Chapter Forty-Six
Melissa
I sat by the fire, quietly watching as the flames danced and sparked.
Their warm glow should have comforted me, but a persistent chill lingered deep within, untouched by the heat.
Even when he entered the room, that coldness remained, stubborn and unmoved, as if nothing could thaw it.
I didn’t bother moving. I knew why he had returned and what he was going to say.
So instead, I saved him the misery and calmly said, “I lost one man to this life because of the secret he kept. I won’t lose another. ”
He said nothing, just stood there dripping water and blood on Sinclair’s expensive carpet as if it were nothing, easily replaceable.
“I’ve never lied to you, Rowen. My past is an open book. I’ve been explicitly clear how I felt about the Biker Federation, the underworld, the world you live in. It scares the shit out of me. I was content to walk away, raise my child and Danika, and never look back. But then you happened.”
“I’m sorry, Melissa. I never wanted any of this to happen.”
“Don’t you get it? It’s never going to stop. No matter what you do, what the clubs do, what Sinclair does, this vendetta, whatever it is, will never end. People I love will die. That’s a fact you can’t refute.” Shaking my head, I chuckled. “God, I hate that he was right.”
“Who was right?”
Looking at him, I said, “Sinclair. He called me shortly after you and Gunner took off. He told me everything. Who you were looking for and why. But more importantly, he told me what will happen when you tell the world who you really are and what would happen if you don’t.
And then a visitor arrived and explained to me that it doesn’t matter if you say anything or not, because he’s always known. ”
“Who?”
“Your birth father, Brian Buchannon.”
Rowen flinched. “What?”
With a weary sigh, I pushed myself to my feet.
“Yes, your father—the notorious figure, the head of the IRA—showed up out of nowhere looking for you. When he realized you weren’t here, he left, but not before telling me to pass on a message.
” My words hung heavy in the air, the enormity of the encounter settling around us.
Rowen’s voice was barely above a whisper, tense with anticipation. “What did he say?”
“I’m sorry.” The words escaped me quietly as I hesitated, threading trembling fingers through my hair to steady myself.
“He said you can’t change the blood in your veins.
No matter where you go or who you love, or how much you try to change, blood will always find you.
He told me the sooner you accept that, the safer you’ll be. ”
Rowen’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a mix of fear and resignation. “He wants me to surrender to a legacy I never chose. Is that what he expects?” His words were raw, laced with the ache of a son cornered by a birthright he never wanted.
I answered softly, voice barely above the crackle of the dying fire, “I don’t know what he expects, Rowen. Maybe he just wants you to face the truth, even if it turns your entire world upside down.”
I studied Rowen, searching for a spark of defiance in his expression.
“It isn’t about obedience or falling in line.
It’s survival. I think your father believes the truth is an unstoppable force, that you can’t escape what’s in your veins.
But maybe you’re not bound to his fate. It doesn’t define you.
Maybe you get to decide.” My words faltered, hope and uncertainty mingling.
Rowen’s eyes slid past me, unfocused, as if peering into the distance for an escape.
“I don’t want to be him. I don’t want any of this.
” His voice was a fragile confession, nearly lost to the room’s stillness.
He pressed his fists against his sides, as if holding himself together.
Memories of his father’s shadow loomed in his mind, threatening to unravel him.
I nodded, determined but gentle. “You don’t have to follow his path.
But you can’t pretend who you are anymore.
I think that’s what he was trying to say.
” For a heartbeat, silence settled between us, fragile and aching.
The house felt haunted by the memory of that unexpected visitor and the weight of the message he’d left—a burden that offered no simple answers.
Rowen finally looked at me, a flicker of determination breaking through his resignation.
“Then I guess I need to decide who I am, not just who I want to be.” His jaw tensed again, but this time there was a glimmer of hope beneath the pain.
“If my past is coming for me, I won’t let it dictate my future. ”
“No,” I said firmly, reaching for his hand with conviction. “We choose together.” I drew a deep breath to steady myself. “With Travis, I never had a choice—my life with him was set in stone. Ours isn’t. I meant what I said before, Rowen. I won’t lose anyone else I love. And that includes you.”
A raspy voice emerged from the doorway, rough and laden with sorrow. “Neither will I.”
Turning toward the sound, I saw Sinclair standing there, drenched from the rain and utterly spent.
His clothes clung to him, the water running in rivulets down his arms, but what struck me most was the hollowness in his eyes.
They were rimmed red and vacant, as if the world’s burdens had finally crushed him under their weight.
The pain was etched into every line of his face, sorrow clinging to him like a second skin.
In that moment, I could see the raw fear in him—the terror of losing everything that mattered, the desperate ache of holding on when all felt lost.
It was a look I knew well and still felt to this day.
“Crispin?” I whispered, stepping tentatively toward him. He recoiled, pain etched in every gesture, refusing comfort. Rowen moved to my side, silent and watchful, as we faced Sinclair together. “What happened?”
Sinclair’s voice broke, almost inaudible. “Gideon is dead.”
Sinclair’s breath shuddered as he slid to the floor, rain pooling onto the worn wooden floor.
“I tried. I thought I could keep the past from reaching us, but I failed.” His gaze flickered between Rowen and me, searching for something—maybe forgiveness, maybe courage.
The silence that followed was thick, weighted with what had been lost and what might still be salvaged.
Rowen stepped forward, settling himself beside Sinclair and laying a steady hand on Sinclair’s shoulder.
“You’re not alone,” Rowen said quietly, his tone trembling with both vulnerability and resolve.
“Whatever comes next, we face it together. No more secrets.” The conviction in Rowen’s voice was new, fragile but fierce, echoing through the room like a promise.
I watched Rowen, feeling a surge of gratitude for his courage—a spark of hope flickering in the wake of tragedy.
Sinclair nodded, tears mingling with the rain on his face as he struggled to compose himself.
Sinclair looked at me with something close to hope; the pain in his eyes still present but tempered now by the warmth of belonging.
“Please forgive me, Melissa,” Sinclair implored, his voice rough and uncertain.
My heart thudded as I met his gaze, recognizing the desperation behind the request—a longing for absolution that weighed on us both.
I walked closer, kneeling before Sinclair and reaching gently for his hand.
My chest tightened as I spoke, torn between anger and relief, but determined to let understanding win.
“You can prepare for every eventuality, Crispin, but fate will always win, and I’m afraid it’s a lesson we will all be learning soon enough.
Some more than others.” My fingers trembled as I grasped Sinclair’s hand, feeling the weight of all that had passed.
I searched his face and found a vulnerability I’d never seen before.
“I understand now why you did what you did. I may not like it or agree, but I understand.” The words lingered, even after they had passed my lips, heavy with truth and the bittersweet ache of forgiveness.
Sinclair squeezed my hand, offering me a wary smirk that barely masked his gratitude. “You, my dear, may be the smartest of us all.” Sinclair’s attempt at humor was shaky but sincere, and it sparked a warmth in the gloom that surrounded them.
I smirked back, the tension easing just a bit. “Glad you finally realized that.” I felt the smallest lift of my spirit—gentle humor bridging pain and hope, reminding me that even in moments of heartbreak, love and connection could prevail.