18. Angel
The Los Angeles sun is a physical assault. After three months of London’s grey, persistent drizzle, the California light is blinding, bouncing off the asphalt of the LAX parking lot in jagged white sparks. The air tastes of salt, exhaust, and home.
I’m swaying slightly on my feet but Ghost doesn’t let me stumble. His hand is a permanent fixture on the small of my back, guiding me toward a row of parked vehicles where the familiar silhouette of the Broken Halos awaits.
Two prospects I barely recognize—kids with fresh leather and eager, nervous eyes—are standing by the club’s heavy-duty black truck. My suitcases are tossed into the back before I can even blink. Nearby, Ghost’s and Shade’s Harleys are waiting. The prospects must have brought them here on a trailer.
“Take the bags back to the clubhouse,” Ghost commands the prospects, his voice dropping into that effortless authority that makes people move. “Tell Stone we’re back. Angel is tired and she’s staying with me for a few days to decompress.”
I frown, squinting through my sunglasses. “A few days? Ghost, I thought we were going straight back. I want my own bed.”
Shade swings a leg over his bike, catching my eye. He’s grinning—a real, genuine grin that I haven’t seen since before I left. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, sis. Ghost, you’ve got this?”
“I’ve got it,” Ghost grunts.
“Take care of her,” Shade calls out, kicking his engine into a roar. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just peels out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust and the vanishing thunder of his exhaust.
“What did he mean by that?” I ask, turning to Ghost. “Where are we going?”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just hands me my spare helmet—the one with the faded sticker I put there when I was ten. He climbs onto his bike, the leather of his seat creaking under his weight, and jerks his chin toward the back. “Get on, Angel.”
I hesitate for a second, then climb on behind him.
My arms wrap around his waist, my fingers interlocking over his stomach.
The familiar vibration of the big V-twin engine thrums through my thighs, a rhythmic pulse that settles my frantic heart.
We weave through the stagnant LA traffic, Ghost riding with a singular, aggressive purpose.
We’re heading into the heart of the city.
When he finally pulls over, we’re standing in front of a bland, beige government building with a sign that makes my stomach do a slow, dizzying flip: Los Angeles County Registrar-Recorder/County Clerk.
Ghost kills the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.
He helps me off the bike, his hands lingering on my waist as he sets me on the sidewalk. I stare at the building, then back at him, my eyes wide. “What are we doing here?”
Ghost steps into my space, his shadow falling over me, shielding me from the glare of the sun.
He reaches out, sliding his hands up to cup my face.
His thumbs graze the fading yellow bruises on my neck, his touch so light it’s barely there.
Then, he leans down and kisses me. It’s deep, possessive, and tastes of a finality that scares the breath right out of me.
“We’re getting married,” he says against my lips.
My brain short-circuits. I pull back, staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “What? No. No, Ghost, absolutely not.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Yes, we are.”
“You can’t do this.” I cry, my voice rising.
“You’re doing this because you feel guilty. You saw me in that hospital bed, you saw what that... what Brian did, and now you’re trying to fix it by tagging me like a piece of property. I don’t want a pity marriage, Ghost. The first time I kissed you, you literally threw up. You rejected me.
That doesn’t just go away because I almost died.”
Ghost looks like I’ve slapped him. The guilt is there, raw and bleeding in his eyes, but beneath it is something harder. Something unyielding.
“I told you in London,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I will explain the bathroom. I will explain everything that’s broken inside me. But I want our names to match by the end of the day. I want the world to know you’re mine before we set foot back in that clubhouse.”
“Ghost, stop,” I protest, shaking my head. “This is too fast. I’m exhausted, I’m traumatized, and I’m pretty sure I’m still high on hospital painkillers. We need to talk. We need to—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He grabs my hand, his fingers interlocking with mine, and starts pulling me toward the glass doors.
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Angel,” he says, not looking back. “I love you. I almost lost you because I was a coward. I’m not being a coward anymore.”
“Ghost...” I sigh, my heels dragging on the concrete.
He stops, turning around to look at me. His expression softens, but his grip remains iron-clad. “Damien.”
I blink. “What?”
“My name,” he whispers, a small, vulnerable smile breaking through his stoic mask. “I told you once, a long time ago. I told you I’d only give you my name when we got married. It’s Damien Mercer."
The use of his real name is the killing blow. My heart melts into a puddle in my chest. I look at him, at the man who crossed an ocean to find me, the man who stayed by my bed for forty-eight hours without sleeping, the man who just admitted he’s loves me.
I look at the sterile government building.
“Ok,” I whisper, a reluctant, shaky smile touching my lips.
The reality of a civil ceremony is surprisingly mundane.
We have to wait in a line behind a couple in matching Hawaiian shirts and a nervous-looking pair of teenagers.
Ghost—Damien—stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my middle, his chin resting on my shoulder.
He doesn’t care about the stares we get: the massive, tattooed biker and the pale girl with the bruised neck.
We fill out the paperwork. When we stand before the clerk, a woman who looks like she’s seen a thousand versions of this story, the words feel heavier than I expected.
“Do you, Damien Mercer, take this woman...”
“I do,” he says before she can even finish. His voice is a rock-solid vow that echoes off the linoleum tiles.
When it’s my turn, my voice is small but steady. “I do.”
There are no rings. He just takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, his eyes locked on mine with a heat that makes my breath hitch.
“Congratulations,” the clerk says, stamping a paper and sliding it across the counter. “You’re officially Mr. and Mrs. Mercer.”
It feels fake. It feels like a dream. But as we walk back out into the bright LA sun, Damien pulls me to a stop and looks at the paper.
“Mercer,” he mutters, a look of fierce satisfaction on his face. “You’re mine, Angel. Legally, spiritually, and every other way that matters. No more running.”
“No more running,” I agree, leaning my head against his shoulder.
He guides me back to the Harley. I climb on behind him, and this time, I hold him tighter, pressing my cheek against the cool leather of his vest. He weaves the bike through the afternoon traffic. The heat of the engine and the wind in my hair are grounding, a reminder that I’m back on solid ground.
The hotel is a high-end spot overlooking the ocean. Damien rumbles the bike up the driveway, killing the engine in front of the valet. He doesn’t wait for them to help me; he helps me off himself, grabbing our small overnight bag from the rack.
As the door clicks shut behind us in the massive, ocean-view suite, the reality of the day finally crashes down on me. I’m eighteen. I’m a victim of a brutal assault. And now I’m a wife.
I walk over to the window, watching the waves crash against the shore. I feel Damien step up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his heat.
“Two nights,” he whispers into my hair. “Two nights of just us. Just you and me.”
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. “And the explanation?”
He sighs, his eyes clouding over for a moment before he nods. “Tonight. I’ll tell you everything, Angel. But right now...”
He leans down, his lips brushing against mine. “Right now, I just want to hold my wife.”