Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Charlotte
“You okay?”
I drag my nails across the soft pad of my palm. The sting fades too quickly, so I press harder, digging until crescent-shaped marks bloom—pale, angry little half-moons.
Ryder is still watching me.
Waiting.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he says gently, falling into step beside me as we walk through the empty backyard of the clubhouse. “But we’ll figure it out, love. Me and Wolf and… Ruin. We’re on it.”
Love.
For some reason, I feel nothing. No irritation. No warmth. No reaction at all.
I nod, the movement distant. Mechanical.
My mind won’t stop. It keeps conjuring images—violent, grotesque images I don’t even want to name. And right behind them comes the guilt.
Because here I am, safe, inside the compound. While dozens of women and children—and their men—are out there facing horrors I can’t even fully comprehend.
Even thinking of Sarah knots something tight and uneasy in my chest. She’s been missing for two days now. And we know Glory was involved.
Mama Deb and Torch have been locked down in their house on club grounds. Doors secured. Windows watched.
From the outside, everything looks normal. Routine. But underneath, it’s a suffocating undercurrent of terror. A quiet, desperate attempt to keep us contained and untouched.
“Can I ask you something?” Ryder murmurs.
His steps match mine as I wander without direction.
I glance up at him. He looks the way I feel. Like he’s bracing for our world to go up in flames.
I shrug wordlessly.
“Have you forgiven me?”
My steps falter. We both turn to face each other.
“What for?” I ask, my voice coming out rough. But I already know. I just don’t know the answer.
“That night when we…” He trails off, lips pressing into a thin line before he forces himself to continue. “When we all accused you. Decided you were guilty without… without even double—triple checking the facts.” His jaw tightens. “Have you forgiven me for that?”
I frown, words tangling in my throat. “I… you weren’t—” I shake my head slightly. “You returned the money. You… you weren’t the one who just stood there while I—” I cut myself off. The memory hits too sharp. “You weren’t the one who watched me get beaten—”
Ryder exhales softly. But it sounds wrong.
Like something inside him just snapped out of place.
“Charlotte,” he says slowly, taking a careful step back, like he needs space to even process what I just said.
“That… that’s completely backwards. What the—wait.
” He frowns, lost in a thought that I can’t reach.
His shoulders go rigid before he sobers up, his expression no longer confused, but focused.
Like he’s just realized something he really, really doesn’t like.
“I’m probably shooting myself in the foot right now,” he mutters.
“Do you believe—actually believe—that I was less at fault because… because I wasn’t physically there? In that cell?”
My thoughts fumble at his words. My mind starts to drift in and out trying to form a coherent answer.
Do I? Why was it that I thought I could feel physically safe around Ryder but not Ruin or Wolf?
“Jesus,” he breathes out. “Listen, I-I was the one who did the initial investigation on yours and Glory’s bank accounts. I was the one who told…” He winces. Pausing for a moment, debating whether he should voice the rest of his rant.
Then he reluctantly pushes through. “Who told Ruin and Wolf that your account had the same deposit pattern as Glory’s. Who took the word of a club whore and didn’t… give you a chance to speak.”
I swallow audibly. Instead of feeling unsafe around him after his words, I’m oddly conflicted.
He just put himself in the same boat as Ruin and Wolf. And a part of me agrees with him.
Why was it that I felt more comfortable around him than the other two? Why did I shun them but invite Ryder into my life?
Was it because I was forced to face him in the immediate aftermath, coordinating to get my money back that they stole? Was it because I could see, hear, and face his guilt?
Why wasn’t I ready to face Wolf’s guilt? Or Ruin’s?
The answer glares at me relentlessly. I accepted Ryder’s guilt and apologies simply because I could see it. But more importantly, his guilt didn’t bother the fragile peace I was building.
Ruin’s did.
Wolf’s did.
They weren’t distant mistakes I could box away—they were present. Heavy and complicated. Demanding something from me I didn’t want to give.
The realization hits me square in the chest.
Forgiveness is not for me. It isn’t something I’ve been chasing.
Peace is. And I’ve been selfish enough to choose it—over them, over closure, over whatever forgiveness is supposed to look like.
“Have you really forgiven me?” he asks again, but this time his tone is defeated. Like he knows what my answer will be.
No, I want to say. Because have I? Does it even matter to me? Or does it just matter to him?
It almost feels disingenuous to say either yes or no. There’s no single answer that can appease or even convince anyone. Not even me.
So I shape my truth into something tangible. Let it rise in my throat, form on my lips. Quietly knowing that it has no real purpose other than to just voice the nascent realization I’ve arrived at.
“I’m not working on forgiving anyone, Ryder,” I whisper. “All I want is peace. To forget the pain even if I can’t forget that night.”
Then I pause, my gaze drifting up to the cloudy sky. A few faint stars push through the haze, stubborn and distant. “Have I accepted you? Yeah. I think I have,” I admit. “But forgiven you? Any of you…”
The words trail off. Because I don’t have them. I don’t have that clarity.
A slow breath builds in my chest before escaping in a heavy, freeing rush. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “It requires energy. And I don’t have it—to understand what forgiveness is supposed to even mean… yeah, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
I finally pull my gaze from the dreary sky. Staring up at his shocked face. Then quietly, I add. “Not yet anyway.”
The admission leaves me drained. Like every word cost more than I had to give. Every single syllable is heavy on my tongue.
“Acceptance,” he says with a small smile. “I can work that, love.”
The endearment hits differently this time. Probably because it was spoken so softly in the middle of my turmoil. Heat rises in my cheeks.
Confusion boiling over because Ryder flirts, a lot. But never makes a move. Every time love leaves his mouth, I’m bracing for something to snap.
“Love,” I repeat. “You always call me that.”
His smile drops a fraction. Then he blinks, a slow crease forming on his forehead. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Does it mean anything to you, or you’re just… a natural flirt?” I prod, my tone serious even if my words sound teasing.
His frown deepens, but his eyes stay locked on me. Occasionally roaming my face lazily. His expression is so intensely pensive that I forget he hasn’t answered me.
I tilt my head, squinting slightly. “Do you flirt with no end goal in mind?”
His lips part like he’s about to speak, but no words leave his mouth. For the first time, Ryder doesn’t seem to have his wits intact for a retort.
I recall the day he caged me on the kitchen counter, promising me a day of hiking in the Whiterun Bridge Trails. How his lips were merely inches away like he wanted to entice me.
That man was remarkably more confident than the shock-faced, stunned one currently before me.
Suddenly rising to the challenge, I take a step forward. “You can’t keep flirting without making good on your promises, Ryder.” I smirk, amused by how his brows shoot up to his hairline.
God. He never really thought anyone would call him out and take a wager on his actions.
Surprisingly, I’m not opposed to the idea of him following through. See if there is anything actually there.
My gaze drops to his neck, ink spreads across his throat, wings symmetrically fanning across it.
Traitorously, my mind floods with the images of Ruin’s tattoos. The ones that hold a meaning so deeply attached to me.
I shake my head, desperate to banish them, forcing myself to focus on the man in front of me.
Then squaring my shoulders, I forge on with a gambling request. “I want you to kiss me.”
“What?”
My eyes widen when his voice squeaks. Then I narrow my eyes as I take another step toward him. He doesn’t move. “Kiss me. I wanna see if acceptance is the only stage we’ll ever reach.”
His eyes go comically wide and hazy. “Are you… sure? I mean, yes. I can. But Wolf might—”
I roll my eyes. “He doesn’t get to have an opinion on this.”
Ryder sighs, licking his lips as another thought hits him. “What about Ruin—”
I groan at his stalling attempts, grab the collar of his cut, and rise to my tiptoes, pressing my lips against his.
It’s barely more than a peck. I wait for the churning of my gut, fire to ignite in my chest. But something else assaults my senses instead.
Ruin.
When Ryder’s hand grabs my waist, I think of the devastating thorns.
When his other hand rises to cup my jaw, I imagine the painful restraints of the coiling, prickling vines at Ruin’s wrist.
Dammit. Why did Ryder have to bring him up?
When Ryder’s beard tingles against my chin, I immediately think about the oddness of the sensation. Like my brain isn’t aligned with the man I’m currently locking my mouth with.
I fall back to my heels, breaking the contact.
My mind is reeling. I can’t even chalk it up to the lingering fantasies of the young, naive Charlotte who spent years imagining a kiss with Ruin—right here. Claimed. At the clubhouse. But got one with Ryder instead.
No.
It has to be a glitch in the matrix, because what the hell?
I look up at Ryder, who isn’t even breathing hard. It’s almost as if we’re both coming to the same realization. There’s nothing here. But my mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Eager and almost desperate to yank the sham illusions of Ruin out, I go in again. Harder this time.
My mouth opens, and Ryder follows my cue. But I can still feel him controlling the depth of this kiss. How his tongue remains in his mouth, unwilling to explore. Mine does the same.
Half of me doesn’t want this. And I’m almost raging at the other half that does—with someone else.
This time, it’s Ryder who ends it, leaning back, still cupping my cheeks. His eyes dart between mine, studying me.
I sigh, lowering my gaze.
Wordlessly, we’ve both come to the same conclusion. There’s nothing here. And I see the realization washing over him. A defeated smile marring his face.
Frustration coils deep in my gut but is instantly forgotten when I see movement behind his shoulder. I’m immediately distracted by the flash of long, curly brown hair disappearing into the clubhouse.
Ryder follows my gaze briefly. “What is it?”
“I… I thought I saw—” I clamp my mouth shut, careful not to use Isabelle’s actual name in front of a brother. “Thought it was Bel. My bad.”
“Could’ve been,” he mutters. “What’d you need her for?”
I don’t look away, the door to the clubhouse suddenly calling to me. I want to go inside, untangle this conflicted mess of feelings.
“Nothing big,” I tell him distractedly, turning away. “Just had some questions about an appointment. I’ll catch her later.”
A scoff hits my ear. “Doubt she’ll be much help. Also…” I feel his hand grip my elbow, pulling my attention back. “I think you should cut back on talking to Bel.”
I hate the way he says her name, like it tastes sour on his tongue.
I’m well aware of my past with club girls. How my life could’ve been different had I not hung out with that bitch, Glory. But Isabelle is far from what these brothers often deem as club objects.
I quirk a brow. “Why? Why would I stop talking to the only other decent person in this godforsaken club?”
His face turns red, huffing incredulously. “Look,” he says, mollifying me. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I figured you’d have no interest in getting close to club whores again. But since you’re getting cozy—”
There it is. Whores.
He said the quiet part out loud.
“It’s not club girls I’m getting close to,” I snap, shaking his hand off me. Anger simmers low as I realize I’ll always be that naive, little Charlotte to these people. The one who can’t form a judgement to save her life. “It’s Bel,” I grit out. “Just Bel. And I like her.”
“Charlotte…” he urges, a hint of plea in his tone. “The night you were in the basement. With Glory…”
God! Why is he bringing that up… again?
My mouth parts. I’m almost certain where he’s going with this.
His face twists with something that looks like shame. “That night, it was Trixie. Juggles. And… Bel. Wolf and Ruin sent Bel down as well to—”
“Beat me up?” A cold, disbelieving weight settles in my chest.
How does he not know? Is that why he’s been so off with Isabelle?
I study his face carefully, searching for even a flicker of recognition—some sign that this is an act. But there’s nothing. Just confusion. Real, unfiltered confusion.
“She left, Ryder,” I finally say, voice firm. “Bel couldn’t do it. She was terrified. Ruin told her to leave, so she left. Never raised a hand.”
He goes completely still. His shoulders lock, spine straightening like he’s bracing for impact. And then, slowly, the color drains from his face. Each blink is heavier than the last, his eyes turning distant, like he’s watching something unfold that I can’t see.
Reliving it. Or… reframing it.
He tries to speak. His jaw shifts, once. Twice. Nothing comes out. His chest starts to move raggedly with each breath.
Whatever is running through his head, it isn’t just about Isabelle not beating me up.
In fact, I don’t think it’s about me at all.
I take a step back. Then another. Instinct kicks in before my mind can catch up. “Ruin told me,” I tell him softly. “I’ll uh… head back inside.”
He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even move.
I don’t look back. Something tells me if I do—if I see whatever’s settled on his face now—I won’t like what it means.
Especially if it means I may have stabbed the only person I consider my friend here, in the back.
I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet.