Chapter Fifty-Three
Melissa
The suitcase lay open on the bed like a mouth waiting to swallow what remained of my life in this house.
The soft fabric lining seemed to mock me with its emptiness, a void ready to consume the fragments of who I’d been in this place.
I folded a sweater mechanically, my hands moving through motions that felt disconnected from my body, from my mind, from everything that mattered.
The cashmere was soft under my fingertips, a burgundy color my brother had once said brought out the warmth in my eyes.
That compliment felt like it had happened in another lifetime, to another person entirely.
Behind me, Gunner paced. I could hear the measured rhythm of his boots against the hardwood, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal searching for an exit that didn’t exist. Each footfall was heavy, deliberate, punctuating the thick silence that had settled between us like fog.
The floor creaked under his weight in familiar places—the spot near the window, the board by the dresser that we’d always meant to fix but never did.
“Melissa.” His voice cut through the silence, sharp with barely contained frustration. I could hear the tension in it, the way he was struggling to keep himself in check, to not let his anger spill over into something we’d both regret. “You need to think about this rationally.”
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t stop folding. The repetitive motion was soothing somehow, giving my hands something to do while my world fell apart around me. “I am thinking rationally.”
“No, you’re not.” He moved closer, his presence a wall of heat and concern at my back. I could smell his cologne, that familiar woody scent he always wore, mixed now with the sharp tang of his sweat and anxiety. “You’re thinking with your heart, and that’s going to get you killed.”
“Maybe.” I placed the sweater in the suitcase with deliberate care, smoothing it down so the edges lined up perfectly with the corners. “But it’s my heart. My choice.”
“Your choice?” Gunner’s laugh was bitter, edged with disbelief.
The sound of it made something in my chest tighten painfully.
“You think you have a choice here? You think staying in New York City, in the middle of a goddamn biker war, with the IRA and the Italian Mafia and God knows who else gunning for you—you think that’s a choice? ”
I reached for a shirt, my fingers trembling slightly as I smoothed out the wrinkles. The white cotton felt crisp and clean, untouched by the chaos that had become my reality. “Yes.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made my chest ache.
It was the same thing he’d done a thousand times before—when Dad forgot to pay the light bill, or Mom forgot to buy groceries, whenever life threw something at him he couldn’t fix.
“Melissa, listen to me. Come back to Nebraska. Come back home, where you belong. You’ll be safe there, I promise you.
The club can protect you. They’ve got resources and connections. I can protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
“The hell you don’t!” His voice rose, frustration bleeding into anger, sharpening his words into weapons. “You’ve lost Travis. You’ve lost Rowen. How many more people have to die before you realize you’re in way over your head? How many more funerals do you need to attend?”
The shirt slipped from my hands. I stood there, frozen, staring down at it, at the way it pooled on the bed like spilled water. Like blood spreading across a pavement.
“I know exactly how many people I’ve lost,” I said quietly, my throat tight. “I don’t need you to remind me, and Rowen isn’t dead. Don’t you dare talk about him like he’s already gone.”
Behind me, I heard him exhale—a long, shaky breath that spoke of exhaustion and fear and love twisted into something painful, something that hurt to hold on to.
“Come home, Mellie,” he said, softer now. Pleading in a way I’d rarely heard from him. “Please, Mel. Just... come home. We’ll figure this out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I turned to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly broke me into pieces. My big brother, the man who’d taught me how to ride a bike and throw a punch and stand up for myself when the world tried to knock me down, looked terrified. Not for himself. Never for himself. For me.
“I can’t,” I whispered, and the words tasted like betrayal.
“Why not?” He stepped closer, his hands reaching for mine, gripping them tight. “Give me one good reason why you can’t walk away from this mess. One reason that’s worth your life.”
“Because he’s still here.”
My words hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
Gunner’s jaw clenched. “Rowen.”
“Yes.”
“The man who just took over the IRA. The asshole who wrote you a goodbye letter and walked away.”
Each word was a knife, precise and cutting. I felt them land, felt them slice through the fragile hope I’d been clinging to.
“He didn’t want to walk away,” I said, my voice breaking into jagged pieces. My words came out thick and uneven, like I was choking on them. “He was trying to protect me. That’s all he’s ever tried to do.”
“And you think staying here protects him?” Gunner’s grip tightened around my wrists, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks.
“Melissa, he made his choice. He chose that life. He chose the IRA over everything else, over you, over any chance at a normal future. You can’t save him from that. You can’t save him from himself.”
“I’m not trying to save him.” I pulled my hands free with a sharp jerk, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could hold all the broken pieces together through sheer force of will. The cold air bit at my skin. “I’m just... I’m not giving up on him. Not yet. Not while there’s still a chance.”
“Not yet?” Gunner’s laugh was harsh, disbelieving, sharp enough to cut.
He shook his head, his eyes burning with frustration and something that looked almost like fear.
“When, then? When they find your body in an alley somewhere, dumped like trash? When someone uses you to get to him, to hurt him, to manipulate him? When his enemies figure out that you’re his weakness? When exactly do you plan on giving up?”
“I don’t know!” My words tore out of me, raw and desperate, ripping through my chest like they’d been clawed free.
My vision blurred with unshed tears. “I don’t know, okay?
I don’t have a plan. I don’t have answers.
I don’t have anything figured out. I just know I can’t go back to Nebraska and pretend none of this happened, that he doesn’t exist. I can’t go back to my previous life and act like I didn’t fall in love with him.
I can’t go back to being the person I was before—that girl doesn’t exist anymore. ”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s dead!” My voice cracked, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. “That version of me—the one who grew up afraid, who ran from trouble, who wanted so much to live, but was too scared of her own shadow—she’s gone. She died the moment Travis did. Maybe even before that.”
Gunner stared at me, his expression a mixture of pain and understanding, and stubborn refusal to accept what I was saying.
From the doorway, Haizley’s voice cut through the tension. “Gunner.”
He didn’t turn. “Stay out of this, Haiz.”
“No.” She stepped into the room, her presence a calm counterpoint to the storm raging between us. “You need to hear what she’s saying.”
“I hear her just fine,” Gunner snapped. “I hear her saying she’d rather die in New York than live in Nebraska. I hear her throwing her life away for a man who’s already gone.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I wiped at my tears, frustration and grief warring in my chest. “I’m saying I need to stay. I need to see this through. Whatever ‘this’ is.”
“See what through?” Michael demanded. “What exactly are you planning to do? Storm the IRA headquarters? Convince Rowen to give up everything he just sacrificed for you? What’s your endgame here, Mel?”
“I don’t have one.” My admission felt like defeat and defiance all at once. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know I can’t leave. Not while he’s still here. Not while there’s still a chance.”
“A chance for what?” Gunner’s voice was gentler now, but no less insistent. “A chance for him to change his mind? To walk away from the Mob? To come back to you?”
“Maybe.” I met his gaze, refusing to look away. “Or maybe just a chance to tell him he doesn’t have to do this alone. That I’m still here. That I’m not going anywhere.”
Gunner closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything unsaid. When he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears.
“I can’t protect you if you stay here,” he said, his voice rough. “I can’t keep you safe from this world. From these people. From the choices you’re making.”
“I know.”
“You could die, Melissa. You understand that, right? You could actually die.”
“I know,” I repeated, softer this time. “But I could also die in Nebraska. In a car accident. From cancer. From a million different things I can’t control.
Grace was taken in Nebraska.” My brother’s head snapped back as though I’d hit him.
“At least here, I’m choosing. I’m deciding what I’m willing to risk and what I’m not. ”
“And you’re willing to risk everything.” It wasn’t a question.