Chapter 11
Ripley
I'm done being a ghost.
For weeks, I've been drifting through the clubhouse like a shadow—eating when someone puts food in front of me, sleeping when exhaustion drags me under, existing without really living.
I've been so focused on surviving, on getting through each day without falling apart, that I forgot what it means to actually be alive.
That ends today.
I wake up before Levi, slipping out of bed while the first gray light of dawn is creeping through the windows.
He stirs but doesn't wake, and I take a moment to watch him—the hard lines of his face softened by sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
He looks younger like this. Less burdened.
I love him.
The thought doesn't scare me anymore. It's just a fact, solid and real, as much a part of me now as my own heartbeat.
I love him, and I'm going to be worthy of that love.
Not by being helpless, by hiding, by standing on my own two feet and building something worth having.
I shower, dress in borrowed clothes that are starting to feel like mine, and head downstairs to find Tawny.
"You want to do what?"
Tawny stares at me over the rim of her coffee cup, eyebrows raised.
"I want to help," I repeat. "With the club. The businesses. Whatever needs doing." I square my shoulders, trying to project a confidence I don't entirely feel. "I can't keep sitting around doing nothing. I need a purpose."
Tawny and Paige exchange a look.
We're in the clubhouse kitchen, early enough that most of the brothers are still asleep.
The coffee maker gurgles in the corner, filling the room with the smell of fresh brew.
"What kind of help are we talking about?" Paige asks carefully.
"I have a degree in English. I'm good with words, with organization, with..." I trail off, suddenly aware of how inadequate my skills must sound.
What does a biker club need with an English major?
"Can you do the books?" Tawny asks.
"Books?"
"Numbers. Accounting. The boring shit that makes businesses run.
" She leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Steel Kittens needs someone to clean up the paperwork.
The last girl who handled it was skimming, and since then it's been a mess.
Klutch has been doing what he can, but he's got enough on his plate. "
"I—" I hesitate. Accounting wasn't exactly my strong suit in college. But I took a few business classes, learned the basics. And how hard can it be? "I can try. I'm a quick learner."
"Good enough for me." Tawny grins. "I'll talk to Leviathan, get you set up. It'll be nice to have someone competent handling that shit for once."
Something warm blooms in my chest.
It's small—just a chance to do some paperwork—but it feels like a beginning.
A first step toward being something other than a victim.
"Thank you," I say.
"Don't thank me yet." Tawny's grin turns wicked. "Wait until you see the state of those files. You might change your mind."
She wasn't kidding about the files.
Steel Kittens' back office looks like a paper bomb went off.
Receipts stuffed into shoeboxes.
Invoices scattered across every surface.
A filing cabinet with drawers that won't close because they're crammed too full.
And in the center of it all, an ancient desktop computer that wheezes when I turn it on.
"Jesus," I mutter, surveying the chaos.
"Told you." Tawny leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The girl before you was more interested in stealing than organizing. By the time we figured it out, she'd already done a number on the records."
"How long ago was that?"
"Six months. Maybe seven." She shrugs. "We've been operating on vibes ever since."
I pick up a random receipt, squinting at the faded ink.
It's for a liquor delivery, dated three months ago.
No indication of whether it was ever paid or filed properly.
"This is going to take a while," I say.
"You up for it?"
I look around the office again.
At the mountain of work waiting to be done.
At the opportunity to prove myself, to contribute, to be more than just the Prez's woman hiding in the clubhouse.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm up for it."
I throw myself into the work.
For the next several days, the back office of Steel Kittens becomes my domain.
I sort through every piece of paper, creating systems where none existed, entering data into spreadsheets, reconciling accounts that haven't been balanced in months.
It's tedious, mind-numbing work—exactly what I need.
When I'm focused on numbers, I'm not thinking about Cain.
Not reliving the nightmares.
Not drowning in the fear that still lurks at the edges of my consciousness.
The work gives me something to hold onto, a purpose beyond mere survival.
And slowly, I start to feel like myself again.
Not the self I was before Cain—that woman is gone, probably forever.
But a new self. Stronger. More resilient. Shaped by the fire I walked through but not consumed by it.
I'm in the office late one afternoon, squinting at a particularly confusing invoice, when a knock on the door makes me look up.
A woman stands in the doorway.
She's young—maybe nineteen or twenty—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and too much makeup caked over what looks like a bruise on her cheekbone.
"Sorry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know anyone was in here."
"It's fine. I'm just doing some paperwork." I set down the invoice, studying her more closely.
The bruise is definitely there, poorly concealed beneath layers of foundation.
And there's something in her eyes—a wariness, a fear—that I recognize all too well.
"I'm Ripley," I say. "I don't think we've met."
"Jade." She hovers in the doorway like she's not sure if she's allowed to enter. "I work here. Dancing."
"Nice to meet you, Jade."
She nods, still not moving.
Her eyes keep darting around the room, like she's looking for escape routes.
Another thing I recognize.
"Are you okay?" I ask gently.
The question seems to startle her. "What? Yeah. I'm fine. I just—" She stops, pressing her lips together. "I was looking for Tawny. Someone said she might be here."
"She stepped out about an hour ago. Said something about picking up supplies." I pause, weighing my next words carefully. "Do you want to wait? I could use a break anyway."
Jade hesitates.
I can see the war playing out behind her eyes—the desire for connection fighting against years of learned distrust.
I know that war. I fought it myself, not so long ago.
"Okay," she says finally. "Just for a minute."
She perches on the edge of a chair across from me, hands clasped in her lap, shoulders hunched like she's trying to make herself smaller.
The posture is painfully familiar.
"That's a nasty bruise," I say, keeping my voice casual. "What happened?"
Her hand flies to her cheek. "I fell. Tripped on the stairs at my apartment. Stupid, right?"
"Right." I don't push. Don't challenge the obvious lie. "I used to fall a lot too. Walked into doors, slipped in the shower. Funny how clumsy I got for a few years there."
Jade's eyes snap to mine.
For a moment, we just look at each other—two women who know exactly what the other is hiding.
"It's not like that," she says, but her voice wavers.
"Okay."
"He just—sometimes he gets angry. But it's not—he doesn't mean to—"
"Jade." I lean forward, keeping my voice soft. "You don't have to explain. Not to me. But I want you to know something."
She waits, barely breathing.
"Three months ago, I was you. Making excuses.
Covering bruises. Telling myself it wasn't that bad, that he didn't mean it, that I probably deserved it anyway.
" I pause, letting the words sink in. "It took me three years to get out.
Three years of being too scared, too beaten down, too convinced that I was worthless without him. "
Jade's eyes are shining with unshed tears. "How did you—"
"Someone helped me. Gave me a safe place to go when I finally found the courage to leave.
" I reach across the desk, offering my hand.
After a moment, she takes it. "I'm not going to tell you what to do.
That's your choice. But if you ever need help—if you ever need somewhere safe—you come to me. Okay?"
She nods, tears spilling down her cheeks now, cutting tracks through the heavy makeup.
"I don't know if I can," she whispers. "He said he'd kill me if I ever tried to leave."
"They always say that." My grip tightens on her hand. "But you're stronger than you think. And you don't have to do it alone."
We sit there for a long moment, hands clasped across the desk, two survivors of the same war.
I don't know if Jade will ever find the courage to leave.
I hope she does. I hope she doesn't wait three years like I did.
But even if she's not ready, at least she knows she's not alone.
At least she knows there's someone who understands.
Sometimes that's enough to plant a seed.
That night, I tell Levi about Jade.
We're in his room—our room—lying in bed after a long day.
He listens without interrupting, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"You want to help her," he says when I finish.
It's not a question.
"I want to give her options. The same way you gave me options." I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Is that okay? I know she's just a dancer at the club, but—"
"She's not just anything." His voice is firm. "If she's being hurt, she deserves help. Same as anyone."
"Even if it causes problems? Her boyfriend might not take kindly to anyone getting involved."
"Then we deal with him." His jaw tightens. "I meant what I said at church. We don't hurt women. And we don't look the other way when other people hurt them either."
The words settle into me, warm and reassuring.
This is who he is. This is who the club is supposed to be.
Not just criminals and outlaws, but protectors. Family.
"I love you," I say.
His hand comes up to cup my face. "I love you too."
I lean down to kiss him, soft and slow.
When I pull back, his eyes are dark with something that makes my pulse quicken.