2. Angel
The door creaks open, and the heavy barrier that felt like a fortress moments ago is suddenly just a piece of wood separating my past from my future.
Ghost stands there, framed by the amber glow of a single lamp inside his room. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of charcoal-grey lounge pants that hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp, V-shaped muscles of his abdomen.
He looks every bit the man I’ve spent a decade dreaming about.
His build isn’t bulky like some of the other guys in the club; he’s lean, athletic, and corded with functional muscle.
His skin is a map of his life—tattoos of intricate black-and-grey work wind up his ribs and disappear over his shoulders, a chaotic tapestry that makes my fingers ache to trace.
His hair, a short, sandy brown, is mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it, and his jawline is shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble.
He blinks at me, his hazel eyes clouded with sleep and confusion. He doesn’t just look at me; he looks past me, his gaze scanning the empty, dimly lit hallway to see if my father or my brother is looming in the shadows.
“Angel?” His voice is a gravelly rasp, thick with the weight of the night. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
The concern in his voice is reflexive—the instinct of a man who has looked out for me since I was in pigtails. It’s sweet. It’s protective. And tonight, it’s exactly what I need to shatter.
I don’t answer him. If I speak now, my voice might tremble, and I can’t afford a single tremor.
I step forward, closing the gap between us.
He doesn’t move at first, perhaps expecting me to hand him a message or a phone, but I keep walking until he’s forced to step back.
I push past him, the heat radiating off his bare skin making my own flesh tingle, and I walk straight into the center of his room.
The space is just like him—minimalist, smelling of cedarwood and a faint hint of tobacco.
“O-kay?” he says behind me, his tone rising with a mix of amusement and genuine bewilderment.
He lingers at the threshold for a second before his internal code of conduct kicks in.
He closes the door, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He turns, leaning his tall frame against the wood, crossing his arms over his tattooed chest.
“Care to tell me why you’re breaking and entering at midnight?”
I turn to face him, crossing my own arms. I try to channel the poise of Kasia and the steel of Aunt Gloriana. I look him dead in the eye, refusing to be intimidated by the height difference or the way his presence seems to swallow the room’s oxygen.
“I turned eighteen last week, Ghost,” I say. My voice is steady, low, and laced with a finality that wipes the sleepy amusement from his face. “And I’m here because I’m ready. I’m ready to be your wife.”
The silence that follows is physical. It’s a weight that settles in the air, pressing down on my shoulders.
The blood drains from Ghost’s face, leaving him unnervingly pale under the warm lamp.
His arms drop to his sides. He looks at me for a minute—then two—as if waiting for the punchline, for me to burst out laughing and tell him it’s a prank.
When I don’t flinch, his expression shifts from shock to something else.
He lets out a short, breathy laugh. “You’re joking, right? This is... this is some kind of birthday stunt? Did Shade put you up to this?”
My heart cracks. The sound of his laughter is like a serrated blade across my skin. It’s the same laugh from ten years ago—the one that told me I was a child playing dress-up in a world of adults.
“I’m not joking,” I say, my voice hardening. “I’ve had ten years to think about this. Ten years of watching you pull away, watching you treat me like a nuisance or a sister while I grew up. Well, I’m grown now. I’m an adult by the law, and I’m an adult in this club.”
Ghost rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Angel, stop. You’re eighteen. You’re a kid. You have your whole life ahead of you. You have college in three weeks. You’re supposed to go out there, meet guys your age, and forget this place exists for a while.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m supposed to do,” I snap, taking a step toward him.
He’s back against the door, and I’m closing the distance.
“I know who I am, and I know what I want. Most people spend their entire lives searching for a partner who makes them feel safe and seen. I found that when I was eight. Why would I throw away a decade of certainty for some ‘college experience’ I don’t even want?”
“Jesus Christ, Angel! You’re delusional!” Ghost bellows, his voice finally breaking through the disbelief. “I am fourteen years older than you! I changed your bandages when you fell off your bike. Do you have any idea how fucking twisted that is?”
“It’s only twisted if you choose to see me as that little girl,” I argue, my heart thundering. I’m inches from him now. I can smell the warmth of his skin, see the slight pulse in his neck. “Age is a fucking number, Ghost.”
He tries to look away, his gaze darting to the ceiling, to the shadows, anywhere but my face. But I reach out, my hands flat against his bare chest. His skin is hot, and his heart is racing—just as fast as mine.
“I’ve grown up in a clubhouse,” I say, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper.
“I’ve seen the world for what it is. I’ve seen the way brothers love their old ladies. I’ve seen the loyalty, the grit, and the sacrifice. I don’t want a boy from a frat house who doesn’t know how to keep a promise. I want a man who understands that love is a choice you make every single day.
I want you.”
For a split second, I see it. A flicker of hunger in his eyes, a momentary lapse where the man in him acknowledges the woman in me. His hand twitches, his fingers almost brushing my waist.
Then, the shutter slams closed.
He grabs my wrists—not unkindly, but with a firm, bruising strength—and pushes me back.
“No,” he says, his voice cold and flat. “Absolutely not. You’re Doc’s daughter. If I even looked at you that way, your father would put a bullet in my head, and I’d deserve it.”
“This isn’t about my father!” I yell, frustration boiling over into a hot, stinging anger. “This is about the promise you made! Was that just a lie to get a kid to shut up?”
“Obviously! It was a joke, Angel! A joke to comfort a little girl!”
He’s pacing now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“I never thought you’d actually hold onto it. I thought you’d grow up and realize how ridiculous it was. I stayed away because I saw you getting confused, but I never—not in a million years—thought you’d walk in here tonight and say this.”
“I’m not confused,” I say, my voice trembling now, but not from fear. From the sheer, agonizing weight of being dismissed. “You’re the one who’s confused. You’re so scared of my dad? A guy who married a nineteen year old who was twenty years younger than him?”
He stops pacing and points a finger at the door.
His face is a mask of stone, but I can see the tension in his jaw.
“Leave, Angel. Right now. Go back to your room, sleep this off, and tomorrow we will pretend this never happened. If you mention this again, I’m telling your father it’s time you moved into the dorms.”
The threat is a physical blow. He would send me away just to protect his own comfort.
I stare at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. My heart is in pieces on his floor, but I won’t let him see me crumble. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing a “child” throw a tantrum.
“Fine,” I say, my voice icy. “I’ll leave. But don’t think for one second that you can ‘pretend this never happened.’ I’m eighteen. I live here. I’m going to be in your face every single day. And every time you look at me,
you’re going to remember that you’re a coward who’s too afraid to claim what’s yours.”
I turn on my heel, my spine straight, and walk toward the door. He moves aside to let me pass, his body tense, refusing to even look at me as I reach for the handle.
I walk out, the door clicking shut behind me.
The hallway is dark and silent, a stark contrast to the fire screaming in my veins. I feel deflated, my chest aching with a hollow, raw pain. But as I walk toward my own room, the tears don’t fall. Instead, a cold, hard determination takes root where the hope used to be.
He thinks I’m a child. He thinks he can wait me out until I find some boy at college to distract me.
He’s wrong.
He sees me as a child? Fine. I’ll show him exactly what he’s missing. I’ll make him look at me until he can’t see anything else.
I reach my door and step inside, the silence of my room wrapping around me. I don’t go to bed. I sit by the window, watching the moon hang over the rows of parked motorcycles in the lot below.
The war has officially started. And I have no intention of losing.