Chapter 5 Sasha
SASHA
The bedroom is too quiet in the mornings. Dad always made noise—coffee grinder whirring, radio playing old rock songs, his off-key humming. Now there's just silence and the occasional rumble of motorcycles outside.
It’s been three days since we buried him, and I still expect to hear his voice calling me for breakfast. I stare at the unfamiliar ceiling of the clubhouse room they’ve given me. The walls are plain, the furniture sparse—nothing like my room at home with its photos and memories.
Home. That’s gone too.
I push myself up, wincing at my puffy eyes in the mirror. God, I look terrible. I pull my hair into a messy bun and change out of the oversized T-shirt I've been sleeping in. The clothes Ruth brought me hang loose—I haven't had much appetite.
Coffee. I need coffee.
The hallway is empty as I creep toward the kitchen. I've been avoiding most of the club members, staying in my room except when Ruth or Carol drag me out. They're kind, but their kindness feels like pity.
The kitchen smells like booze from last night, but someone's already made coffee.
I reach for a mug, wondering if I'll run into Havoc.
The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that feels like betrayal.
How can I feel anything but grief right now?
And for my father's friend—a man who must be at least twice my age?
Yet every time he looks at me with those intense blue eyes, something inside me responds.
I pour the coffee, adding too much sugar, the way Dad always complained about. The memory brings fresh tears, and I lean against the counter, letting them fall. I've cried more in three days than in the past ten years.
What would have happened if Dad had told me everything? If I'd known about the Wicked Sinners, about him being Viking, about enemies called Forsaken Kings?
And Havoc. Would knowing about him have avoided this confusing pull I feel?
The kitchen door swings open, startling me so badly I slosh coffee over my fingers. Two men walk in—one tall with dirty blond hair, the other dark-haired and heavily tattooed. I recognize them from the funeral, but we haven't been introduced.
"Morning," the blond one says, his voice surprisingly soft for someone his size. "You're Sasha, right? I'm Bullet."
I nod, setting my mug down and wiping my hands on my sweatpants. "Sorry, I didn't mean to invade your kitchen."
The dark-haired one snorts. "It's your kitchen too. Club's yours same as ours." He extends a hand. "Diesel. We didn't get to talk at the funeral."
His grip is firm but careful, like he's worried about breaking me. Everyone treats me that way here—like I'm made of glass.
"There's actual food if you want it," Bullet says, opening the fridge. "Ruth made some casseroles. Or I can make you eggs?"
The offer catches me off guard. "You don't have to—"
"It's no trouble." Bullet's already pulling out a carton. "How do you like them?"
"Scrambled is fine," I mumble, feeling awkward as I slide onto a stool at the counter. "Thanks."
Diesel pours himself coffee, leaning against the counter. "You settling in okay? Need anything?"
I shrug. "Everyone's been really nice. I just... I don't know why. You all barely know me."
Bullet cracks eggs into a bowl. "You're Viking's daughter. That's enough."
"But I'm not—I mean, I didn't even know him as Viking until a week ago."
Diesel's expression softens. "Doesn't matter. Your old man was family. That makes you family."
"We take care of our own," Bullet adds, stirring the eggs.
I stare into my coffee. "It's just weird. Everyone here seems to know more about my dad than I did."
"Different parts of him," Diesel says. "You got the best part."
I take a sip of coffee, trying to process Diesel's words. "The best part?"
Diesel nods, grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing half of it in his mouth. "The father part. Viking was a fuckin' legend in the club—hardest sonofabitch I ever rode with—but to you? He was just Dad." He swallows. "That's the shit that matters."
"Your old man went nomad for you. That says everything." Bullet’s voice is quiet but carries weight. "Not many brothers would leave the position as Prez to protect their kid. Loyalty like that’s rare, even in this world."
Diesel pours more coffee. "Viking was running this whole show before Havoc. Then shit went down, and he took the nomad rocker to keep you safe."
“Nomad rocker?” Sasha asks.
Diesel’s brow furrows, and he laughs. “Shit, I forget you’re completely clueless about club life.” He turns his back and points at the Wicked Sinners logo on his back. “Where mine says Tennessee, if a patched member goes nomad, that’s what it says. They don’t belong to a specific chapter.”
“Oh,” I mumble, feeling a bit stupid for not knowing. But then, how could I know when my dad kept me completely in the dark about all of this.
Bullet leans against the counter. "Brothers respected your dad’s choice."
"Vike had his reasons," Diesel adds. "Now those reasons are sitting in our clubhouse.”
“Forsaken bastards." Bullet practically spits the last words. "We're gonna smoke every last one of those assholes for what they did."
The casual way he talks about violence makes my stomach tighten. "You mean—"
"Don't worry about club business," Diesel cuts in, shooting Bullet a look. "You just need to know you're protected here. Wicked Sinners take care of their own, and your old man's blood makes you family."
"President's orders," Bullet adds, nodding toward the hallway. "Havoc's got the whole club on lockdown for you."
"Brothers are on rotation," Diesel says. "Perimeter's tight. Nobody gets to you unless they go through us first."
Their talk of protection and violence makes my skin prickle. Bullet throws around words like smoke and blood with casual ease, like they're discussing the weather instead of killing people. People who apparently want me dead.
"The Forsaken Kings," I say carefully. "They're the ones who—who killed my dad?"
Diesel nods, his expression hardening. "And your mom, twelve years back."
The confirmation hits like a physical blow. Dad never told me how Mom died—just that there had been an accident. Another lie in a lifetime of them.
"I don't understand why they're after me," I whisper. "I'm nobody."
"You're Viking's blood," Bullet says simply, like that explains everything.
Before I can ask more, the kitchen door swings open and Ruth bustles in, her graying hair pulled back in a neat bun. She takes one look at me and clucks her tongue.
"Lord, child, you're nothing but skin and bones. Those eggs aren't nearly enough."
She moves toward the stove, and Bullet immediately steps aside, surrendering the spatula without argument. It's subtle but telling—the way these huge, intimidating men defer to her without question.
"Morning, Ruth," Diesel says, his tone softening slightly. "Coffee's fresh."
She nods, already pulling bacon from the fridge and firing up another burner. "Tank's looking for you boys. Something about perimeter checks."
Both men straighten, immediately alert. Diesel drains his coffee in one gulp, and they head for the door with brief nods in my direction.
I watch Ruth move efficiently around the kitchen, adding cheese to my eggs, laying bacon in the pan. The clubhouse might be full of bikers, but it's clearly Ruth who rules this domain.
"Did you know my mom well?" I ask suddenly.
Ruth's hands pause for just a moment. "Savannah was like a daughter to me. Queen of this place, she was." She slides the eggs onto my plate. "Had the whole club wrapped around her finger, just like your daddy."
I stare at the food, my appetite vanishing. This world of cuts and patches, queens and presidents—it feels like a parallel universe where versions of my parents lived lives I never knew existed.
The kitchen door swings open again, and this time it's Havoc who walks in.
My heart does a ridiculous little flip that makes me angry at myself.
His silver hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he's wearing a simple black T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
When his blue eyes land on me, a zap of lightning passes between us.
Ruth smiles at him. "Morning, Prez. Coffee?"
"Thanks, Ruth." His voice is deep, gravelly. He takes the mug she offers and leans against the counter, several feet away from me. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain propriety.
I stare down at my plate, pushing eggs around. Ruth mentioned yesterday how Havoc and my dad were inseparable once—best friends who ran this club together before everything fell apart. She told me stories of their loyalty to each other, how Dad trusted Havoc above everyone else.
Which makes the heat that floods my body whenever he's near feel even more wrong.
"Sleep okay?" Havoc asks, his eyes on me but his body carefully angled away.
"Fine," I lie, not wanting to admit I spent half the night crying.
"Eat your breakfast, child," Ruth instructs, adding bacon onto my plate before wiping her hands on her apron. "I need to check on Tank. You two behave." She gives Havoc a pointed look before leaving us alone.
The silence stretches between us, thick with things unsaid. I can feel him watching me, that same intensity he's had since the funeral.
"Thank you," I finally say, "for everything you're doing."
He nods. "Don't need thanks. I promised your dad I'd keep you safe if anything happened to him."
"Is that the only reason?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, the careful distance between us seems to shrink. "What other reason would there be?"
We both know the answer to that question.
I look down at my plate, brushing off his question with silence. What was I thinking, asking something so forward? Heat creeps up my neck as I stab at my eggs, feigning sudden interest in my breakfast.
Havoc sets his coffee mug on the counter with a soft clink.
Then his boots scrape against the linoleum as he moves around the island.
My pulse quickens when he stops beside me, close enough that I can smell his soap and leather.
He doesn't touch me, but his presence feels like physical contact anyway.
"Sasha." His voice is lower now, intimate. "Look at me."
I reluctantly raise my eyes to his. The intensity I find there makes my breath catch.
"This isn't temporary," he says, his blue gaze holding mine. "The people who killed your dad, who killed your mom—they're still out there. And they're looking for you."
My fork clatters against the plate. "But why? I don't understand what they want with me."
"Doesn't matter why. What matters is that you need to adapt to life here. Club life." He places both hands flat on the counter, leaning slightly closer. "It's the only way to keep you safe."
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. The air between us grows thick, charged with something I don't want to name.
"What does that mean—adapting to club life?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Learning our ways. Our rules." His eyes never leave mine. "Understanding who to trust, who to avoid. What doors not to open. When to speak, when to stay silent."
He's so close now I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the slight silver stubble along his jaw. The kitchen that felt spacious moments ago now seems confined, airless.
"You need to trust me, Sasha." His voice drops even lower. "Your dad did."
The mention of my father makes guilt surge through me. What would Dad think of the electricity buzzing between Havoc and me? Of how my heart races when he's near?
With him standing over me like this—alone, close, commanding—I feel suffocated. Not just by his presence, but by everything: the club, the danger, the secrets, the confusing feelings I shouldn't be having.
The kitchen door swings open again, and Havoc and I jerk apart like guilty teenagers. I hadn't even realized how close we'd gotten.
Carol stands in the doorway, her eyes darting between us with a knowing look that makes my face burn. She's wearing a faded Wicked Sinners T-shirt that's been washed so many times the logo is barely visible, her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Morning," she says, her voice deliberately casual. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
"Just breakfast," Havoc says, moving back to his coffee mug with forced nonchalance. The careful distance returns between us, the spell broken.
I stare down at my plate, willing my heart to slow down. "Morning, Carol."
She comes further into the kitchen, pouring herself coffee while glancing sideways at us. "Didn’t you want to talk with Bone about those shipments from up north, Havoc?"
Havoc nods, draining his mug. "Thanks." His eyes meet mine briefly before he heads for the door. "Remember what I said, Sasha. Club life. Learn it."
The door swings shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, not realizing I'd been holding my breath.
"You okay, sweetie?" Carol asks, taking the seat beside me.
"Fine," I lie, shoving a forkful of egg into my mouth.
"Good," she says, patting my hand. "Because I could use your help this morning, if you're up for it."
"Help with what?" I ask, grateful for the distraction.
"Ruth and I are organizing some things from storage. Found some boxes that might have belonged to your mom." She squeezes my hand. "Thought you might want to look through them."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "My mom's things?"
"Just some odds and ends from when she and Viking lived here. Before everything happened." Carol's eyes soften. "Nothing special, probably, but I thought... well, you might want to see them."
"Yes," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "I'd really like that."
I force myself to finish the last few bites of eggs and bacon, even though my appetite has vanished under the weight of anticipation.
Mom's things. After twelve years of Dad keeping her memory locked away, hiding photos and changing the subject whenever I asked questions, I might finally see something of hers.
"Thank you," I add, placing my fork down. "For thinking of me."
Carol pats my hand again. "Of course, honey. That's what family does."
Family. The word sits strangely with me—these people who knew my parents better than I did claim me as blood without hesitation. It's going to take some getting used to.