Chapter Nine
I NEEDED AIR.
The clubhouse had its own pulse, laughter and shouting and music turned up just past reasonable, the clatter of bottles and the scrape of chairs, a storm of sound that felt like too much all at once.
Too loud, too alive, too many unfamiliar freedoms pressing against my skin until I couldn’t tell if my heart was racing from excitement or panic.
The night outside was a shock of quiet by comparison.
I stepped off the porch, my shoes sinking into the soft earth.
Crickets hummed in the grass. A breeze rolled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and motor oil and something faintly sweet, like crushed leaves.
Even in darkness, the property held its own kind of wild beauty, open sky stretching wide, stars scattered thick across it, moonlight spilling over the row of bikes lined up like chrome guardians.
I hadn’t expected that.
For a place run by men who looked like they could break bones with their fingers, it was… peaceful. Peaceful enough that, for the first time since arriving, my lungs expanded all the way.
I followed the gravel path past the garages, rounding the back fence where the noise of the clubhouse faded until it was nothing but a distant vibration beneath the night. Out here, breathing didn’t feel like a chore; it felt like a choice. I had to remember adjusting wouldn’t happen overnight.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
Not rushed. Not sneaky. Just steady, deliberate, unhurried.
I turned, ready to tell whoever it was that I didn’t need company and then froze.
Chain.
He cut through the moonlight like he belonged to the shadows themselves, a dark silhouette against silver sky, hands shoved in his pockets, no cut on his back, no smoke between his fingers — just him, broad and certain, scanning the tree line like he was looking for something only he could see.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, louder than I meant, a reflexive edge to hold the world at bay.
He didn’t startle. He barely blinked. “Could ask you the same,” he said.
“I was walking.”
“Me too.”
Silence fell between us, not awkward, but heavy in a way that felt like it meant something.
I crossed my arms, more defensive posture than warmth. “You always walk around in the middle of the night, or is this your way of sneaking up on women?”
His mouth twitched into that crooked half-grin that seemed to come easy for him. “Depends on the woman,” he said, the words lazy and slow. “But nah — I do this a lot.”
“Why?”
His eyes cut toward the woods. “Ghosts.”
I blinked at him. “…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He tipped his chin toward the dark. “This land’s old. Lotta history. I’ve seen things out here, heard ’em too.”
A laugh escaped me before I could swallow it. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of teasing in his voice. “Had a run-in when I was a kid. Since then, I just… look. Sometimes you find things out here. Sometimes they find you.”
“That’s comforting,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry,” he said, that grin sliding back, slow and confident. “They usually don’t mess with pretty women.”
I rolled my eyes. “So I’m safe because I’m pretty? That’s your scientific reasoning?”
“Worked so far,” he drawled. “You scared?”
“Of ghosts?” I shook my head. “I’ve seen worse than dead people.”
His smile faded, not gone, just gentled, like something in my answer hit a place he didn’t talk about often. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess you have.”
The air shifted, thinner, warmer, waiting for one of us to break the moment. I looked away first, letting my gaze settle on the tree line. “Well, if one of your ghosts shows up, don’t expect me to run screaming.”
“Didn’t think you would.”
When I turned back, he was still watching me, not like he had inside the clubhouse, not hungry or assessing, but real curiosity. Respect in the quiet of it.
It shouldn’t have made my pulse skip.
But it did.
He didn’t say anything else. Just turned toward the woods and started walking like he expected me to follow.
I should have gone back inside. I should have walked the other direction, let him chase shadows alone.
But my feet betrayed me before my reasons could catch up.
The grass was cool and damp under my shoes. Every sound carried, the whisper of leaves brushing one another, the low hum of insects, the distant bark of a dog somewhere down the road. It should’ve felt eerie.
It didn’t. Not with him walking just ahead of me.
Chain moved like a man who’d walked these paths a hundred times, flashlight beam cutting through the dark, shoulders loose, steps certain, like the night answered to him.
“So you really do this?” I asked. “Just… wander around in the dark looking for ghosts?”
He threw a look over his shoulder. “Not wanderin’. Searchin’. There’s a difference.”
“Right,” I said dryly. “And how many ghosts have you actually found?”
“Two,” he said without hesitation. “Maybe three.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “You believe that?”
“Believe what I’ve seen,” he said simply. “You ever see somethin’ you couldn’t explain?”
My smile faltered. “Yeah. Once.”
He felt the shift immediately, but didn’t push. He just nodded, slow, respectful, like a man who knew how to leave wounds alone.
We reached the edge of the trees, the ground uneven, roots twisting beneath fallen leaves. Chain stopped, crouching near a patch of earth.
“Here,” he murmured.
I stepped closer before I realized I had. “What?”
He angled the light over a stone half-buried in the dirt, worn smooth, edges chewed by time, a faint cross carved into its surface.
“Old graves,” he said softly. “This land used to be part of a plantation. Half the cemetery got swallowed up when the club bought the place. Devil won’t build over it.”
Goosebumps rose along my arms despite the warm air. “You’re serious?”
“Told you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Ghosts.” Then, gentler, “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lied.
His smile widened just barely. “You don’t scare easy, do you?”
“No. Just because I believe in evil doesn’t mean I believe in the dead.”
He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Evil’s just another kind of ghost, darlin’. It hangs around ’til you deal with it.”
That hit too close, threading cold through bone. I turned away, pretending to study the shadows, letting the night catch the tremor in my breath instead of him.
He didn’t call me on it. Just swept the flashlight ahead and walked, giving me space to follow — or leave — on my own terms.
We fell into step, quiet settling over us like a blanket rather than a weight. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t fragile. It was the kind of silence two people share when they both know what it feels like to carry something that never stops haunting them.
When the clubhouse came back into view, its windows glowed warm, music spilling soft and distant into the yard.
Chain stopped before the porch, staring out over the property like he was seeing something I couldn’t. “Pretty at night, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “It is.”
He looked at me then, steady, unreadable, but something new flickered in his gaze. Longing. Interest. Maybe even a shard of understanding.
For one dizzy second, the world felt too still.
Then he looked away, giving me back my breath. “You should get some sleep.”
“I’m not ready.”
He lifted a brow. “No?”
“I lived too long having every minute of my day accounted for,” I said. “I’ll go to bed when I’m tired.”
He huffed a low laugh, the sound warm enough to settle under my skin. “I’ll bet you’re a hard one to handle.”
“Maybe,” I said, brushing past him toward the porch, refusing to let him see the smile threatening my lips. “Guess you’ll figure that out soon enough.”
His voice followed me, low, amused, confident. “Lookin’ forward to it.”
I didn’t turn around.
But I felt his smile on my back the whole way to the door.