CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EDEN
I thought telling Kade would lift the weight crushing my ribs. I thought once the secret was out, once the truth was finally dragged into the light, I’d feel lighter. Cleaner. Free.
But the guilt hasn’t left. The sadness hasn’t left. He hasn’t come near me. And it just makes me feel worse. When the pain was mine alone, I was in control, but now it feels out of my reach again.
Kade hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words to me in two days.
He sleeps in his office, at least, I think that’s where he goes for hours on end.
He leaves before sunrise; all I find is a screwed-up blanket on his yellow couch.
And he comes back long after I’ve gone to bed.
Every time I hear footsteps on the stairs I stop breathing, hoping it’s him.
But it never is.
Tonight, I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring at a mug of cold tea I don’t remember making. Fern pushes a plate of food toward me, something she reheated, something that smells like a real home cooked dinner. I stare at it the same way I’ve stared at everything these days—blankly.
“You have to eat,” Fern urges gently.
“I already told Maggie you didn’t eat breakfast again,” Martha adds, sliding into the seat beside me. “She’s gonna drag you in that kitchen and force-feed you if she gets wind of this.”
Normally that would make me smile. Tonight, it barely makes a dent.
“I just thought…” I swallow, shifting my eyes away from both of them. “I thought when I told him, he’d want to be near me. Not—” I gesture vaguely toward the empty clubhouse. “Whatever this is.”
Fern sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Eden, he’s processing. You dropped a grenade on his entire world. Give him a minute.”
“It’s been two days.”
Silence settles over us, thick and heavy. The only noise comes from outside, motorbikes revving, brothers shouting orders, boots pounding on gravel. Another late-night meeting, another early-morning ride out. It’s been constant since I told him.
I curl my fingers around the cold mug. “This is what I was afraid of,” I say quietly. “The club slipping back into things it shouldn’t. They’re always gone. Always whispering. No one is sleeping. They won’t tell us anything.”
Fern’s jaw tightens. “That’s how MC life works. You know that. They never bring us into business.”
“I know,” I murmur. “But things were peaceful. Now everything feels like how the girls describe the old days. Secrets. Disappearances. Deals. Trouble.”
Martha squeezes my hand. “That has nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it does,” I whisper. “I started all of this.”
Fern shakes her head so hard her ponytail hits her cheek. “No. Liam did. Liam started all of this. You survived. That’s all that matters.”
But that isn’t how it feels. It feels like I broke the club. Like I’ve ruined their president. And I don’t know how to fix either.
Another roar of engines vibrates the windows and I flinch. Fern notices and her face softens.
“They’re busy because something’s happening,” she says carefully. “Something big. But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”
Martha nods. “Kade loves you. He’s just scared. Angry. At himself. At everything. But not at you.”
“Then why won’t he look at me?” I choke out. “Why won’t he touch me? Why won’t he talk to me?”
The girls exchange a look. They’re worried. They’re hiding it, but I see it.
Fern rests her hand over mine. “Because you’re the person he loves most. And the thing that hurt you is the thing he can’t kill anymore. That eats men like him alive.”
Her words punch a hole straight through my chest.
I blink rapidly, fighting tears I’m so damn tired of shedding. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You’re not alone,” Martha whispers, pulling me into her side. “We’re right here.”
But even surrounded by my girls, I’ve never felt more alone.
Fern suddenly stands, pushing her chair back with a scrape that makes me jump.
“Right,” she declares, rolling her sleeves up. “I’ve had enough of this doom-and-gloom bullshit. Martha, come on. Plan B, we’re doing it.”
Martha lifts her brows. “Now?”
Fern nods, eyes glittering. “Now.”
I watch them whisper-scheme like two kids about to rob a sweet shop. Martha bites her lip. “You know she’ll kill us if she catches us.”
Fern smirks. “She won’t. Maggie hides it behind the bag of flour.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me—small, weak, but it’s the first one in days.
Fern beams like she’s just won a prize. “There! Proof she’s still alive! Come on, Marts.”
I watch as the pair move to the cupboards, rummaging like thieves.
“That’s the wrong bag, dumbass,”
“It literally says flour,”
“Yeah, so does the one next to it!”
I press my fingers to my mouth, trying not to laugh again. The sound feels foreign in my chest, like something borrowed, something I don’t quite deserve.
A minute later, Fern and Martha reappear like victorious thieves, holding Maggie’s secret Scotch bottle, nearly full, dusted in flour like it’s been buried for a decade.
“You can’t,” I whisper.
Fern grins. “Oh, we can. She calls this ‘cooking whisky’ because apparently Scotch makes a good marinade. But I’ve lived with that woman long enough, and I’ve never seen her marinate a damn thing.”
Martha sets three mismatched mugs on the table. “If she asks, we’ll say you needed it medicinally.”
Fern pours three generous measures. “Trauma tonic,” she explains, sliding one toward me. “Doctor Fern’s orders.”
“I really shouldn’t drink,” I murmur, glancing toward the window like Kade might storm in any second. I’m still waiting for a period, but Maggie insists it’s the trauma keeping it away.
Fern leans in, eyes soft. “It’s one drink. And we’re not doing this to get you drunk. Just loosen that knot you’re tied in.”
Martha nods, placing her hand over mine. “We’re not fixing everything tonight. Just giving you a break from it.”
I stare at the amber liquid, the smoky scent rising from the mug.
I’ve been carrying so much for so long that my arms feel like they’re permanently aching. My chest hurts from just existing. Maybe, just maybe, one night where I don’t drown in my thoughts wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I lift the mug.
Fern clinks hers against it. “To Eden.”
Martha follows, more softly. “To surviving.”
My eyes sting, but I swallow it back and tap my mug to theirs. “To trying.”
I take a sip. It burns like hell, but it warms something inside me that’s been ice cold for weeks.
Fern slumps dramatically, kicking her boots off. “Right. Now we talk about anything except the men. No trauma or doom. I want light, fluffy, ridiculous nonsense.”
Martha grins. “We could talk about the time Fern tried to dye her pubes purple.”
Fern throws a cushion at her. “You swore you’d take that to the grave!”
I choke on my Scotch.
For the next hour, they tell stupid stories, tease each other. And for the first time since everything happened, I feel a tiny flicker of myself again.
KADE
The back room of the casino is dim, thick with cigar smoke and money. Plush red carpets, dark panelled walls, a single round table in the centre, like something out of a crime documentary. Two men frisk me and Diesel before they let us through.
Nathan Cole sits at the table already. Broad-shouldered, late forties, dressed like he owns half of London. Slick silver hair. Immaculate suit. Diamond cuff-links. One look at him and you understand the stories.
He doesn’t look up when we enter. He speaks instead.
“Nottingham bikers in my casino.” His pen scratches across a ledger. “Either this is my lucky day or the start of a headache.”
I pull out the chair opposite him and sit. “We appreciate the time,” I say.
Nathan finally looks up. His eyes are icy, calculating. He studies me, then Diesel, then me again.
“Make it worth it,” he replies.
I lean back, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I want to talk to you about Jimmy Harker.”
Nathan lifts one brow. “Already bored.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
He sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. “You called a private meeting with London’s most profitable distributor just to gossip about that little rat?”
“No,” I correct. “I came to offer you a better option.”
Nathan sets his pen down. Now he’s listening.
“Go on.”
“Cut him out,” I say plainly. “Deal directly with us instead.”
Diesel rests his elbows on the table, arms crossed. Nathan flicks his gaze between us, unimpressed.
“Why?” he asks. “He’s cheap and desperate. That makes him useful.”
“Also volatile,” Diesel adds.
Nathan smirks. “All men in this business are volatile.”
I don’t blink. “Not like Jimmy.”
Nathan leans back, curious now. “I heard a rumour. You boys don’t dip your hands into crime anymore. Something about being ‘clean.’ So why the sudden interest in handling my shipments?”
“Because Jimmy’s incompetent.”
Nathan chuckles. “Not an answer.”
I meet his stare head-on. “Because he’s drawing too much heat. Cops are sniffing around, he’s pissing off estates, and someone with his stupidity shouldn’t be trusted with a product that powerful. You know that as well as I do.”
Nathan taps the table once with a gold ring.
“Still not an answer,” he repeats, quieter this time.
Fine. The bullshit stops.
“Our club has always stayed out of the heavy stuff,” I admit. “It kept our women safe. It kept our enemies simple. But Jimmy forced our hand years ago. My old VP made a deal behind my father’s back. We had to pick up the pieces or lose the club.”
Nathan’s eyes narrow.
“So you’re telling me you returned to crime because of someone else’s mistake? Sounds sloppy.”
My jaw ticks, but I keep my voice neutral. “I’m telling you we came back smart. Quiet. Organised.”
“And now you want to break your deal with him?” he asks.
“Before he gets us all killed.”
The door behind us clicks softly. Footsteps, light ones, enter the room.
I glance sideways and freeze. A young woman steps in. Stunning. Early twenties. Glossy black hair, long lashes, soft brown eyes. She sets down a folder in front of Nathan and offers him a small smile.