Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Ophelia
I stood frozen in the doorway, one hand clutching Dante's small fingers while the other gripped the strap of my purse like it might anchor me to reality.
The house before me looked nothing like what I'd imagined a biker's home would be—no beer cans littering the lawn, no motorcycles parts scattered across the driveway.
Just a modest ranch-style house with neatly trimmed hedges and a freshly swept walkway.
This was it. Our new home. The place where Dante and I would either rebuild our lives or discover we'd made another terrible mistake.
"You can go in," Razor said from behind me, his voice gentle as he balanced our bags. "It's yours now too."
I nodded, my throat suddenly tight, and stepped across the threshold.
The interior surprised me even more than the exterior.
No dirty dishes piled in sinks, no lingering smell of stale beer and cigarettes.
Instead, hardwood floors gleamed beneath my feet, and the furniture, while clearly chosen for function over style, looked solid and well-maintained.
A large leather couch faced a decent-sized television, with a coffee table between them that bore only a remote control and a motorcycle magazine, neatly centered.
"You... clean," I said, immediately regretting how stupid it sounded.
Razor's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Expecting a pigsty?"
"Maybe," I admitted, watching as Dante broke free of my grip to investigate a bookshelf across the room. "I just thought—"
"That all bikers live in filth?" He set our bags down by the couch. "I like order. Helps me think."
I felt my cheeks warm. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." He shrugged, those massive shoulders rising and falling beneath his leather cut. "Come on. I'll show you around."
The tour was brief but revealing. Kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a surprisingly well-stocked pantry.
Small dining area with a solid wood table and four chairs.
A hallway leading to what Razor called his office—a room with a desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a large safe I pretended not to notice.
"And this," he said, pushing open a door near the end of the hallway, "is our room."
Our room. The words sent a flutter through my stomach as I stepped inside.
A king-sized bed dominated the space, its dark blue comforter military-precise in its placement.
Nightstands on either side, a dresser against one wall, and a door that presumably led to the bathroom.
Nothing frilly or decorative. Nothing that hinted a woman had ever spent time here.
I wondered how many others had been in this room before me, then quickly pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter. We were here now.
"Bathroom's through there," Razor confirmed, nodding toward the door. "Got a new toothbrush for you. Towels in the cabinet."
Such simple things—a toothbrush, towels—but they represented a consideration I wasn't used to. Tyler had never once thought about what I might need. Had expected me to manage everything while he took what he wanted.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it.
He nodded, then his expression changed, a spark of excitement flickering across his features. "Got one more room to show you. Best one in the house."
He led us back down the hallway to a closed door, then paused, looking down at Dante who'd been trailing us silently, taking everything in with those observant eyes that missed nothing.
"This one's for you, little man," Razor said, pushing the door open with a flourish.
I gasped. The room was nothing like I'd expected.
Where the rest of the house was practical and sparse, this space had been transformed with a child's needs in mind.
A race car bed with a blue comforter. A bookshelf filled with children's books.
A wooden chest overflowing with toys. Walls painted a soft blue that matched Dante's favorite color perfectly.
Even a small desk with crayons and paper neatly arranged on top.
"You did all this?" I whispered, watching as Dante darted inside, his face lit with wonder.
"Had some help," Razor admitted. "Got the list of stuff you mentioned in Vegas and filled in the gaps." He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking almost shy. "Wanted the kid to feel at home right away."
"A car bed!" Dante exclaimed, climbing onto it and bouncing experimentally. "Mom, look! And toys!" He scrambled toward the chest, pulling out action figures and toy cars with growing excitement.
I blinked rapidly, fighting the burning behind my eyes. This man—this virtual stranger I'd married in Vegas just days ago—had put more thought into my son's comfort than his own father ever had.
"It's perfect," I managed, my voice rough with emotion.
Razor's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he'd been genuinely concerned about our approval. "Good. That's good."
As Dante explored his new domain, I began noticing details I'd missed on first glance. The small camera mounted discreetly in the corner of the hallway. Another visible through the kitchen window, aimed at the backyard. Heavy-duty deadbolts on the front and back doors.
"Security system?" I asked, pointing toward a keypad near the front entrance.
Razor followed my gaze. "Top of the line.
Motion sensors on all windows and doors.
Cameras covering every approach to the property.
" He spoke matter-of-factly, as if these extreme measures were perfectly normal.
"Code's 5283. Need to enter it within thirty seconds of opening any door or it calls both the security company and my cell. "
I nodded, committing the numbers to memory. "And the cameras?"
"Feed goes to my phone and the club's security office. Someone's always watching."
The reminder of the constant threat hanging over us sent a chill down my spine, despite the warmth of the house. Tyler was still out there. My parents were still searching. The bubble of Vegas had burst, reality crashing back in with all its sharp edges.
While Dante played with his new toys, I began unpacking our few belongings, hanging clothes in the closet Razor had cleared for me.
The space smelled like him—leather and that spicy scent I still couldn't identify.
I ran my fingers along the empty hangers, trying to imagine my things mingling with his, our lives intertwining in this most basic of ways.
A sharp buzz interrupted my thoughts. Razor pulled out his phone, his expression hardening as he read whatever message had come through. The transformation was immediate—the relaxed man who'd proudly shown us Dante's room vanished, replaced by the hard-eyed biker I'd first met at the motel.
"I need to go," he said, tucking the phone away. "Club business. Shouldn't be long."
Fear prickled along my spine. "Now? We just got here."
"Can't be helped." His voice was clipped, professional. "Keep the doors locked. Don't answer if anyone knocks. If there's trouble..." He crossed to the nightstand on what was apparently his side of the bed, opening the drawer to reveal a handgun. "Know how to use one of these?"
I nodded, swallowing hard. "My brother taught me."
"Good." He checked the safety before closing the drawer. "It stays loaded. One in the chamber. Just point and pull if you need it."
My hands trembled slightly as he pressed a cool metal key into my palm. His fingers lingered against mine, rough calluses brushing my skin in that brief contact. "I'll be back soon," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Promise."
I clutched the key, this small piece of metal that represented so much—trust, commitment, a future I was still trying to believe in.
"We'll be here," I replied, the words simple, but heavy with meaning.
He nodded once, his eyes holding mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then turned to leave. I followed him to the front door, watching as he reset the alarm, explaining the process one more time before stepping outside.
Then he was gone, the rumble of his motorcycle fading into the distance as I locked the door behind him. Alone now in this unfamiliar house that was supposedly our home, I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door and took a deep breath.
"Mom? Can we have a snack?" Dante called from his room, blissfully oblivious to the undercurrents of fear and uncertainty swirling around us.
"Coming, baby," I answered, pocketing the key Razor had given me.
One step at a time. That's all we could do now.
Razor
I gunned the throttle of my Harley, the powerful vibration between my legs a welcome distraction from the thoughts crowding my brain.
Three days ago, I'd been single, focused solely on club business and keeping our books balanced.
Now I had a wife and kid waiting for me at home.
Home. The word felt different now, heavier with meaning.
I flexed my left hand on the handlebar, the unfamiliar weight of the gold band catching the afternoon sun.
The road stretched before me, but for the first time in years, my mind wasn't on the journey ahead—it was on what I'd left behind.
The text from Mustang had been typically brief: "Church.
Now." No explanation, no details, just the expectation of immediate compliance.
Any other time, I would've dropped everything without question.
Club business always came first. But today, watching Ophelia's face fall as I told her I had to leave, reluctance hit me hard and fast. Every instinct that usually pushed me toward the road pulled in the opposite direction instead.