Epilogue
MILLIE
One Week Later
The kitchen smells like vanilla and caramel.
Two of my favorite things.
I’ve made this recipe a hundred times, salted caramel chocolate chip cookies that have become my signature at the clubhouse.
But today, because Victoria is having cravings, I’m adding extra love to every batch.
Maybe it’s superstitious, but I swear people can taste when you bake with your whole heart.
“Those smell incredible, Mills.”
I don’t turn around.
I don’t need to.
I would recognize Will’s voice in a hurricane. Deep, rough, warm like whiskey on a cold night.
The same voice that’s been making my pulse race for two years now.
Two years of almosts.
Two years of maybes.
Two years of him making me breathless every time he walks into a room.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on the mixing bowl as though it holds the secrets of the universe. “These are for Vicks. She’s been craving sweets all week.”
I hear him move closer, his boots heavy on the tile, the creak of leather as he shifts. He stops right behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with motor oil and something that’s just… him.
“Need help?” His voice is lower now, intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Yes.
No.
Always.
Never.
“I’ve got it,” I lie.
My phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket, and I wipe flour-dusted hands on my apron before checking the screen.
Dad.
“Sorry, I need to take this,” I say to Will, stepping away before he can respond. Before I have to see the concern that constantly flashes in his eyes when I mention my father.
I slip out the back door into the Nevada heat, which somehow feels cooler than the inferno of the heat that was brewing in the kitchen between Will and me.
“Dad? Everything okay?”
Silence. Too long. Too heavy.
“Millie, s-sweetheart…” His voice cracks, and my father never cracks. Jonas McClane is granite and steel, the man who negotiates with motorcycle clubs and runs a mining empire. “I need you to sit down.”
“I’m standing in the parking lot of the clubhouse. Dad, you’re scaring me.”
“The tests came back.” My world tilts, and I press the palm of my flour-dusted hand against the brick wall. “It’s stage four. Pancreatic. Dr. Handcock says…” and there is a pause, too long, too painful, “… baby girl, he says I’ve got about six months. Maybe eight if we’re lucky.”
The phone nearly slips from my hand. “What? No. No, that can’t… we’ll get a second opinion. We’ll go to specialists. We’ll—”
“Millie.” His voice is firm, more like the father I know. “I need you to listen to me. I don’t want anyone to know. Not the club. Not your friends. Nobody.”
“Dad—”
“I mean it! I need time to arrange things. To make sure you’re protected. To make sure the business transitions smoothly. Can you do that for me? Can you keep this between us… just for a little while?”
Tears burn my throat, my head spinning as I continue to lean against the side of the clubhouse. “How long is a little while?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a month. Just… let me handle this my way. Please, sweetheart.”
And because I’m my father’s daughter, because I’ve spent my whole life trying to make him proud, trying to be strong enough to deserve his love, I whisper, “Okay… okay, Dad… I promise.”
“You’re the light of my life, Millie girl. I love you. I’ll see you at home later?”
Sniffing, I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah, Dad… I’ll see you at home.”
Then, as if he didn’t just completely shatter my world, he ends the call, leaving me reeling. I take in a few deep breaths, wipe my eyes, and shake it off. Because I promised him I wouldn’t let the guys know.
And a McClane always keeps their word.
So, I straighten my shoulders, put on the brightest of fake smiles, and walk back into the clubhouse.
When I make my way into the kitchen, Will is exactly where I left him, leaning against the counter like he’s been standing guard over my cookies.
His eyes lock on me immediately, and I watch them narrow, that sharp assessment he does when something’s off. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I force another smile, moving back to my mixing bowl. “Just Dad checking in.”
“Millie.” The way he says my name, it’s not a question, it’s a demand. It’s every unspoken thing between us wrapped into two syllables.
I keep my eyes on the dough. “Will.”
“Look at me.”
I can’t.
If I look at him right now, with my father’s death sentence echoing in my ears, with two years of loving him in silence pressing against my ribs, I’ll shatter.
“I need to finish these cookies,” I say instead. “Victoria’s expecting them in an hour, and you don’t want me to let down a pregnant woman with a sugar craving, do you?” I try to joke.
But the silence stretches between us, thick and loaded.
Then slowly, his hand, broad, calloused, impossibly gentle, covers mine on the wooden spoon.
“When you’re ready to talk,” he says quietly, “I’m here. Always, Millie.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
He’s always here.
Always watching.
Always caring.
But never mine.
I watch him walk away, broad shoulders, confident stride, the prospect patch on his back that he’s worn for two years while waiting for his moment.
His patch ceremony is in three weeks.
My father has six months.
And I have no idea how to save either of them or myself.
From across the room, I see Sin talking quietly with a man I don’t recognize. Something about their body language sets off alarm bells. Sin’s hand is on his poker chip, flipping it rapidly, and that movement tells me he is stressed.
“Who’s that?” I ask Ro, who’s appeared at my elbow with a tray of dirty glasses for the dishwasher.
She squints. “No idea. But Sin looks pissed.”
The stranger hands Sin a manila envelope, says something that makes Sin’s jaw clench, then walks out.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see a text from Dad.
Dad: There’s something I need to tell you about the mine. About a deal I made years ago. I’ll tell you tonight, I’ll tell you about all of it. We have a lot to discuss.
My stomach drops.
What kind of deal?
With who?
I’m still staring at my phone when Will reappears in my peripheral vision. He’s watching me again, concern etched in every line of his face.
“Millie?” he says, and there’s something different in his voice. Something that sounds like…
No.
I can’t let myself hope.
But then he steps closer, close enough that I can count his eyelashes, close enough that when he speaks, his breath ghosts across my lips. “After my patch ceremony…” he says quietly, just for me, “… we need to talk. About everything I should’ve said two years ago.”
Before I can respond, before I can breathe, before I can process what that might mean, he’s gone.
And I’m left standing in a kitchen that smells like vanilla and hope, holding secrets that could destroy everything, loving a man I can’t have, and watching my father’s world, my world, start to crumble.
The cookies are burning.
I can smell them.
But I can’t seem to move.
Because everything is about to change.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive it.
THE END