Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bloodhound
The drive to Pennsylvania feels different this time.
Twelve weeks ago, I made this same trip with Vanna curled up in the passenger seat, shaking and sick, her body already screaming for the poison I was taking her away from.
The silence in the truck had been heavy with fear—hers, mine, both of ours tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Today, I'm making the drive alone, but I'm not coming back that way.
Today, I'm bringing my wife home.
The January sky is gray and heavy with the promise of snow, but I don't care.
I've got the heat cranked up, a thermos of coffee in the cupholder, and a feeling in my chest that I almost don't recognize.
Hope.
I pull into the facility's parking lot at 9:15—forty-five minutes early.
I tried to pace myself, tried to drive the speed limit for once in my life, but my foot kept pressing harder on the gas.
Couldn't help it.
After twelve weeks of phone calls and some weekly visits, of watching her fight her way back to life one day at a time, I finally get to take her home.
I sit in the truck for a few minutes, trying to calm my nerves.
It's stupid.
I've seen her every Saturday for the past two months, but this is different.
This is permanent.
After today, she's not going back to that room with its narrow bed and its institutional walls.
She's coming home with me.
At 9:45, I can't wait anymore.
I head inside, sign in at the front desk, and take a seat in the lobby.
The minutes crawl by.
I watch families come and go, watch staff members move through the hallways with purpose, watch the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to ten.
And then I see her.
She's walking down the hallway with Patricia beside her, a small duffel bag over her shoulder.
She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Simple. Normal. Beautiful.
But it's not the clothes I notice. It's her.
She's filled out more.
The sharp angles of her face have softened, her cheeks round and pink with color.
The dark circles under her eyes are gone.
Her skin glows instead of looking gray and paper-thin.
And her body—God, her body.
She's put on weight, probably fifteen pounds at least, and it looks incredible on her.
She looks healthy. She looks alive.
She looks like my Vanna.
Our eyes meet across the lobby, and her face breaks into a smile so bright it makes my chest ache.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, crossing the distance between us in a few long strides.
"Garrett." She drops her bag and crashes into me, and I catch her, lifting her off her feet and holding her so tight I'm probably crushing her.
"Van." I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in. "God, I missed you."
"I'm right here." She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm right here, and I'm coming home."
Home.
The word hits me like a punch to the chest.
I set her down but don't let go, keeping my hands on her waist.
My thumbs trace circles on her hips, feeling the new softness there.
"Look at you," I say, my voice rough. "You look incredible. Watching you look healthier week by week was great, but seeing you right now takes my breath away."
She laughs, ducking her head. "I've gained like fifteen pounds. The food here was actually decent, and they wouldn't let me skip meals."
"Good." I tip her chin up, making her meet my eyes. "You're getting those curves back. Won't be long before you're filling out those jeans the way you used to."
A blush creeps up her cheeks. "I hope so. I want to be healthy again. For me. For the baby."
"You will be. You already are."
Patricia clears her throat behind us, and I remember we're not alone.
The counselor is smiling, her eyes warm as she watches us.
"Take care of her," she says to me. "And Vanna—remember what we talked about. One day at a time. Call if you need anything."
Vanna hugs her—a real hug, the kind that speaks to weeks of hard work and trust built between them. "Thank you. For everything."
"You did the work. I just helped you find the tools." Patricia squeezes her hands. "Now go. Your husband's been counting down the minutes."
I grab Vanna's bag with one hand and lace my fingers through hers with the other.
Together, we walk out of the facility and into the cold January morning.
She stops on the sidewalk, tilting her face up to the sky.
Her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath—the kind of breath that fills your whole body.
"I forgot what fresh air smelled like," she says quietly. "Real fresh air. Not filtered through a building."
"Smells like freedom."
She laughs, opening her eyes. "Smells like snow."
"That too." I tug her toward the truck. "Come on. Let's get you home before the storm hits."
The drive back to Morgantown is everything the drive here wasn't.
Vanna sits in the passenger seat with her hand in mine, our fingers intertwined on the center console.
She watches the scenery pass—the bare trees, the rolling hills, the occasional farmhouse tucked into the landscape—like she's seeing it all for the first time.
Maybe she is.
The last time she made this drive, she was in the grip of withdrawal, too sick and scared to notice anything beyond her own misery.
"Tell me about the clubhouse," she says after we've been on the road for an hour. "What's it like now? What's changed?"
"The garage is doing well. We've got more work than we can handle, actually. Ruger's been talking about bringing on another mechanic, maybe expanding."
"That's good. That's really good." She squeezes my hand.
I glance at her, watching her reaction. "I kept all your stuff. Everything you left behind. It's all still there."
Her eyes fill with tears. "You kept it?"
"Of course I kept it. You're my wife, Van. Even when you weren't there, you were still my wife."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring out the window.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't deserve you."
"Hey." I squeeze her hand. "None of that. We're starting fresh, remember? Clean slate."
"Clean slate," she repeats, like she's testing the words. "I like the sound of that."
We drive in silence for a while, the miles disappearing beneath us.
The snow starts to fall somewhere around the Pennsylvania-West Virginia border—light flurries at first, then thicker flakes that dust the windshield before the wipers sweep them away.
"Garrett?" Her voice is hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"What happens when we get there? To the clubhouse, I mean. Are people going to..." She trails off, but I know what she's asking.
"They're going to welcome you home. That's what happens." I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "Ruger's already talked to everyone. You're my ol’ lady. You're carrying my kid. That makes you family, and family takes care of each other."
"Even after everything I did?"
"Even after everything."
She nods slowly, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
She's scared.
Of course she's scared.
She spent years burning bridges, stealing, lying, disappearing.
Walking back into the clubhouse means facing all of that.
But she's not facing it alone.
Not this time.
The clubhouse comes into view around four in the afternoon, the compound rising up out of the gray winter landscape like a fortress.
The gates are open, waiting for us, and I can see bikes lined up in front of the main building despite the cold.
"They're here," Vanna says, her voice tight.
"They wanted to welcome you home."
"All of them?"
"Most of them. The ones who matter."
I pull the truck through the gates and park near the entrance.
The compound looks different in the snow—softer somehow, the harsh lines of the buildings blurred by white.
Smoke rises from the chimney, and I can see lights glowing warm in the windows.
Before I can even cut the engine, the front door swings open, and people start spilling out.
Ruger's first, because of course he is.
He's the president—he sets the tone for everything.
His cut is on, the patches standing out stark against the leather.
Behind him comes Tildie, practically bouncing on her feet, a huge smile on her face.
Coin and Maddox follow, then Ounce, then a handful of others—Bracken, Porter, even a few of the prospects hanging back near the door.
Kinsey's there too, her arms crossed, watching with those knowing eyes of hers.
And Venus.
She's leaning against the wall near the back, her eyes fixed on the truck.
On Vanna.
Her expression is carefully blank, but I can see the coldness underneath.
The possessiveness she has no right to feel.
"Ready?" I ask.
Vanna takes a shaky breath. "No. But let's do it anyway."
We climb out of the truck together.
The cold hits us immediately, sharp and biting, but I barely feel it.
I keep my hand on the small of Vanna's back as we walk toward the group, feeling the tremor that runs through her body.
Ruger steps forward first.
He's an intimidating man—tall, broad, covered in tattoos—but his expression is warm as he looks at Vanna.
This is the Ruger most people don't see.
The one who takes care of his people, who builds family out of broken pieces.
"Welcome home," he says simply. Then he pulls her into a hug, brief but genuine. "Glad you're back."
"Thank you." Her voice is thick. "For everything. I know you—"
"Don't." He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "You're Bloodhound's wife. You're family. That's all that matters."
He releases her and meets my eyes over her shoulder, giving me a nod that says everything.
I've got your back. Whatever you need.
Before Vanna can respond, Tildie pushes past Ruger and throws her arms around her.