Chapter 9
Ripley
I dream of Cain.
He's standing in the doorway of our old apartment, backlit by the hallway light, his face in shadow.
I can't see his expression, but I don't need to.
I know the set of his shoulders, the tension in his hands, the way the air changes when he's about to explode.
You thought you could leave me?
His voice echoes strangely, like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
I try to move, try to run, but my feet are rooted to the floor.
The apartment stretches around me, walls elongating, the distance between us growing even as he somehow gets closer.
You're mine, Ripley. You'll always be mine.
His hand reaches for my throat—
I wake up gasping.
For a moment, I don't know where I am.
The room is dark, unfamiliar, and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
I clutch at the sheets, trying to orient myself, trying to remember—
The clubhouse. I'm at the clubhouse. Cain is dead. I'm safe.
I'm safe.
I repeat it like a mantra, forcing my breathing to slow, willing my heart to stop racing.
The nightmare fades, but the feeling lingers—that sick, cold dread that lived in my stomach for three years.
The certainty that something terrible is about to happen.
Beside me, Levi stirs.
"Ripley?" His voice is rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The lie comes automatically. "Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep."
He doesn't.
Instead, he props himself up on one elbow, studying me in the darkness.
I can't see his face clearly, but I can feel the weight of his gaze.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His hand finds mine, warm and steady. "Talk to me."
I want to.
God, I want to.
But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind years of conditioning.
Don't complain. Don't be a burden. Don't show weakness.
You're always so dramatic, Cain's voice whispers. No one wants to hear your problems.
"It was just a nightmare," I say again. "About Cain. I get them sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Every night." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Every night since... since it happened. I thought they'd stop once he was gone, but they haven't. They're getting worse."
Levi is quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin, wrapping his arms around me like a shield.
"You don't have to be okay yet," he says quietly. "Healing takes time. And nightmares... they're part of it. Your brain is processing what happened, trying to make sense of it."
"What if they never stop?"
"They will. Maybe not completely, but they'll get better." His hand strokes down my back, slow and soothing. "And until they do, I'm here. You don't have to face them alone."
I press my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—leather and soap and something uniquely Levi.
The shaking slowly subsides. The dread fades. And eventually, wrapped in his arms, I drift back to sleep.
No more nightmares. At least not tonight.
When I wake up in the morning, I make a decision.
I need to see my mother.
The phone call a few days ago helped, but it wasn't enough.
I need to look her in the eye, to let her hold me, to be her daughter again instead of a disembodied voice on the other end of a line.
I've been hiding from the world for too long.
It's time to start stepping back into it.
I find Leviathan in his office, going over papers with Zenon.
They both look up when I knock on the open door.
"Can I talk to you?" I ask. "Alone?"
Zenon raises an eyebrow at Leviathan, a hint of amusement in his expression. "I'll give you two a minute."
He slips past me, closing the door behind him.
Leviathan leans back in his chair, watching me with those sharp blue eyes. "What's on your mind?"
"I want to visit my mother."
Something flickers across his face—concern, maybe, or reluctance.
But he doesn't immediately say no, which I take as a good sign.
"Where does she live?"
"Dormont. It's about twenty minutes from here." I twist my hands together, suddenly nervous. "I know it's a risk. I know Varro might be watching, might try to use her to get to you. But I need to see her. I've been hiding for almost two weeks, and she's worried sick. She deserves to know I'm okay."
He's quiet for a long moment, turning something over in his mind. "Does she know where you're staying?"
"No. I just told her I was safe."
"Does she know about Cain?"
"She knows we broke up. She knows he hurt me." I pause. "She doesn't know the exact details. I couldn't... I couldn't tell her everything over the phone."
He nods slowly. "And you want to tell her in person."
"I think I need to. For both of us."
Another long pause. Then he stands, crossing to where I'm standing by the door.
"I'll have Behemoth take you. He'll wait outside, keep an eye on things." He cups my face in his hands, tilting it up so I meet his eyes. "If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you call me. Understand?"
"I understand."
"I mean it, Ripley. Varro's looking for pressure points. Your mother could be one of them."
"I know." I cover his hands with mine. "I'll be careful. I promise."
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Go see your mom."
I rise up on my toes and kiss him—quick and grateful. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." But there's a hint of warmth in his voice, a softening around his eyes. "Just come back safe."
Behemoth drives me in a black SUV.
He's a massive man—easily six-foot-five, built like a mountain—but he moves with a surprising gentleness.
He doesn't talk much during the drive, just keeps his eyes on the road and the mirrors, watching for tails.
I appreciate the silence.
It gives me time to think about what I'm going to say.
My mother's house is exactly as I remember it—a modest two-story in a working-class neighborhood, with a small yard and a Steelers flag hanging from the porch.
The sight of it makes my throat tighten.
This was my home once.
Before Cain. Before everything went wrong.
"I'll be right here," Behemoth says, pulling up to the curb. "Take your time."
"Thank you."
I get out of the car and walk up the front path on legs that feel like jelly.
The door opens before I reach it.
My mother stands in the doorway.
She looks older than I remember.
More gray in her hair, more lines around her eyes.
But she's still the same woman who raised me—sturdy and strong, with a jaw that says she doesn't take shit from anyone and eyes that see right through you.
"Ripley." Her voice cracks on my name. "Oh, sweetheart."
Then I'm in her arms, and I'm crying, and she's crying, and nothing else matters.
We sit at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee growing cold between us.
I've told her everything.
The whole story, from the beginning—how I met Cain, how the abuse started, how it escalated.
The isolation. The fear. The night I showed up at the clubhouse with blood on my face.
I told her about Leviathan, about the club, about what happened to Cain without saying exactly what happened.
She didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions.
Just sat there with tears streaming down her face, her hands clenched around her mug, listening.
When I finish, the silence stretches between us.
"I should have known," she finally says. Her voice is raw. Broken. "I should have seen it. You're my daughter. How did I not see?"
"I didn't want you to see." I reach across the table, covering her hands with mine. "I hid it, Mom. I was ashamed. And scared. And I didn't want you to get hurt."
"Get hurt?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Ripley, you were getting hurt. Every day, for years, and I didn't—I couldn't—" She breaks off, pressing a hand to her mouth.
"It's not your fault."
"How can you say that? I'm your mother. It's my job to protect you."
"You can't protect me from everything." The words come out gentler than I expected. "Cain was good at hiding what he was. He charmed everyone—you, my friends, the whole world. That's how abusers work. They make sure no one sees the monster under the mask."
"I should have seen." She's crying harder now, tears dripping off her chin onto the table.
"When you stopped coming around as much, when you started canceling plans, when you seemed so.
.. so dim all the time. I thought you were just busy.
I thought—" She shakes her head. "I made excuses instead of asking questions. "
"Mom." I squeeze her hands. "Look at me."
She does. Her eyes are red-rimmed, devastated.
"I'm okay," I say. "I got out. I'm safe now. And none of what happened was your fault. The only person responsible for Cain's actions is Cain."
"Where is he now?" Her voice hardens. "I want to look that bastard in the eye and—"
"He's gone."
She stops. Studies my face. "Gone how?"
"Just... gone." I hold her gaze, steady. "He's never going to hurt me again. That's all that matters."
My mother is no fool.
She's lived in Pittsburgh her whole life, knows how the world works.
I see the moment she realizes what happened in her eyes—the pieces clicking into place.
"The man who brought you," she says slowly. "The one waiting outside. He's part of that motorcycle club, isn't he? The Saint's Outlaws?"
"Yes."
"And the man you're staying with. The one you mentioned on the phone. He's one of them too?"
"He's their President."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can see her processing, weighing, deciding how she feels about her daughter being involved with an outlaw motorcycle club.
Cain was part of the same club, and we know how that turned out.
"Does he treat you right?" she asks finally.
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"This man. This President." Her eyes are fierce, protective. "Does he treat you right? Does he respect you? Does he make you feel safe?"
I think about Leviathan.
About the way he looks at me, touches me, talks to me.
About the night on the roof, and the mornings in his arms, and all the small moments in between.
"Yes," I say. "He does."