CHAPTER NINE
KADE
Eden steps out of the building first, tugging her coat around her like she needs the extra layer. The morning air is crisp, biting, but I barely feel it. My chest is still buzzing, like I’ve taken a hit straight to the sternum and somehow survived it.
I follow her onto the pavement.
“Eden,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She turns, guarded already, and I hate that the moment we just shared is already gone.
“I just . . .” I shake my head once, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“That . . . back there. Feeling him or her move.” My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I don’t even have the words for it.”
Her expression flickers. The conflict of her emotions getting the better of her as she struggles to hate me after sharing that.
“I’ve been in gunfights,” I continue quietly. “Buried brothers. Walked away from shit that should’ve killed me.” I swallow. “And I’d do it all over again just to feel that high. Nothing will beat that.”
She says nothing, just watches me like she’s waiting for the catch.
“There’s no doubt in my mind anymore,” I say. “I can’t be without my kid. I won’t be.”
Her brows knit together. “Kade—”
“I know I’ve said things before,” I cut in gently. “I know words don’t mean much coming from me.” I take a step back, giving her space. “So, I’m done talking.”
She stiffens. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m making real changes,” I say. “Not because I want you back. Not because I’m scared of losing you.” My eyes lock onto hers. “Because I need to be here for my child. No matter what that looks like.”
She studies me, searching for something more.
“I still don’t expect anything from you,” I add. “I just needed you to know.”
And before I can second-guess myself, before I can stay and watch the hope twist into fear on her face, I turn and walk away.
The engine roars to life beneath me, it’s familiar and grounding. I ride without thinking, letting the road stretch out and blur. Wind tears past my helmet, the cold biting through my jacket, but it helps. It strips everything down to speed and breath and the thud of my heart.
My head is still spinning.
That movement. That tiny, undeniable proof of life.
Mine.
I take a turn, then another, until the town disappears behind me and the road climbs. When I finally stop, the bike ticks beneath me as it cools, the sound sharp in the silence.
I climb the hill on foot, legs burning, lungs protesting, until I reach the top.
The view opens up to fields, sky, space. Perspective.
I drop onto the grass and rest my elbows on my knees, staring out at a life I suddenly don’t recognise. And maybe that’s the point.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial.
Diesel answers on the second ring. “Pres?”
“I need you to listen,” I say firmly.
He pauses. “Go on.”
“I’m stepping down,” I tell him.
My words are met with silence.
“Say that again,” he finally mutters.
“I’m stepping down as President,” I repeat. “I need to focus on Eden and the baby. Properly. I can’t half-ass this and still run the club.”
“Kade—”
“I’m serious,” I cut in. “I want you to hold a Zoom meeting tonight for church. I’ll tell the brothers myself.”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Look, at least let’s say you’re stepping down temporarily. You can’t make such a massive decision like this when you’re feeling a lot. And you certainly can’t just drop that over Zoom and run.”
“I’ve never felt clearer on anything, D.” I look out over the land, my heart feeling light for the first time in years.
“You’re dealing with a lot,” he says, “and I respect your wishes. But you’re making big decisions on a broken heart. Pres, we can give you a break. Hell, things are running good from this end, so take as long as you need, but don’t say it’s forever. The club needs you.”
“Okay. I’ll say temporarily for now.”
I end the call and sit there for a long moment, the weight of the decision settling into my bones.
For the first time in months, the guilt eases. For the first time in my life, I’m not choosing the club. I’m choosing my child. I’m choosing Eden.
Jan is locking up the centre when I slow my bike outside. The engine cuts and the sudden quiet feels loud again.
She looks over and smiles when I pull off my helmet.
“I hope you enjoyed the class this morning,” she says, walking towards me.
“I did,” I reply honestly, climbing off the bike. My hands shove into my pockets without thinking. “It clarified a lot, actually.”
Her smile softens. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I hesitate, then nod once to myself. “I need your help with something.”
Her expression shifts immediately. It’s attentive, professional. “Okay. Shoot.”
I glance around the car park, checking we’re alone. Not because I’m ashamed, but because this isn’t something I can say casually.
“I’m looking for help,” I say. My voice is steady, even if my chest isn’t. “Like support and advice.” She waits patiently while I find the right words. “I need trauma support,” I continue. “Specifically for partners of sexual assault survivors.”
A quiet gasp leaves her. Her hand lifts instinctively and then stops, hovering before she lets it rest lightly on my arm.
“Oh,” she says softly, “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. I just . . . I need to understand how to support her properly. I need to do this right.”
Her eyes shine with something like respect. “Of course,” she says gently. “There are a few services in the wider area, some group-based, some one-to-one. I can absolutely help you find the right fit.”
She pulls a small notebook from her bag. “Let me take your number.”
I give it to her, feeling something unfamiliar settle in my chest, and I know this is the right step forward.
My next stop is Mrs. Wainwright, who is thankfully passing the bank just as I step out onto the pavement.
“Just the person I was hoping to see,” I say.
She slows, her sharp eyes narrowing immediately. “It usually costs coffee and cake before I agree to anything,” she replies.
A corner of my mouth lifts. “There’s a café just there,” I say, nodding towards the coffee shop on the corner. “Will that do?”
She studies me for a beat then huffs. “Lead the way.”
Moments later, we’re seated with steaming mugs in front of us and a generous slab of carrot cake placed in front of her like an offering. She doesn’t waste any time, already cutting into it with satisfaction.
I wait until she’s taken the first bite before speaking.
“I need somewhere to rent,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Close to Eden.”
Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
“Well,” she says slowly, lowering it again, “I don’t rent properties.”
“I know,” I reply, “but I was told you’re the person to talk to if I wanted to find something around here.” I hold her gaze. “You know everyone. And more importantly, you know who I should—or shouldn’t—be asking.”
The indirect praise gets her attention. She chews thoughtfully, watching me over the rim of her glasses. “I do know of someone renting a room,” she says at last. “But I’m not convinced you’re the right fit.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I don’t need it to be perfect,” I say. “Just close. And quiet. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a pen, and then flips over the café receipt. After a moment of scribbling, she slides it across the table towards me.
“There’s no harm in asking,” she says, “but don’t embarrass me by behaving like an idiot.”
I pick up the receipt carefully. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She snorts, taking another bite of cake. “We’ll see.”
The drive out to the address takes less than five or so minutes. Five minutes from Eden. Five minutes from the centre. Five minutes from my kid.
The road narrows into something more like a track, hedges closing in on either side, fields stretching out beyond them. Sheep dot the hills, lazy and unbothered, and a low stone farmhouse comes into view, tucked back from the road like it’s hiding.
I cut the engine and remain seated for a second, with my helmet still on, taking it all in.
This is . . . perfect.
Quiet. Remote. Close enough without being intrusive. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I can wake up every morning knowing my kid won’t be in danger.
I pull my helmet off and swing my leg off the bike. I walk up the short gravel path and knock.
Footsteps sound almost immediately.
The door opens, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.
Peter.
He blinks when he sees me, surprise flashing across his face before it smooths into something carefully neutral.
“Kade,” he says.
“Peter,” I reply, my jaw tightening before I can stop it.
For a split second, neither of us speaks.
This is Eden’s Pete. Her boyfriend. The man I’ve been picturing in her bed, in her life, stepping into the space where I should be.
My grip tightens on the strap of my helmet as I talk myself down because Martha never answered my question, she never confirmed they were really a thing, or at least, nothing serious.
“I didn’t realise this was your place,” I say eventually, keeping my voice even.
He glances behind him, then back at me. “My farm. My farmhouse. And call me Pete,” he says gruffly before pushing the door wider. “Come in.”
He steps aside, and I hesitate before going in. This is for my kid, and pride doesn’t have a place here.
The house smells like fresh bread and wood polish. It’s warm, lived-in. The kind of place Eden would like. The kind of place that makes my chest ache because I can already picture her here, laughing, comfortable, safe.
Pete gestures towards the kitchen table. “Mrs. Wainwright said you might stop by.”
“Yeah, well, she forgot to mention it was you,” I mutter. Silence stretches again. I clear my throat. “Look, I know this is awkward.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You could say that.”
I glance around, forcing myself to focus. “I’m looking for somewhere short-term. Quiet. Close by.” I meet his eyes again. “I won’t be any trouble.”