30. Ghost
I can feel Angel’s fingers tucked into my belt loops, her chest pressed firmly against my back. It’s a rhythm I’ll never tire of—the weight of her, the trust she puts in me to navigate these hairpin turns, and the way she leans into me as the Harley carves through the morning mist.
We’ve been looking at houses for a while.
We’ve seen mid-century moderns with too much glass, cramped bungalows that smelled like damp wood, and sterile mansions that felt more like museums than homes.
None of them were right. I could see it in the way she’d walk through the rooms—her shoulders tense, her eyes searching for a warmth that wasn’t there.
So I stopped looking for someone else’s dream.
The club has been good to me. Between the legitimate security contracts and the off-the-books earnings, I’ve amassed a small fortune that most people wouldn’t expect from a man in a leather vest.
I’ve never had a reason to spend it before.
I’ve lived in a room at the clubhouse for years, never caring about the walls around me.
But Angel deserves more than a clubhouse room. She deserves a legacy.
I’m going to build her the dream. A farmhouse.
Something with a wrap-around porch and heavy wooden beams—a place that echoes the home she grew up in, but better.
Safer. Because I’m the one guarding the gate.
I don’t give a damn about the crown molding or the floor tiles; she can pick out every doorknob for all I care.
I just want to provide the canvas for her to paint our life on.
And I want that life to be loud.
As we ride, my mind drifts to the future.
I want to see this land filled with the sound of kids.
Our kids. I never thought about kids before Angel.
Women were for a night, maybe a week, and the thought of being tied down by a family felt like a cage.
But with her, it’s a physical need. It’s like a biological force is rewriting my DNA.
I want to see her belly swollen with my child.
I want to see her glowing, her body changing to accommodate a piece of me.
If it were up to me, I’d keep her pregnant for the next thirty years.
I want to see a mini-me with her blue eyes running across the grass.
I want to stake a claim that time can never erase.
I pull the bike off the main road and onto a dirt track that most people would miss. We bounce over a few ruts before the trees open up, and the world just… expands.
Earlier this morning, I found her in the common room.
She was sitting in a booth, squeezed between Grace and Oliver.
Oliver was looking better—some color had returned to his face, though he still jumped at loud noises.
Grace was lecturing him on the best places to get a taco in Seaview, and Angel was laughing, her hand resting lightly on the table.
I walked over, the heavy tread of my boots announcing my arrival. The table went quiet, but it wasn’t the silence of fear; it was respect. I leaned down, ignoring the audience, and pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the side of Angel’s head.
“Get your jacket, baby,” I rumbled, my hand lingering on her shoulder. “We’re going somewhere. I have a surprise for you.”
She looked up at me, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Now? Grace was just telling me about—”
“Now,” I repeated, a small smirk playing on my lips.
She didn’t argue. She never does. She stood up and followed me out to the bike.
Now, I kill the engine. The silence that follows is absolute, save for the distant call of a hawk and the rustle of the wind through the redwoods.
We’re standing at the edge of ten acres of untouched paradise.
To the west, the land rolls toward the cliffs.
To the east, a dense, ancient forest provides a natural wall of privacy.
In the center, a small, spring-fed lake glitters like a sapphire under the California sun.
There’s a massive stretch of flat land, perfect for a foundation, a garden, and maybe a stable one day.
I help her off the bike. She’s quiet, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. She walks a few paces forward, her boots crunching on the dry grass, her gaze sweeping from the treeline to the water.
“Damien,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the breeze. “It’s… it’s breathtaking.”
I step up behind her, my chest meeting her back. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me, my chin resting on her shoulder. I want her to feel the heartbeat that belongs to her.
“It’s ours, Angel,” I say, my voice a low, gravelly vow. “I bought it. All ten acres.”
She stiffens in my arms, her breath catching in a sharp, audible hitch. She turns around slowly, her hands coming up to clutch the front of my vest. Her face is a mask of pure, unadulterated shock.
“Ours?” she repeats, her voice trembling. “You bought this?”
“I didn’t like any of the houses we saw,” I say, looking deep into her eyes.
“None of them were good enough for you. So I’m going to build you exactly what you want. A farmhouse. A big porch, huge kitchen, enough rooms for all the babies you’re going to give me. You design it. You tell me where the walls go, what color the wood is.
I just want to be the man who gives you the keys.”
The tears come then. Not a soft, dainty cry, but a raw, emotional release.
She buries her face in my chest, her sobs muffled by the leather of my vest.
I hold her tight, my hand cupping the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her hair.
I can feel the weight of every struggle we’ve been through, all of it pouring out of her.
“It’s perfect,” she sobs into my skin. “It’s more than perfect. I didn’t think… I didn’t think I’d ever have this.”
“Ours,” I say, tilting her chin up so I can kiss the salt from her cheeks.
She wipes her eyes, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Ten acres, Damien? Damn, you really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“I’m an overachiever,” I smirk, catching her hand and lacing our fingers together. “Come on. I want to show you the lake.”
We spend the next hour walking the ground.
I watch her face transform as we move. She points to a spot near the water and says that’s where a gazebo should go.
She finds a flat stretch near the forest and decides that’s where she’ll plant roses.
She’s already building it in her mind, her eyes alight with a fire I haven’t seen since before she left for the UK.
I stay close, my hand never leaving hers. Every time she looks at me, I see the future. I see her standing on a porch, belly heavy with our child, watching the sun set over our trees. I see a life that isn’t defined by the violence I’ve done, but by the love I’ve found.
“I can’t wait, Damien,” she says, leaning against me as we reach the edge of the lake.
“We’ll talk to the architect tomorrow,” I promise. “I want us in here by the summer.”
She turns to me, her expression turning serious, her blue eyes searching mine. “You’re doing so much for me. I hope you know… I don’t need all of this. I just need you.”
I pull her in for a kiss, a deep, soul-searing thing that tastes like the life we’re about to start.
“I know you don’t need it, Angel,” I mutter against her lips. “That’s why I want to give it to you. Because for the first time in my life, I have something worth protecting. I have a home.”
We stand there for a long time, two people who have been through hell, finally standing on their own piece of heaven. The wind picks up, cooling the sweat on my neck, but I don’t feel the chill. I just feel the warmth of my wife and the solid, undeniable reality of the ground beneath our feet.
The Broken Halos gave me a family. But this land, and the woman in my arms, is going to give me a life.