3. Angel
The bass in Grace’s apartment is a physical force, vibrating through the soles of my feet and thumping against my ribs like a second, more frantic heartbeat. It’s been fourteen days. Two weeks of Ghost ignoring me.
He’s perfected the art of the tactical retreat.
If I walk into the kitchen, he suddenly remembers that his bike needs his immediate attention.
If I sit on the porch, he disappears into the back of the clubhouse.
He’s trying to starve the fire I started that night by cutting off the oxygen.
He thinks if he ignores me long enough, I’ll revert back to being the girl who followed him around for stickers and soda.
He has no idea I’m about to burn the whole house down.
“Angel, stop. You’ve been staring at that eyeliner wing for five minutes like you’re planning a hit,” Grace says, leaning against the doorframe of her bathroom.
Grace is my ride-or-die. Her dads, Neon and Dante, are the definition of overprotective, but they’re also indulgent.
For her seventeenth birthday, they bought her this apartment—a sleek, modern sanctuary far enough from the clubhouse to feel like freedom, but close enough for the brothers to reach in five minutes if she ever pushed the panic button.
“Not a hit,” I mutter, finally steadying my hand to flick the liner into a sharp, lethal point. “A reminder.”
Grace sighs, crossing her arms. She’s already dressed in a slip dress that’s more lace than fabric.
She looks older than seventeen. Her older brother, who goes by Stencil, is a tattoo artist at my Uncle Ink’s shop, and he’s covered her in delicate, hidden art that makes her look like a walking masterpiece.
“I’m still not sure about this,” Grace admits, though she’s already reaching for her heels. “Onyx isn’t exactly a juice bar, Angel. It’s a BDSM club. It’s dark, it’s intense, and if our dads find out we used those fake IDs Stencil got us to get in there, they’ll probably burn the city down.”
“They won’t find out,” I say, turning to look at her. “And besides, Ghost goes there every weekend. It’s the one place he feels he can escape the club princess. I’m tired of being the princess, Grace. I want to be the woman he can’t ignore.”
Grace studies me, her skepticism softening into a mischievous glint. “You really love him that much, don’t you? It’s not just about the promise?”
“It was never just a promise,” I whisper.
I think about the complex web of our lives.
Everyone in the club is family, but the lines are beautifully blurred.
I call them all Uncle and Aunt, yet there’s very little shared blood.
Even my brother, Shade—my absolute rock—was adopted when I was eight and he was nine.
We aren’t related by DNA, but our bond runs deeper than blood ever could.
The same goes for Uncle Ink and my stepmom, Kasia. They grew up in the same horrific cult, survivors of a nightmare that bonded them closer than any siblings I’ve ever seen, yet they aren’t blood. It’s a recurring theme in my life—that family is a choice you make, not a birthright.
“Speaking of things people won’t do anything about,” I say, trying to deflect the heavy emotion, “when are you and Shade going to stop circling each other?”
Grace freezes, a flush creeping up her neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And I’ve seen you practically melt when he revs his bike. You guys aren’t related. There’s literally no reason for the drama.”
“Except for the fact that he’s your brother and he’s terrifying,” Grace grumbles, slipping into her shoes. “Now, put on the dress.”
The dress is a statement. It’s a black silk dress that clings to every curve I’ve spent the last few years developing.
It’s backless, held up by nothing but thin gold chains that cross over my shoulder blades.
I leave my blonde hair down, falling in soft, natural waves to my shoulders.
I know I’m tall and slim. I know I get stares.
But tonight, I only want one pair of eyes on me.
The line outside Onyx is long, snaking down a rain-slicked alleyway. The air smells of expensive cologne and damp asphalt. My stomach is doing somersaults as we approach the massive, black-suited bouncer.
“IDs,” the man grunts.
Grace slides them over with a bored flick of her wrist. The bouncer looks at the cards, then at us. He lingers on me a second too long, his eyes traveling from my face down the length of the silk dress.
“Enjoy the night, ladies,” he says, unhooking the rope.
The interior of Onyx is a sensory assault. It’s not like the clubhouse; this is sophisticated, heavy with the scent of expensive leather and vanilla. The lighting is low—deep purples and reds. In the corners, I see glimpses of things that make my skin prickle—velvet restraints and low-slung benches.
The heavy, rhythmic pulse of the industrial techno music feels like a physical assault, vibrating in the marrow of my bones.
Grace’s hand is a steadying weight on my elbow as we weave through the labyrinth of Onyx, our heels clicking against the polished concrete floor in the rare moments the bass drops out.
The air here is different from the clubhouse. It doesn’t smell of grease and cheap cigarettes; it smells of expensive, aged bourbon, and the metallic tang of adrenaline. It’s a place for secrets.
“Okay,” Grace whispers, her voice barely reaching my ear over the thrumming beat. “We’re in the lions’ den. You sure about this? We can still turn around, go back to my place, and order a pizza.”
“I’m sure,” I say, though my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest. I adjust the thin gold chain of my dress, feeling the cool metal against my bare skin. “He’s here. I know he is.”
We reach the edge of the elevated VIP lounge. This area is shielded by heavy velvet curtains and wrought-iron partitions, creating a series of private alcoves. The lighting shifts from a pulsing strobe to a deep, stagnant crimson. It’s thick, moody, and suffocatingly intimate.
My eyes scan the booths, searching for the one silhouette that has been etched into my mind since I was a child. I’m looking for the slope of his shoulders, the specific way he holds a glass, the stillness that always seems to surround him even in a crowd.
And then, I find him.
I freeze. The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp, silent gasp.
Ghost is tucked into a corner booth, the shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face. He’s dressed in a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the heavy ink on his forearms. He looks devastatingly handsome, but he looks like a stranger.
He’s not alone.
His best friend, Bear, is sitting across from him, laughing at something a blonde woman is whispering in his ear.
But my eyes are locked on Ghost. He has a woman on either side of him.
One, a stunning brunette in a leather harness that leaves very little to the imagination, is leaning into him, her lips inches from the pulse point in his neck.
Her hand—perfectly manicured with blood-red nails—is resting high on his thigh, her fingers curling into the dark fabric of his pants.
Ghost isn’t laughing. He’s leaning back, his head resting against the leather cushion, a glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand. He looks relaxed. He looks at home.
The woman on his left reaches out, her fingers trailing down the tattoos on his chest that are visible through his open collar. She says something that makes him smirk—not the dimpled, warm smile he used to give me when I was a kid, but something sharper. Darker.
My heart doesn’t just break; it feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of a thousand pounds of lead.
Two weeks ago, I stood in his room and told him I was ready. He laughed at me. He told me I was a child. He told me he couldn’t look at me “that way” because of my father, because of my age, because of some moral code he claimed to live by.
Seeing that woman’s hand on his leg—the exact spot where I used to sit as a child, the spot I wanted to claim as his wife—is a physical blow to my stomach.
He doesn’t see me. He’s too busy listening to the brunette whisper in his ear.
The “gap” he talked about isn’t just fourteen years. It’s a goddamn ocean. It’s the difference between my innocent, unwavering love and the dark, fleeting hungers of this club.
“Angel?” Grace’s voice is laced with concern. She follows my gaze, and I hear her breath hitch. “Oh, honey. Let’s go. We shouldn’t be here.”
I can’t look away. I watch as the brunette leans in and kisses the corner of his jaw. Ghost doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes half-closed in the red light.
The humiliation is a cold, drenching wave. I feel small. I feel foolish. I feel like the eight-year-old girl who thought a biker was a prince in a fairy tale.
“Angel, come on,” Grace pleads, tugging on my arm. “Before they look over here.”