Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rowen
I pressed a gentle kiss to Melissa’s forehead, my voice low but resolute.
“Don’t unpack. We’re leaving,” I told her, determined to keep her safe.
Despite the uncertainty swirling inside me, I knew one thing for certain: there was no way in hell I was letting Melissa stay here with her brother.
Her brother had crossed a line, and until I saw genuine remorse from him, I wasn’t about to allow him anywhere near her.
Melissa had already endured more than enough pain, and what she needed most right now was support from her family—not more judgment or condemnation.
Steeling myself, I added quietly, “I just need to talk to Sinclair first.” Though I had no idea what I would actually say to him.
Melissa’s voice was gentle but edged with worry as she glanced at me, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve. “He wants you here for a reason, Rowen. He said so before we left New York. I don’t think he’s going to let you leave until you do what he wants.”
A surge of irritation prickled along my skin, but I tried to steady my breathing. “He doesn’t own me, Melissa. I can make my own decisions.” I flexed my fingers, almost wishing I could believe that. “Besides, he’s got Silas here if he needs help.”
Melissa watched me for a quiet moment, her brow creasing with concern. “Does it ever get tiring?”
I hesitated, kneading a knot at the base of my neck. Truth was, I felt exhausted—drained by the constant demands, the expectations I never asked for. “Does what get tiring?” I asked, though I already knew where this was headed.
“Being at Sinclair’s beck and call?” Melissa’s tone was gentle but insistent, and her words hit harder than I cared to admit.
A weary laugh escaped me, breath fogging faintly in the cool air.
I stared at the floor, searching for the right words.
“Yeah, it does,” I admitted quietly, feeling the heaviness settle in my chest. “But, like I told you a few days ago, I owe him.” Even as I spoke, I wondered why I kept holding on to that debt.
Melissa reached for my hand; the warmth of her touch grounded me. “That’s where you’re wrong, Rowen. You don’t owe him anything. Yes, he helped you escape the Trick Pony, and protected you after you killed that fighter, but, Rowen, that doesn’t mean you are beholden to him forever.”
My throat tightened, a strange mix of gratitude and guilt welling up inside me.
I dropped my gaze, the silence pulsing between us.
“It’s more than that, Melissa,” I whispered.
“I can’t explain it, but in his own way, it’s how he shows his love.
Sinclair is a troubled man with a deeply scarred past. He trusts no one.
Not even me, not completely. But when he asks me to do things for him, it’s his way of telling me he believes in me, that I matter to him.
It’s complicated. I know it probably doesn’t make sense. ”
Melissa squeezed my fingers, her expression softening as she offered a small, understanding smile. “It’s his way of showing you he loves you.”
I managed a faint nod, feeling a bittersweet ache as I finally allowed myself to accept that truth, even if only for a moment.
Snaking her arms around my waist, she leaned her head back and looked up at me.
“I think you don’t give yourself enough credit.
The way I see it is that you are a man who is loyal to a fault, honest and forthright.
You are smart, capable of anything you put your mind to, and you give more than you ask.
If Sinclair can’t see that, then that’s his fault, because, Rowen, you deserve to be loved. ”
For a long moment, I just stood there in the circle of Melissa’s arms, letting her words settle over me like a blanket I’d never known I needed.
The ache in my chest eased, replaced by a quiet hope I wasn’t sure I deserved.
I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath, feeling the world soften around the edges.
It wasn’t much—just a sliver of comfort, a promise that maybe, someday, I could forgive myself for all the things I’d done and all the things I’d yet to do.
For now, Melissa was here, and her quiet faith in me was enough to keep the darkness at bay a little longer.
“Thank you,” I murmured, voice rough but honest. The words hung in the air, fragile but real, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe I was worthy of being loved after all.
A little while later, I found Sinclair in his office.
He sat in his chair, clutching a glass tumbler of scotch tightly, the amber liquid glinting beneath his pale knuckles.
He didn’t acknowledge me when I walked in, didn’t even bother to move an inch.
I took a seat in the chair before his desk, stretched my legs out, and asked, “How did things go with your son?”
“He hates me.” His voice was raw, each word scraping out as if it hurt to admit.
“You already knew that,” I stated, keeping my voice steady. “So what’s the problem now?”
Sinclair stared at the scotch, his jaw clenched. “He said I was selfish. That I was ungrateful because he and his sister were raised by loving parents while I was forced to grow up in the Trick Pony.”
“He thinks you’re jealous,” I offered quietly, watching Sinclair’s reaction.
Sinclair nodded, not looking up.
“Then tell him the truth,” I pressed, hoping something would break through the wall Sinclair kept around himself.
“No.” Sinclair’s answer came instantly, hard and final.
“He will never understand until you do, Sinclair. No one will. There are only four people alive who understand what really happened that day, what you did, what you sacrificed. Maybe it’s time you came clean,” I urged, my heart pounding with the weight of secrets.
“No,” he said again, more firmly this time.
Sinclair sat up, placing his scotch on the desk with a heavy clink.
He leaned forward in his chair and reached for a file, then handed it to me.
“That’s everything I have regarding who you are.
I should have given it to you sooner, but it was never the right time. ”
Blinking, I looked at Sinclair, confusion written on my face.
He never willingly gave anyone anything.
“Why now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I looked at the file, my hands lightly shaking.
It was all there. I knew it was. Sinclair would never willingly give me half the information.
It wasn’t his way. It was all or nothing.
Yet, staring at the file, I still wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“Because I just learned that Madigan is missing.”
“What?” I sat up straighter. “Who called?”
“Caitlin,” Sinclair stated. “She’s worried. She hasn’t seen or heard from her daughter in over a week. All her calls go straight to voicemail.”
“Does O’Malley know?”
Sinclair nodded. “Yes. He has his men looking for her.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” My voice shook, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on me.
Sinclair met my gaze, his expression grave. “Rurik Ryabkin is also missing.”
Rurik was a soldier in the Russian Bratva, reporting straight to Maxim Fedorov, the Pakhan.
Rurik was loyal, devout, and absolutely deadly.
“They were last seen together leaving a restaurant in Chinatown. In that file, you’ll find everything I have on Mr. Ryabkin.
It’s not much, but it’s a place to start.
” Sinclair’s tone hinted at layers he wasn’t ready to uncover.
“What do you want me to do?” My words came out sharper than I intended, anxiety twisting in my gut.
“Find them before the truth gets out,” Sinclair resolutely affirmed, then looked down at his hands before adding, “Rowen, Madigan knows the truth, and if she and Rurik are together, it won’t be long before he does as well.
If Rurik tells his boss, you know as well as I do the Bloodletter will do anything to protect his family. Tread carefully.”
A chill ran down my spine at the mention of the Bloodletter’s reputation—ruthless was an understatement. The thought of crossing paths with him made my hands tighten unconsciously around the file.
“Melissa and I will leave immediately.” The urgency in my voice surprised me, but I couldn’t shake the sense that every second mattered.
“Take her brother and Dr. Walker as well. I’ve already spoken to Reaper. He wants the matter settled fast.” Sinclair’s eyes were steely. Reaper, the president of the Golden Skulls Motorcycle Club, rarely did business with Sinclair—his involvement meant the situation was as dire as it could get.
“Gunner is a Silver Shadow. Reaper can’t order him,” I pointed out, not sure if I was relieved or frustrated by the reminder of his devotion to his club rather than his sister.
Sinclair smirked, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You let me worry about Mr. Kingston O’Rourke.”