Chapter Thirty
Logan
Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I love
I'll take a risk, take a chance, make a change
And break away
‘Breakaway’ - Kelly Clarkson
I stay in the hallway, half in shadow, the door cracked just enough to see her. The light from inside spills across the floor, thin and golden, brushing against my boots but not pulling me in. I stay where I am, rooted, because this moment doesn’t belong to me.
She’s standing in the middle of the clubhouse, property patch draped over her shoulders like armor, boots planted like she owns the ground under them, which she does.
She looks steady, unshaken, like the earth itself would have to shift to move her.
Her chin is high, her shoulders back, her spine a line of steel wrapped in fire.
That’s my girl.
But right now, she doesn’t belong to me.
She belongs to herself.
And I’ve never seen anything more fucking beautiful in my life.
Her voice carries through the room. She’s speaking to the women…no, not just speaking.
Commanding.
Every word rings clear, sharp as glass, and there is no mistaking the authority in it.
There’s fire in her voice, truth in every syllable, and it pours out of her like it was waiting all this time to finally be heard.
She isn’t saying it for show. She isn’t chasing pity or applause. She isn’t asking for anything at all.
She’s giving something.
Permission. Strength. A reminder that broken doesn’t mean ruined.
Her voice shakes once, just once. And when it does, every woman in the circle leans in. Not because she needs saving, not because she’s fragile, but because they recognize themselves in her. Because they know what it means to tremble and keep standing anyway.
I bite the inside of my cheek, jaw tight, fists pressed into my sides like I need to anchor myself in place. Didn’t know pride could hurt like this. Didn’t know it could burn straight through bone and muscle until all that’s left is this raw ache in the middle of my chest.
Didn’t know love could feel like being cracked open just to let more of her light in.
Months ago, I held her shaking body in my arms, kissed tears off her cheeks, and watched her shatter into pieces I didn’t know if I’d be able to help her put back together. I swore I’d never let her fall alone again.
But now… now she doesn’t need me to hold her up. She’s rising on her own. God, she’s fucking radiant.
My chest tightens when she says the words, her voice ringing out steady and strong: “This isn’t a symbol of belonging. It’s a damn crown.”
I freeze. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let the words slam into me, sharp and holy, like they were meant to carve themselves into the marrow of my bones.
The room answers her with quiet applause. It isn’t raucous or wild, but the sound carries weight. It shakes deeper than any war cry, louder than any cheer I’ve ever heard after a fight. It is respect, pure and unwavering, and it fills the space like thunder rolling through the walls.
She’s earned every second of this. Every heartbeat. Every echo of reverence that vibrates the air around her.
I run a hand through my hair, trying like hell to steady the storm inside me.
My pulse thunders, my chest aches, my throat burns.
I’ve fought men twice my size. I’ve taken bullets and bled out in the dirt.
I’ve buried brothers and stood through wars.
But this, watching her stand in her power, refusing to be small, choosing to be louder than the silence that tried to swallow her…
this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
And it makes me fall in love with her all over again.
Not because she came through the fire. But because she came through it and didn’t let it burn away her softness. Because she held on to her strength without losing her soul. Because she is both survivor and queen, battle-marked and beautiful, scarred and shining.
I don’t go in. Not yet. This is her space. Her moment. She needs it without me casting a shadow over it.
But when she looks toward the door, I know she sees me. Not with her eyes, those stay steady on the women around her, but with something deeper. Something that ties us together in a way words will never touch.
She knows I’m here. Always.
Watching. Waiting. Loving her in every form she takes. Wrecked or radiant. Bare or battle-ready. Mine or her own.
And when she finally turns, walking off the makeshift stage with her chin high and her back straight, she doesn’t just move like a woman who survived. She moves like the queen she is.
I make a silent promise to her, the woman who just crowned herself in front of a room full of warriors.
No matter what tomorrow looks like, I’ll be there.
Not to lead.
Not to follow.
But to walk beside her.
Because that’s where a king belongs.
Next to his queen.
***
The engine rumbles under me like a living thing, low and steady, the kind of vibration I can feel all the way in my bones. It has always been my second heartbeat, the rhythm I trust when everything else feels uncertain. But it’s not the bike that makes this moment feel right.
It’s her.
Mac stands beside me, sliding on her helmet. The leather she wears hugs her frame like it was made for her, the braid in her hair neat and strong down her back. She looks ready to take on the world, and maybe for the first time, I know without question that she can. That she already has.
Because she is not the same woman who once trembled in my arms, afraid she might never stand on her own again.
I’ve seen her broken.
I’ve seen her bleed.
I’ve seen her fight for air when the weight of the past tried to crush her.
And now, I get to see her free.
She swings her leg over my bike, sliding in behind me.
That space has felt empty without her there, like the machine itself never breathed fully without her body pressed to mine.
These past months, she has grown into her own independence, into a fire that doesn’t need anyone else to stoke it.
She’s driving herself forward, no brakes, full throttle, like the road is finally hers to claim.
I grin under my helmet, can’t help it. Pride surges through me, hot and fierce, until I can barely hold it in.
Her arms tighten around my middle, steady and sure. She gives me one small nod.
We don’t need words.
We never really have.
I fire up my bike, the growl cutting through the quiet, echoing off the clubhouse walls.
In the mirror, the building shrinks behind us until it’s nothing more than shadow and memory.
We roll out onto the open road, the sun hanging low, slanting through the trees like it knows it’s part of something sacred.
The light is golden, soft, and it paints the moment like a scene out of a film, unreal in its beauty yet real enough to make my chest ache.
One bike. Two souls. No sound but the wind and the engine.
We ride together.
Not leader and follower.
Not protector and survivor.
Just Logan and Mac.
Man and woman.
Every time I glance back, she is there. Her helmet tilts just enough that I catch the lift of her head, the looseness in her shoulders, the curve of her mouth. It is a smile I haven’t seen in too long, the kind that carries no weight, no performance.
It is not the one she forces when someone at the clubhouse asks if she’s okay. It is not the one she gives me when she thinks I need reassurance.
This one is hers. Wild, reckless, defiant against every ghost that tried to steal it.
And, it undoes me.
I want to pull the bike over right then, strip off the helmet, and tell her everything that claws at my chest. That I am proud of her. That I am grateful beyond words that I get to ride this road with her. That every breath she takes feels like a gift I don’t deserve.
We ride for miles, letting the wind carry the rest of the world away. The past falls behind us with every turn of the wheels. The pain, the shadows, the memories that used to choke her, they don’t vanish, but they loosen their grip, left behind on the asphalt as the horizon opens wide.
It’s just pavement and possibility.
Eventually, I pull us into a quiet overlook.
The bike slows, the engine rumbling softer until I cut it off, leaving only silence, the kind that hums with everything unsaid.
Both of us are breathing heavy, not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline and freedom, like the ride itself filled our lungs with new life.
She takes off her helmet, shaking out her braid, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with the kind of light that can’t be dimmed. It is not just happiness. It is victory. It is survival wrapped in fire.
I pull mine off too, the cool air brushing my sweat-damp hair, and I just look at her. For a second, I forget to breathe.
“You good?” I ask, my voice rough, because all the words I want to say have tangled in my throat.
She steps off the bike, her boots crunching gravel, and moves close until she is pressed against me. Her palms rest flat against my chest, warm through my shirt, grounding me like she always has.
“I’m better,” she says. And I know she means it.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight, and press my forehead against hers. The world fades until it is only her heartbeat against mine. “We ride forward now. No looking back.”
Her lips curve in the softest smile, and she nods. “Then let’s go.”
And we do.
Together.
Because the road ahead isn’t just open.
It’s ours.
Forever.