Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Regnor
"I wanna be more than that."
The words echo in my head like a fucking broken record, taunting me with their truth.
Three days since Thanksgiving, and I can't stop thinking about Everly standing on that deck, bruises barely hidden under her sleeves, fear radiating from every pore.
I shouldn't have said it.
I should've kept my mouth shut like I always do.
But watching her flinch when that piece of shit's name came up, seeing the way she held herself like she was ready to run—something in me snapped.
Now I'm sitting on my bike outside the fire station like some kind of stalker, watching for her car.
She hasn't been to work in days.
Vail mentioned it yesterday at the clubhouse, obviously concerned.
"Third time in two weeks," she'd said. "That's not like Everly at all."
No, it's not.
The Everly I've watched from afar for years, never misses work.
She's dedicated, professional, the kind of person who shows up even when she's sick because she can't stand the thought of letting anyone down.
But that was before Dylan fucking Mitchell got his claws into her.
I drain the last of my coffee, black and bitter like my mood.
The thing is, I've got no right to be here.
No claim on her.
She's not mine to protect, not mine to watch over.
Hell, Kraken made it crystal clear years ago—hands off Everly.
Let her have a normal life away from the club.
But normal doesn't include being some asshole's punching bag, and I won't sit back and let this shit happen.
My phone buzzes.
Text from Tor about a run tomorrow, something about checking on our contacts after the Patriot's downfall.
I send back a quick confirmation, but my mind's not on club business right now.
It's on the blonde curly-haired woman who looked at me with those sage green eyes and asked if I really thought she was worth protecting.
Like there was any fucking doubt.
A familiar car pulls into the station's parking lot, and I straighten.
But it's not Everly—it's Gwen, arriving for her shift.
Which means Everly should have been here an hour ago if she was coming in.
"Fuck it," I mutter, starting my truck.
I know where Dylan lives.
Did my homework after Thanksgiving, couldn't help myself.
Upscale apartment complex on the other side of town, the kind of place where they don't ask questions as long as your check clears.
The drive takes twenty minutes, twenty minutes of telling myself this is a bad idea.
I'm crossing lines here, getting involved in shit that's not my business.
But I can't shake the image of those bruises, can't forget the way she said "I can handle it" like she was trying to convince herself more than me.
My mother's voice drifts through my memory, weak and thready from her hospital bed. "Promise me something, baby. Promise me you'll never be like the men who hurt me. Promise you'll protect the ones who can't protect themselves."
I was twelve.
She died two hours later, leaving me with that promise and nothing else.
The apartment complex looms ahead, all glass and steel and money.
I pull into a spot across the street with a clear view of the exit.
I'm not going up there—I'm not that far gone.
But if she's in there, I want to see her leave.
Want to make sure she's okay.
An hour passes.
Then two. I'm about to give up when I finally see her.
Everly stumbles out of the building like she's drunk, but I know better.
That's not alcohol making her move so carefully.
That's pain.
She's holding something around herself—a man's robe from the look of it—and even from here, I can see she's in distress.
"Motherfucker," I growl, hands tightening on my handlebars.
She makes it to her car, movements slow and deliberate.
When she turns to check for traffic, I get a glimpse of her face.
Pale. Tear-stained. Dead eyes that make my chest ache.
I wait until she pulls out, then follow at a distance.
Not too close—the last thing she needs is to think someone's tailing her, but not so far that I lose sight of her either.
She drives carefully, probably on autopilot.
Takes the direct route to her apartment, no stops.
Good. At least she's being safe about that.
I know where she lives—did that homework too.
Small complex closer to downtown, decent neighborhood, but nothing fancy.
The kind of place a woman on an EMT's salary can afford.
She parks and sits in her car for long minutes before finally getting out.
The way she moves, slow and pained, makes rage burn in my gut.
What did that bastard do to her?
I watch her make it inside, wait another ten minutes to make sure she's not coming back out.
Then I drive around the block, wrestling with myself.
I should go home.
Should forget this whole thing, let her handle her own problems like she said.
Should respect her wishes and her privacy and all that shit.
Instead, I park and get off my bike.
Her apartment's on the second floor.
I can see her lights on, shadows moving behind the curtains.
She's home. She's safe. That should be enough.
It's not.
My feet carry me up the stairs before my brain catches up.
This is insane.
She barely knows me beyond being another face at the club.
What am I gonna say? "Hey, I followed you home from your abusive boyfriend's place, just checking in?"
But I'm already knocking, three sharp raps that echo in the quiet hallway.
Movement inside stops, then there’s a long pause, then footsteps approaching slowly.
The peephole goes dark—she's checking who it is.
Another long pause. I can practically feel her debating whether to answer.
"Everly," I say, keeping my voice low. "It's Regnor. From the club."
Like she doesn't know who I am.
Like I haven't been watching her for years, keeping my distance like a good soldier, respecting boundaries I never wanted to acknowledge.
The deadbolt turns, then another lock, and then a chain slides back.
Girl's got good security habits at least.
The door opens a crack, and there she is.
She's changed clothes—soft pants and an oversized sweatshirt that probably hides more damage.
Her face is freshly washed, but I can see the puffiness around her eyes, the careful way she's holding herself.
"Regnor?" Her voice is hoarse, like she's been crying. "What are you doing here?"
Good fucking question. "Wanted to check on you. After Thanksgiving, I... I was worried."
Something flickers in her eyes, maybe she’s surprised.
When's the last time someone checked on her just because they gave a damn?
"I'm fine," she says automatically.
"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended. "You look like hell."
A broken laugh escapes her. "Thanks. Real charming."
"Can I come in?"
She hesitates, and I see the war on her face.
The smart thing would be to send me away.
But something—loneliness, pain, or maybe just exhaustion—wins out.
"Yeah," she says softly, stepping back. "Okay."
Her apartment is small but clean, organized.
Nothing like the cold perfection of Dylan's place.
This looks lived-in.
Comfortable.
There's a blanket thrown over the couch, books stacked on the coffee table, pictures on the walls.
It looks like her.
"Want some coffee?" she asks, hovering uncertainly.
"Sure."
I follow her to the tiny kitchen, noting how she moves.
Stiff. Careful. Protecting her ribs, maybe, or her back.
The rage builds higher, but I keep it locked down.
The last thing she needs is another angry man in her space.
She busies herself with the coffee maker, movements automatic.
I lean against the counter, studying her.
Up close, I can see finger marks on her throat, faint but visible.
The kind that'll bloom into purple bruises by tomorrow.
"You don't have to pretend," I say quietly.
Her hands still on the coffee pot. "Pretend what?"
"That you're okay. That he didn't hurt you." I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. "I saw you leaving his place."
She turns sharply, then winces at the movement. "You were watching me?"
"Was worried when you weren't at work. Wanted to make sure you were all right."
"So you stalked me?" There's no real heat in it, just what seems to me like exhaustion.
"Yeah," I admit. "I did. And I'd do it again."
She stares at me for a long moment, then surprises me by laughing.
Not the broken sound from before, but something with actual humor in it. "At least you're honest about it."
"No point in lying." I shrug. "You've got enough of that in your life."
The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the silence. She turns back to it, but I catch the way her shoulders shake slightly.
"Why do you care?" she asks, so quiet I almost miss it.
"You know why."
"Because of what you said on Thanksgiving?" She still won't look at me. "That you want to be more than... family?"
"Because you deserve better than what he's doing to you." I move closer, careful not to crowd her. "Because watching you pretend everything's fine when you show up with new bruises makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Because?—"
"Stop." She turns, and there are tears on her cheeks. "Please. I can't... I can't hear this right now."
"Then what can you hear?" I ask. "What do you need?"
She looks at me like I've asked something impossible.
Maybe I have.
When's the last time anyone asked what she needed instead of just taking?
"I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know anything anymore."
"That's okay," I tell her. "You don't have to know. But you also don't have to do this alone."
"Yes, I do." She wipes at her cheeks angrily. "You don't understand. He's connected. He knows things about the club, about the Patriot situation. He's got pictures, information. If I leave, if I fight back, people get hurt."
"People are already getting hurt," I point out. "You're getting hurt."
"Better me than—" She cuts herself off, but I can fill in the blank.
Better her than her family. Better her than the club. Better her than anyone else.
Fucking martyr complex.