Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LUCKY
The second Lena tells me Savannah left, something cold drops straight into my gut. “She just… left?” I ask, like maybe if I say it out loud it’ll rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
Lena nods, chewing on her lip. “She said she wasn’t feeling good. Got a ride. Said she was safe.”
Safe doesn’t mean okay. Safe doesn’t explain why she didn’t say goodbye. Or why she didn’t answer my calls. Or why my chest feels like it’s caving in the longer I stand there pretending this is fine.
I turn without another word and cut through the bar, straight for the back hallway. Past the storage room. Past the staff-only door. Past the place where the music fades and the real business starts.
Riot clocks me immediately and falls in beside me, reading my body language like he always does. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I need you,” I say. “Now.”
That earns me a look, but he doesn’t slow down.
We hit the access door behind Perdition.
Riot punches in the code without breaking stride, the keypad blinking green as the lock clicks open.
The door swings wide and we step straight into the clubhouse, the part of the building most people don’t even know exists.
Concrete floors. Old leather. Oil and smoke and history soaked into the walls. Only brothers back here.
Riot leads the way down the hall and into his office. He doesn’t ask questions yet. Just shuts the door behind us and rounds his desk. “What happened?” he asks finally.
I pace once, then stop because I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t say it. “Savannah left. Out of nowhere. Won’t answer her phone. Something fucked up happened tonight, Riot. I don’t know what, but she didn’t just bounce for no reason.”
He studies me carefully. “Your woman?”
“I don’t even know if I get to call her that,” I snap, then scrub a hand over my face. “But yeah, her. I need her address.”
Riot exhales slowly, clearly not loving where this is going. “You know how this looks.”
“I know,” I say immediately. “And I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have to. I just need to make sure she’s okay. You know me, man. I’ll leave if she tells me to. I swear to you.”
He watches me for a long second. Long enough that I feel every damn second of it. Then he nods once. “Sit,” he says, already pulling his keyboard closer.
I drop into the chair across from him, leg bouncing like I’m wired to an outlet. Riot types fast, eyes sharp, expression tight. “You better not make me regret this,” he mutters.
“You won’t.”
He finds it, scribbles the address on a scrap of paper, then slides it across the desk to me. “This is it.”
I grab it like it might disappear.
“Lucky,” he says, stopping me before I turn away. “You don’t get to scare her.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “I just need to know she’s safe.”
He nods once. “Go.”
I don’t waste another second. I ride hard, engine snarling under me, night air cutting sharp against my face. When I pull up to her place, my stomach sinks.
All the lights are off. The house is dark. Quiet. Too quiet.
I kill the engine and stand there, helmet under my arm, staring at the front door like it might give me answers if I stare long enough.
She might not be home, I tell myself, or she could’ve passed out early.
I wait. Five minutes. Ten. I sit on the front porch steps, elbows on my knees, helmet resting between my boots.
I tell myself I’m being stupid. That this is crossing a line.
That I should leave, but I don’t. Because every instinct I have is screaming that she’s inside sleeping. Shutting the world out. Hurting.
I stay longer than I should. Long enough that the quiet starts to feel wrong. Then I hear it. A scream. Short. Raw. Terrified. My blood goes ice cold. I’m on my feet instantly, shoulder slamming into the door without hesitation. The lock gives with a crack, wood splintering as I burst inside.
“SAVANNAH!” I shout, already moving, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free of my chest.
I don’t think about the consequences. I don’t think about permission. All I know is that she screamed and nobody gets to hurt her, not my Firecracker.
I hit the bedroom doorway at a run and have to stop myself from charging the rest of the way in.
She’s in the bed.
Curled up tight, sheets twisted around her legs like she’s been fighting them, hair a rumpled mess against the pillow. Her eyes are open too wide, glossy and terrified, tracking the doorway like she’s braced for something to come through it.
Not me.
Two cats are pressed against her. One sprawled over her chest, kneading like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. The other crouched near her shoulder, tail puffed, hissing low at me until it recognizes I’m not the threat.
My chest locks up.
She looks beautiful and wrecked and scared out of her damn mind, and the sight of it makes something vicious curl in my gut.
“Firecracker,” I say, rough and urgent. “What’s wrong?”
She flinches anyway.
Shakes her head, throat tight, eyes still darting like the room won’t hold still. When she speaks, it barely clears her lips. “Lucky?”
I move immediately. Three long strides and I’m at the side of the bed, anger bleeding out of me the second I really look at her. The terror in her eyes punches harder than anything else could.
“Yeah, baby,” I say, softer now, steady on purpose. “It’s me.”
I crouch down beside the bed, putting myself lower, making sure I’m not looming over her. I’ve scared people before without meaning to. I won’t do that to her.
“What happened?” I ask quietly. “I heard you screaming.”
Her chest stutters on the inhale, like her lungs forgot the order of things. She looks distant, skin buzzing, eyes unfocused like part of her is still somewhere else.
“I… I thought…” She swallows hard. “I didn’t know if I was awake.”
That hits deeper than I’m ready for.
My hand lifts on instinct, then stops short. I hover instead, close enough she can see it, far enough she doesn’t feel trapped. It’s killing me not to touch her, not to pull her into my arms and lock the world out.
“You are,” I tell her quietly. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
I hold her gaze, let my voice do the work my hands can’t yet.
“Talk to me.”
And I swear to God, whatever did this to her is going to answer for it.
I wait.
That’s the hardest part. Not moving. Not touching. Letting her set the pace when every instinct in me is screaming to gather her up and lock her away from anything that’s ever hurt her.
Her breathing is still uneven, shallow little pulls of air like she doesn’t trust it to stay. The cat on her chest keeps purring, loud and insistent, like it’s trying to stitch her back together one vibration at a time.
“Can I get in?” I ask quietly, nodding toward the bed. “Just… sit with you?”
She hesitates. Just a beat. Then she nods.
I move slow, deliberate. I peel my boots off first, set them aside so the sound doesn’t spook her, then ease onto the mattress like it might break if I’m not careful. I don’t crowd her. I sit back against the headboard, legs stretched out, hands resting where she can see them.
After a second, I open my arm. An invitation. Nothing more.
She doesn’t move right away.
Then, inch by inch, she shifts closer. Her shoulder brushes my side. She exhales, shaky. I wrap my arm around her carefully, pulling her in until her head rests against my chest, my other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. I keep my grip loose. Protective, not possessive.
She melts into me like she’s been holding herself together with wire and it finally snapped.
We stay like that for a long time.
The house settles around us. The cats reposition, one wedging itself between us like it belongs there, the other curling against her hip. Her breathing evens out, but she stays quiet. Too quiet.
I don’t push.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than air.
“I used to be married.”
My chest tightens, but I don’t interrupt. I just nod, fingers tracing slow, grounding circles at her upper arm.
“His name was Brian,” she continues. “We met in college. He was charming. Funny. Everyone loved him.” She lets out a hollow little laugh. “I loved him.”
I stay still, let her talk.
She takes a breath like she’s bracing herself, like the words weigh something.
“I was… quiet back then,” she says. “Shy. I didn’t take up space the way I do now.”
My arm tightens around her, just a little.
“He made me feel special,” she continues. “Like I’d been chosen.” A pause. “Most men don’t fall for bigger girls like me. Not really. Not in a way that feels… serious.”
My chest aches at that. I keep my face calm, my body steady, because this isn’t about my reaction. It’s about her telling it.
“But he did,” she says. “At least, that’s what it felt like. He looked at me like I was rare. Like he saw me.” Her fingers curl tighter in my shirt. “He said he loved that I was soft. That I was different. That I made him feel needed.”
I swallow hard.
“And I believed him,” she whispers. “Because I wanted to. Because no one had ever looked at me like that before.”
She goes quiet again, the weight of it settling between us. I don’t rush her. I don’t fill the space with noise. I just breathe with her, slow and even, my hand warm at her back.
“That’s how it starts,” she says finally. “He made me feel like I was lucky he wanted me. Like I should be careful not to mess it up.”
My jaw tightens, but my voice stays gentle. “You weren’t lucky,” I say. “He was.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her head presses closer to my chest, like she’s listening to my heartbeat, like she’s checking whether it’s steady enough to trust.
“We got married young. Too young.” She swallows. “At first, he was good. Really good. Attentive. Protective in a way that felt… flattering.”
I close my eyes, rest my cheek against her hair, and hold her like she’s made of something precious. Because she is. And whoever convinced her otherwise doesn’t get to have a say anymore.
“After we got married, things started to change,” she says. “Slowly. So slowly I didn’t even notice at first.” Her fingers twist into my shirt. “He didn’t like my friends. Didn’t like what I wore. Didn’t like when I went out without him.”
Her body tenses under my arm. I tighten my hold just enough to remind her she’s not alone. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
“He said it was because he cared,” she whispers. “That he was just looking out for me. That nobody else would ever love me the way he did.” Her voice wavers, and I feel it then. The old damage. The way those words still have teeth.
“Then he started getting mean,” she says. “Little things at first. Comments. Jokes that weren’t really jokes. Ways of reminding me I should be grateful he was with me.”
My hand slides up to her hair, threading through it gently. “You didn’t deserve any of that,” I murmur, low and steady.
She nods like she hears me, but I don’t know if she believes it yet. “And then,” she says, so quietly it almost disappears, “he started to hurt me.”
My vision goes red at the edges. I don’t say his name. I don’t say anything that might pull her back into it. I just hold her tighter, press my lips to her hair, breathe with her until the tremor running through her eases a little.
She goes quiet again. For a long stretch, neither of us speaks. The room settles around us, soft and dim, the cats shifting like they’re standing guard. I feel her breathing slow, but her body stays tense, like she’s braced for something that hasn’t happened yet.
Then her hand moves. She rubs at her arm absently, thumb dragging back and forth over the ink like she’s trying to soothe an old ache. It’s casual. Unthinking. Something she’s probably done a thousand times.
My eyes follow the motion. The tattoo is beautiful. Dark lines, intentional, bold. I’ve noticed it before. Admired it. Thought it fit her. But this time, I see it differently.
Her fingers pause, pressing a little harder, and that’s when I feel it beneath the ink.
Raised skin. Not just texture from the tattoo.
Something uneven. Something older. Something that doesn’t belong.
My chest tightens as the pieces slide together with a sick, quiet click.
He didn’t just hurt her. He scarred her.
Bad enough that her skin remembers. Bad enough that she chose to cover it.
To turn pain into art. To make it hers instead of his.
I don’t say anything. Not yet. I don’t want to yank her out of this moment or make her feel like she needs to explain something she’s already lived through.
I just slide my hand down slowly and lay it over hers, following the path of her fingers, grounding her touch with mine. I don’t press. I don’t trace the scars. I just hold her there, skin to skin, letting her know I see it. All of it.
Her breath catches. “I know,” she whispers, like she can feel the realization land in me. “It was easier to cover them than explain.”
My jaw locks. I force myself to breathe through the rage clawing up my spine.
“He doesn’t get to own that anymore,” I say quietly. “Not your skin. Not your story.”
She nods once, eyes closing, like the words settle somewhere deep.
I bend my head and press a gentle kiss to her hair, then another to her temple. Slow. Careful. Reverent. Ink or scars, soft or strong, broken or healing. She’s here. She’s alive.