EPILOGUE ONE
Charlotte
ONE MONTH LATER
Grief.
A new feeling added to my already limited repertoire.
People who have mastered the art of avoiding it usually have tells, subtle enough to slip past you. Subtle enough to make you believe they’re untouched by it.
Some people—like me—don’t need to master it at all. I’ve barely even begun to understand it.
It’s not that I don’t feel it. I do. But when it comes, it never comes alone. It crashes into everything else; fear, anger, guilt. Until I can’t separate one from the other.
The club mourns him.
Wolf.
But most of them seem allergic to actually expressing it. I see it in conversations that cut off mid-sentence—triggered by a single word. In stories that start off light and somehow end up haunted by him.
In the way the air thins every time someone says Prez out loud.
And then there’s Theo. The man who still flinches at the title. Who refuses to order another cut, even though he’s already stepped into the role. Who shuts down any conversation that revolves around arranging a funeral.
His grief isn’t quiet. It’s just restrained. And I fear it’s morphing into reluctant hope. But it’s there. It’s in everything. It has been for over a month now.
Every single brother who looks at him does the same thing—lets their gaze dip, just for half a second, to the Vice President patch still stitched across his chest… before moving on as if nothing happened. Like nothing’s changed. Like everything hasn’t.
Which is exactly why I became a thief this afternoon.
The door chain on my apartment door is locked, something I’ve never done. But Theo’s got his own set of keys now. And I can’t have him enter unannounced.
His cut—the one he keeps forgetting in my bed—is draped across my lap. I run my fingers over the worn leather, jaw tightening.
I’ll be damned if he gets to stay stuck like this. Because if he doesn’t move forward and make the change to his cut, then neither can Ryder. Or Hound. Or Shane—who’s being patched in as the new Road Captain today. Though maybe I should start calling him Spike again.
His demotion to prospect was lifted the day he finally woke up three weeks ago. And today is his day. Taking over as Road Captain. A title that still leaves a bitter taste behind—because of the man who held it before him.
Fucking Scar.
I mentally shake off the thoughts of the dead man.
It’s been a month, and I can’t wait for the transition tonight.
The club is hosting a patch party. It’s the first time we’re doing something that’s even remotely similar to fun. And I can clearly see many of the brothers being reluctant.
Lana, Hound’s Ol’ Lady, and I were adamant about getting the party going. Spike deserves it.
It’s also my last week before the semester break ends. I’ve been working with my Undergraduate Director for weeks now. Getting the ball rolling to convert my accelerated BSW to an online format.
When I asked Theo about potentially tying up the loose ends in Craven Ridge, he couldn’t speak for a good five minutes. I think it was because I was telling him that I’m staying—in a way that registered as permanent for him. And he had lost his damn mind.
Best fuck session of my life, that night.
My freeze response has faded somewhat. After resuming my therapy sessions, Theo and I had a few more conversations about it. Most of them—he initiated, wanting to understand me more.
‘I want to learn how to best support you, Charlotte.’
God. I couldn’t keep watching him blaming himself. Or have myself drown in self-loathing because I had lost my virginity to him of all people.
My therapist and I talked about it to death.
How I needed to separate my virginity from the completely unrelated matter of my trauma.
We went back and forth, dissecting my time away from the club.
How I’d tried for two whole years to get intimate with someone.
But I just couldn’t trust anyone long enough to go there, no matter how desperately I wanted to move past that fear—that trauma-induced celibacy, as she said.
Then there was the problem of men not understanding my freeze response. How it was made into an argument by my dates, who couldn’t be patient enough. How I couldn’t reach that level of safety in their arms to go beyond just kissing.
But then—I did. Because, despite everything, I started to trust Theo. And it didn’t happen overnight. It took me weeks—if not months—to see past the Theo I used to know, past my own confusion. And calibrate my lens to finally notice the man he had become.
Wolf was right. None of us were the same people from before. And Theo wasn’t immune to that change either.
When I told him about the conversation with my therapist, the man had gotten teary-eyed. Again.
“How come I never knew you were this sensitive?” I’d said, huffing out a laugh. Then I’d sobered quickly, staring into his glistening eyes. “I do trust you now, Theo—the current you. My watering pot.”
He let out a wet chuckle.
“No? How about my tear-jerk…tard?”
I was in his arms the next second, his stubble tickling my neck.
“You just…” he’d mumbled against my skin, squeezing me until I squealed. “You humble me, my love.”
My love.
He hasn’t said those three words since we had sex that first time. But I’m consistently reminded of how I’m his love. Every single day—without fail. So much so that I don’t think I don’t not love him anymore. I simply do.
I remember when the realization dawned on me—clear as day.
He’d just returned from a club run. Taking his gear off, half distracted by my semester schedule open on my laptop.
Then he was beaming at me. “You chose Mental Health and Medical for Minors as your elective,” he’d said, grinning.
“It’s more niche than the Child and Family one, but it’s perfect.
God, baby. You can work with Healer at his clinic as your fieldwork, if you want. ”
And that was it.
The simple fact that he cared enough about what I wanted to do, and had gone through my coursework to understand it better. Even willing to clear a path for me to achieve it. That’s when I knew I was no longer descending, but had already reached the point of no return.
I wanted to tell him then. God, I’ve wanted to tell him for days now.
I’ve gone over it a hundred different ways in my head—how to dress up those three words, how to make them sound worthy of what I feel. Something he’d remember. But the more I planned, the more it all started to feel inadequate. So I kept putting it off. Waiting for the right moment.
Now I’m starting to realize I might have overthought it to the point where I have no idea when to say it—or worse, how.
I’m still admiring the work I’ve done on Theo’s cut, fingers tracing over the stitching for what has to be the hundredth time today, when the sound of my door unlocking makes me jump.
I look at the time. It’s almost seven in the evening. He must be here to get his cut before the party starts.
Shit.
But instead of the door swinging open—
Bang!
The chain snaps taut with a loud, jarring crack, followed by a solid thud against the wood.
“Jesus fuck!”
I freeze.
Oh. Oh shit.
That is definitely the unmistakable, deeply offended voice of the man I love. And judging by the string of muttered curses that follow, the door just tried to take him out.
I press my lips together and promptly fail.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, muffled behind my hand as I slide off the couch. “Hold on!” I call out, already heading for the door, shoulders shaking. “Don’t fight it, Theo. The chain will win.”
“Charlotte, I swear to God—”
His voice sounds muffled, but not in a way that he’s behind a door. But possibly because his face is behind his hands.
I unlock it, pulling the door open, and immediately lose it. Because there he is, scowling like he’s been personally betrayed, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding his nose.
“You locked be out,” he accuses, his Ms suffering dramatically.
“I secured my apartment,” I correct between laughs. “From intruders.”
His glare deepens. “I live here.”
“Debatable,” I shoot back, grinning.
His clothes in your closet would tell a different story, Charlotte.
“You… you broke by dose!”
Oh, I forgot about Ns.
He exhales sharply, already stepping inside, and I’m still laughing as he brushes past me. Then he pauses, staring at the mess on my couch. His cut draped over the arm. An assortment of threads strewn about haphazardly. The sewing kit I borrowed from Lana is sitting on my coffee table.
Shit.
“What’s this?” he says, turning to face me as I lock the door behind me.
“I… I was—”
He picks up his cut, looking at the change I made. My amateur work makes me wince as he studies it.
Vice President
That’s what his cut says now. Along with a small wolf embroidered on the side, although it looks more like a gray dog drawn by a toddler. I’m suddenly unsure if it was the right thing to do.
His thumb brushes against the new seam. Carefully. Almost reverently. Then he swallows hard, lifting his head slowly.
“I know it isn’t… like the best work out there,” I mumble hesitantly. “But I just—I wanted you to move forward, Theo.”
He’s still staring at me, his lips downturned like he’s controlling an emotion I can’t fully read.
“Without…” I add, wringing my fingers. “Without erasing h-him.”
A slow, upside-down smile forms on his face as he walks over to me with measured steps.
“Is it okay that I did—oomfphhh—”
I’m in the air, being twirled around like I weigh nothing. Which, to be fair, I probably don’t for him.
“Christ,” he breathes out, setting me back down—grinning at me. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“It doesn’t look that great,” I deadpan. “I’m not a seamstress.”
“No, but I love it. Because you did it.”
I roll my eyes despite the smile taking over my face.
“Thank you, my love,” he whispers, voice suddenly rough. “That’s—I couldn’t—fuck… just thank you.”