 100% did not come from old money.
And parked crooked outside like she owns the entire street is her black Mercedes, its glossy shine looking extremely out of place next to the row of Harley-Davidsons and oil stains.
She looks powerful. Collected. Like she’s here to fix my life whether I’m on board or not.
“Jesus tap-dancing Christ!” I press a hand over my chest. “Have you been taking ninja lessons?”
She doesn’t smile. “Hey, Bri. I’m taking you to lunch.”
“Oh, no you’re not.” I hold up a hand. “I have deadlines.”
“Wrong.” She walks over and plucks my jacket right off the chair. “You’re having lunch with me.”
“The guys need me,” I argue weakly, pointing toward the shop like reinforcements are about to burst in and rescue me.
Brooke shakes her head with an almost scary calm. “The guys can handle things for a couple hours while we settle this.”
“They really can’t,” I try again. “There are forms. Many forms. The forms need me.”
“Forms will survive,” she says, already walking toward the door like she owns my willpower. “Let’s go.”
I sit there, frozen between fight-or-flight.
She turns back and deadpans, “If I have to drag you out by your hair, I will. You know I’m capable.”
I groan into my hands. “You’re a monster.”
“And you love me,” she sing-songs. “Now move.”
She waits, patient but deadly, and the worst part is she’s right.
I can’t avoid this forever. I can’t ignore them until the end of time, even if the idea has been ridiculously tempting.
So I push up from my chair and follow her out, not because I’m anywhere near ready to deal with this, but because Brooke has clearly decided I’m going with her whether I agree or not, and I don’t feel like being dragged across the parking lot today.
I grab my purse and phone and follow her out.
My boots squeak against the concrete as we step out into the sunlight, and for a second, the ridiculousness of the moment hits me.
Brooke’s sleek black Mercedes glints in the parking lot like it’s judging the entire biker aesthetic.
She’s not really like that though. She’s worked hard for what she has and she enjoys all of the finer things.
She unlocks it with a fancy little chirp that feels like it’s mocking me personally.
I slide into the passenger seat, sinking into buttery leather that smells too good, the seat hugging me like it knows I don’t belong there but will tolerate me anyway.
Brooke tosses her designer purse into the back and adjusts her sunglasses before starting the engine.
I buckle up and angle her a look. “Sell any houses this week?” I ask, because small talk feels safer than feelings.
Brooke smirks, pulling onto the road with the confidence of a woman who could definitely commit tax fraud and get away with it. “Three closings, two offers pending. One buyer who wants to see a property so ugly I might gouge my eyes out.”
“Ah, the glamorous real estate life.”
“You have no idea,” she says, sighing dramatically.
The drive is awkward, but not silent. The music is low, the tension is high, and every streetlight feels like it’s judging me.
We pull into the parking lot of my favorite Mexican restaurant, the neon sign flickering like it’s been through a few bar fights. Brooke parks perfectly, of course she does, and I sit there a second longer, gathering my nerve. Readying myself for the conversation we’re about to have.
My phone buzzes and I look down.
Blade: Where’d you go?
Instant stomach flip. Traitorous butterflies. Criminally attractive possessiveness in just three words.
I chew my lip before typing back.
Me: Brooke kidnapped me. We’re grabbing lunch at Los Amigos.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Blade: …Kidnapped?
I snort under my breath.
Me: She’s scary when she wants to be
Blade: Want me to come rescue you?
Oh. Oh no. That should not make my heart do gymnastics.
Me: No, I’m good.
Blade: You sure?
Me: Yeah. She just wants to talk.
Long pause.
Blade: Call me if you need me.
Just like that, the tension in my chest eases. Only he could make a mini panic attack feel like a warm blanket.
I lock my phone and take a breath.
Brooke is already halfway out of the car when she leans down to look at me. “You coming? Or do I need to add ‘force-feeding’ to my agenda?”
“Relax,” I mutter, opening the door. “I’m not trying to escape.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’d catch you anyway.”
And that’s… unfortunately true.
I step out and follow her toward the entrance. My heart is beating too fast. My thoughts are loud. And the conversation I’ve been avoiding for days is waiting on the other side of this door.
But Blade told me to call if I need him. And for some reckless reason, that makes me feel braver.
We get seated in one of those worn leather booths that squeaks every time you shift, the table covered in chips, salsa, and a basket of warm tortillas that could solve all emotional trauma if people would just let them. Brooke orders queso before her butt even hits the seat. Respect.
I shove a chip in my mouth and avoid eye contact like a coward. Brooke stirs her straw around her drink, watching me like she’s trying to decode my soul through sheer older-sister stare power.
“So,” she says, dragging the word out like she’s revving a chainsaw. “Wanna tell me why you’ve been pretending we don’t exist?”
I shrug, eyes locked on the salsa like it might offer me guidance. “I’ve been busy.”
“You weren’t busy ignoring us,” she deadpans.
I shove another chip into my mouth because chewing means I don’t have to talk.
“Bri, talk to me,” she says, sighing like Mom used to right before grounding us.
I put the chip down and finally look at her. “You wanna talk about Blade. Right?”
Her expression tightens. “We want to talk about you.”
“Same thing.”
She opens her mouth, but I beat her to it.
“You guys made me feel stupid,” I blurt.
Brooke’s face falters. Like she didn’t expect that answer.
“You all acted like I couldn’t possibly know what I was getting myself into,” I continue, words tumbling faster now. “Like I can’t tell what’s good for me. Like I need you to save me from myself.”
“That wasn’t what we meant,” she says quietly.
“Intent doesn’t remove impact,” I snap back, stabbing a chip into the queso with unnecessary aggression. “You didn’t trust me. You treated my feelings like a joke. Like I’m some little kid chasing after something shiny.”
Brooke’s jaw clenches. “We’ve watched you get hurt. We’ve had to pick you up off the floor before.”
“Yeah, and you think I didn’t learn from any of that?”
She closes her eyes. Breathes. “Bri… he’s not some high school heartbreak. He is a man. A complicated one.”
“So am I,” I shoot back. “I know he’s older. I know he has trauma. I know he’s dangerous sometimes. None of that scares me.”
Brooke leans in, elbows on the table, voice softer. “Maybe it scares us.”
I go still. She continues, the words spilling before I can interrupt.
“We’re not worried he’ll hurt you on purpose. We’re worried life will. His life. His world. The kind of things he deals with…” Her voice shakes just a little. “You can’t blame us for being protective. We’re your sisters. We’ve been protecting you since the day you were born.”
“I know that,” I say, staring down at my hands. “But sometimes protection feels like control.”
Brooke doesn’t argue. She sits with that. Lets it land.
I take a breath and lean in, heat flaring in my chest. “You know what I keep thinking about?”
She blinks. “What about her?”
“Bella,” I say. “She’s married to Switch. She has a baby with him. He lives and breathes this club. He’s done things way darker than anything Blade’s ever been involved in. And no one said she was too fragile or too na?ve or too young to know what she was doing.”
Brooke’s lips part, but I don’t let her interrupt.
“You celebrated them. You threw her a bridal shower. You cried at the hospital when she had Jax. You didn’t pull her aside and tell her Switch was too dangerous. You trusted her to choose her own life.”
Brooke’s shoulders drop… slowly.
“So what’s the difference?” My voice softens, cutting deeper. “What makes Bella worthy of that kind of love and support… and not me?”
Brooke looks like she wants to disappear under the table. Her eyes go glassy.
“That’s… fair,” she says, voice small but honest. “Totally, completely fair.”
I nod once, because yeah… it is.
“You’re right,” Brooke continues after a moment, voice steadier. “We didn’t handle that well. And I’m sorry. Truly.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand gently. “We’ll try to do better. To trust you more. But you have to let us worry sometimes. That’s part of loving you.”
I swallow hard because feelings are rude and inconvenient. I toy with my napkin for a second, chewing my bottom lip, because once I say this out loud… it’s real.
“There’s something else,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Brooke watches me carefully. “Okay…?”
“He, um…” My heart tries to sprint out of my chest. “He told me he loves me.” Brooke freezes. “And that I’m his old lady.”
Her eyes go so wide I’m scared they might fall out of her head and roll into the queso. “Bri,” she breathes, shaking her head a little like her brain is trying to reboot. “That’s… that’s not casual. That’s MC marriage-level serious.”
“I know.” I stare down at my hands, heat flooding my cheeks. “Believe me, I know.”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Do you… feel the same?”
I nod before I can talk myself out of it. “It’s fast. I get that. But… it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like… like he sees me in a way no one else ever has.”
Brooke sinks back into the booth, blowing out a stunned exhale. Her shock slowly shifts into something else. Something soft. Something that might even be pride. “You two are getting serious really fast,” she murmurs. “Wow. Okay.”
“Yeah.” I laugh without humor. “Join the club.”
She drags a hand through her hair, still processing. “I wasn’t prepared for… that.”
“Me either.” I shrug helplessly. “But it’s happening.”
Brooke reaches across the table again and squeezes my hand, but this time, there’s no lecture behind it. Just love. And a little fear. And a lot of oh shit. “Well,” she finally says, clearing her throat, “if he hurts you, I’ll still rip his heart out through his nostrils.”
A laugh breaks out of me, shaky but real. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
“It’s a gift.” She pops a tortilla chip like she didn’t just drop emotional nuclear bombs.
We fall into silence after that. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… letting it sink in.
Brooke nudges my foot under the table. “We good?”
I take a second. Then nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”
“Good.” She smirks. “I’d hate to commit a felony before my 2 p.m. showing.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling, warmth creeping back into my chest. Maybe progress is messy. Maybe it looks like heart confessions, queso therapy, and a big sister trying her best not to freak out over how fast her baby sister is falling for a biker.