CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KADE
“Don’t you miss it?” asks Diesel as he takes a drink of his water.
I smirk, mainly to deflect my true feelings. “The oil under my nails and the pain in my wrist from tattooing all day? Nah.”
He shrugs but it's the kind that says he doesn’t buy my bullshit. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Be around for my kid,” I say simply.
“And Eden?” he pushes.
“Yeah, as my kid’s mum.”
“Things aren’t solved then?”
“If you mean has she forgiven me, no. Are we back together, also no. But are we existing together, absolutely. Am I being supportive and trying to repair all the damage I’ve done, yes.”
“And how long are you gonna do that for?” he asks.
His words irritate me. “As long as I need to, D.”
“You’re giving up your entire life,” he cries impatiently.
“No, I’m changing it. I get to be here and watch my child grow. I get to have weekends and maybe even some nights. I get to do days out or school runs. If I’m back in Nottingham, none of that is possible.”
“Bullshit. You’d still have contact.”
“I wanna be hands-on, and that means being where Eden is.”
“Brother, I told you before, the club is where you are. We can uproot. We can expand.”
I shake my head. “That life isn’t for me anymore.”
“No?” he asks, his brow arched. “The road ain’t calling you? The rush of need to inflict carnage and pain not keeping you awake at night? Damn, Kade, it’s who you are.”
“It’s who I was.”
“And this is who you are now?” he asks, picking at my shirt in disgust. “Is this pink?”
“Salmon,” I mutter.
“Jesus,” he huffs. “Next, you’ll be drinking decaf.” My eyes reach his, and he groans. “Shit. Really?”
He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m just making sure this is exactly what you want, Kade.”
“It is.”
“And to say if you ever change your mind, the patch is yours. It belongs to you.”
Diesel’s words haunt me all afternoon.
It’s who you are.
The rain’s coming down hard by the time I pull into the farmyard, fat drops hammering the roof of the truck, turning the yard into brown mud puddles. Pete’s Land Rover isn’t here. He’d texted earlier—lambing shed ran long, might crash there—so the place is quiet. Too quiet.
I drop my keys on the counter and stand there for a second, staring at nothing.
Maybe Diesel’s right. Maybe one day, I’ll wake up craving the road again. The noise. The violence. The chaos.
But right now, all I can think about is Eden’s laugh earlier. The way her hand had rested on her bump, protective, loving. The way my patience is paying off and she doesn’t look at me like she hates me anymore.
Thunder rolls overhead, and then a loud knock brings me back into the room.
I frown, glancing at the clock. It’s too late for anyone local.
There’s another knock. Harder. Urgent.
I move to the door, my gut tightening with something I can’t name, and pull it open.
Eden.
She’s soaked through completely. Her white dress clings to her like a second skin, rainwater dripping from the hem, plastering her hair to her cheeks. She’s breathing hard, chest rising fast, like she ran the whole way here.
For a second, my brain just . . . stops.
Behind her, half-hidden by the rain and the dark, is my bike.
My fucking bike.
“What—” I start, then stop, because she’s looking at me like she’s about to fall apart or fall into me, and I don’t know which one would kill me faster.
“I needed to see you,” she says, breathless, “and you weren’t answering.”
“I thought Diesel . . .” I glance past her again, disoriented. “I thought he took the bike.”
“I asked him not to,” she says quietly. “I told him to leave it.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
She swallows, rainwater running down her throat, her lashes clumped together. “Because I didn’t want you thinking you had to give up everything.”
I stare at her, the rain soaking into my boots, my shirt, my skin, though none of it is registering.
“I don’t want you to disappear for me,” she continues, her voice trembling now. “I don’t want you shrinking yourself down or cutting pieces off because you think that’s what you owe me.”
“I don’t—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “Eden, I chose this.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “That’s the problem.”
She takes a step closer, and I fight every instinct not to reach for her.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she says. “I don’t need a dog or a white picket fence.” She half laughs. “I trust you,” she says honestly, emotion clogging her throat. “I trust you not to leave again.”
Her words cause an ache in my heart. They mean everything to me. They mean I’ve proved myself to her enough so she can trust me again. She knows I’ll be here for our child.
Rain streaks down her face like tears she refuses to let fall.
“I went home,” she whispers, “and all I could think about was how calm everything’s been, how easy. And it scared me, because calm shouldn’t mean empty.”
My heart slams so hard, it hurts.
“So, I called Diesel, and he hadn’t left. I got him to drop your bike back here, hide it round the back.” She smiles slightly and then her body shivers.
I move quickly, opening the door wider and stepping aside so she can get out of the rain.
Water pools at her feet. She’s shaking now.
I grab a towel from the hook and hold it out, stopping just short of her. “You’re freezing.”
She doesn’t take it straight away. Her eyes stay locked on mine, burning with something darker, more uncertain.
“You can,” she whispers.
Only then do I step forward, draping the towel around her shoulders slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She inhales sharply, but she doesn’t move.
“I want to . . . can we try something?” she asks quietly.
I nod, keeping my voice steady. “Of course.”
Her fingers slip into mine, tentative at first, then firmer, and she leads me upstairs. My chest tightens, not with expectation, but with focus. I follow, careful not to rush her.
She pauses outside the spare room, glancing back at me.
“This is where you sleep?”
I nod.
Inside, she closes the door.
“I don’t know if this will work,” she whispers, eyes lowered. “But I want to try . . . if that’s okay.”
“It is,” I say quietly, even though I have no idea what she’s about to do.
She lets the towel slip from her shoulders, leaving it on the floor, then climbs onto the bed and sits cross-legged in the centre.
She pats the space in front of her.
I mirror her movements, sitting opposite, crossing my legs just like we did earlier today.
“Can I—” She hesitates then exhales. “I want to touch you. Just to see.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “At your pace.”
She finally looks up.
Her fingertip traces my forehead, down the side of my face, over my lips. Slow, careful, curious. Her eyes follow every inch of the movement like she’s mapping something she once knew and is learning again.
I don’t move. Not an inch. I let her set the rhythm, let her decide how close is close enough.
Her finger lingers at my mouth, hovering there like she’s weighing something invisible. Then it drifts lower, tracing the line of my jaw, my throat. I feel every inch of it like a live wire, but I keep my breathing slow, even. Steady. For her.
“Is this okay?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
Her hand presses flat to my chest, right over my heart. I feel the slight tremor in her palm, the hesitation beneath the courage. She swallows, watching my reaction like she’s braced for something to go wrong.
My heart is racing, but I don’t try to hide it.
“Can you feel that?” I murmur. “That’s just . . . me being here. With you.”
Her brows knit together, emotion flashing across her face before she blinks it back. She keeps her hand there for a long moment, grounding herself in the steady thud beneath my skin.
She shifts slightly, and her knee brushes mine, then rests there. Not accidental this time, but intentional.
Her breathing stutters, and I see it—the flicker of doubt, old fear threatening to surface.
I soften my voice. “We can stop. Or we can just sit like this.”
She closes her eyes for a second then opens them again. “Just sit. For now.”
“Okay.”
I place my hands on my knees, palms open, visible. Showing her it’s an invitation, not a demand.
After a few seconds, she reaches out and rests her hands over mine.
The contact is simple, almost innocent.
But it feels monumental.
Her shoulders slowly drop, tension easing out of her frame in small increments. I watch her breathing even out, watch the fight inside her quiet just a little.
“I thought it would feel wrong,” she admits. “Or scary.”
“And does it?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head. “It feels familiar, but not in a bad way.”
Relief floods my chest so hard, it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
Her eyes shine as she looks at me. “You are my safe,” she whispers. “You always were.”
That right there feels like redemption.
She leans forward then, slowly, resting her forehead against my shoulder. Just the weight of her. Just the warmth.
I don’t wrap my arms around her until she nods, barely perceptible, against my chest.
When I do, it’s careful, protective. Like I’m holding something fragile and priceless.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Inside, for the first time in a long time, I feel like we’re healing.
EDEN
The waiting room smells the same. Lavender. Clean. Too calm.
I didn’t realise how much that would get under my skin until I’m sitting here again, hands folded over my bump, staring at the neutral artwork on the walls.
Six months.
That’s how long it’s been since I finished therapy. Since I told myself I was okay. Since I stopped coming here every week with my chest tight and my thoughts tangled.
This is just a check-in, I remind myself. Not a step backwards, just maintenance.
“Eden?”
I look up to see Anna standing in the doorway, the same soft smile, the same calm eyes that once felt like a lifeline.
“Hi,” I say, pushing myself to my feet.
Inside her office, everything is exactly where I remember it. Same chairs. Same box of tissues within reach. Same quiet that makes you feel safe enough to tell the truth.