Chapter Eighteen
ELIZABETH
The sequined dress feels like a costume I can’t shed fast enough.
I peel it off the moment I stumble through my apartment door, the fabric snagging on my hips before pooling at my feet like evidence.
The silver threads catch the morning light streaming through my window, and for a moment, I just stare at it—this beautiful lie I wore while crossing every line I swore I wouldn’t.
My hands shake with adrenaline.
They haven’t stopped since I left the precinct.
Get it together, Victoria… Elizabeth. Whoever the hell you are.
The bathroom mirror reflects a stranger back at me. Smudged mascara creates dark shadows beneath my eyes. My hair is still pinned from the night before, a few strands falling loose around my face. There’s a mark on my neck—faint, but unmistakable.
Sin’s mouth, Sin’s teeth, Sin’s claim.
I press my fingers against it, and my stomach clenches at the memory.
I should feel disgusted with myself.
I should look at that mark and be repulsed.
But all it does is want his hands all over me again. His mouth in places it certainly shouldn’t be.
Clenching my eyes shut, I let out a frustrated groan.
The shower calls to me like absolution I don’t deserve, so I open my eyes, moving to the alcove. I twist the faucet as hot as it will go, steam billowing into the small space within seconds. Moving inside, the water hits my skin with punishing heat, but I don’t adjust it.
I want it to hurt.
I want it to wash away the guilt that’s settled into my bones, the smell of his cologne that still clings to my hair, the memory of his hands on my body.
I scrub at my skin until it’s red and raw, but I can still feel him.
Every touch, every kiss, every moment I let myself forget why I was really there.
Marcus.
His name hits me like a physical blow, and I brace my hands against the tile wall, letting the water cascade over my neck and head. My brother’s face flashes through my mind—his laugh, the way he used to ruffle my hair, the last time I saw him alive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the steam. “I’m so sorry.”
But sorry doesn’t change what I did. Sorry doesn’t erase the fact that I protected them in that briefing room, and that I willingly withheld evidence from Moretti. That I’m falling for the very man who might have answers about Marcus’ death, but I’m too much of a coward to ask the hard questions.
The hot water starts to run cold, shocking me back to reality.
I shut it off and stand here dripping, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s taking pieces of me with it.
Letting out a long exhale, I know I can’t stand here and wallow, so I dry off mechanically, my movements automatic.
Then I reach for my clothes, the armor that reminds me who I am supposed to be.
Dark jeans that hug my hips. A black tank top. My worn leather jacket that smells like home, like the person I was before I met Sin. Combat boots that make me feel grounded, powerful, ready for whatever comes next.
I drag a brush through my wet hair, not bothering to style it. Let it air dry. Let it be messy. This version of me doesn’t have to be perfect. But as I look at myself one last time before leaving, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m putting on another costume. Just trading one mask for another.
Who are you really, Victoria?
I don’t have an answer.
The clubhouse is only a twenty-minute drive, but it feels like I’m traveling to a different planet. With every mile, my anxiety ratchets higher. My fingers drum against the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm I can’t control.
Ghost’s face keeps flashing through my mind. That look he gave me in the parking lot during the New Year’s party was skeptical. Knowing. Like he could see right through me.
I park in the lot and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt.
Through the windshield, I see the clubhouse.
It looks different in the afternoon light, less intimidating, more like a home.
Empty beer bottles are stacked near the entrance, evidence of last night’s celebration.
A few bikes are parked haphazardly, their owners probably still sleeping off their hangovers.
“You can do this. Just act normal. Be Elizabeth,” I murmur to myself.
I grab my camera bag from the passenger seat, my journalist cover, my excuse for being here, and force myself out of the car. Each step toward the entrance feels weighted, like I’m walking through water.
The door swings open easily. Inside, the clubhouse has that lived-in, morning-after feel.
Nitro is sprawled on one of the couches, an arm thrown over his eyes.
Deek shuffles past me toward the kitchen, grunting what might be a greeting.
Someone, I think it’s Mace, groans from somewhere deeper in the building.
“Hey, Elizabeth,” Ro calls from behind the bar, where she’s organizing bottles. She looks surprisingly fresh for someone who was drinking heavily last night. “You want coffee? Pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping anyone vertical today.”
“I’m good, thanks.” My voice sounds almost normal.
Almost.
I lift my camera, pretending to survey the space for good shots. Through the viewfinder, everything feels distant, manageable. I snap a few pictures of the aftermath, the decorations still hanging, the evidence of celebration, the brothers in various states of recovery.
But my heart isn’t in it.
Instead, my heart is hammering against my ribs, screaming at me to run.
“Elizabeth,” the voice behind me is flat, emotionless. I freeze mid-shot, my finger still on the shutter button.
Ghost.
I lower the camera slowly and turn to face him. He’s standing in the hallway, his expression unreadable. No smile. No casual toothpick in his mouth. Just a cold, calculating assessment.
“Need you in the den. Now!”
The words land like a death sentence.
Around us, the clubhouse continues its lazy recovery. No one seems to notice the tension crackling in the air between us. No one sees the way my palms begin to sweat or how the color drains from my face.
“Sure,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t crack. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks toward his domain, clearly expecting me to follow.
Every step feels like walking toward the gallows. The distance to his den feels like it’s taking forever rather than mere seconds, my boots echoing on the floor. My mind races through possibilities, excuses, escape routes. But I’m trapped, and we both know it.
Did someone see me at the precinct?
Did they follow me?
Did Ghost find something I missed in his den?
Does Sin already know?
The thought of Sin’s face when he finds out I have betrayed him makes my chest constrict. Those dark eyes that soften when they look at me, turning hard and cold.
Disgusted.
Betrayed.
Ghost reaches his door and punches in the code. The lock clicks open, and he gestures for me to enter first.
I step inside, and the door closes behind us with a finality that makes my pulse spike.
The tech den looks exactly as I left it—pristine, organized, every monitor glowing with information I can barely comprehend. Ghost moves past me to his command center, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he says conversationally, not looking at me.
I swallow hard. “I figured you’d tell me.”
“I always review my security footage.” His voice is still casual, but there’s an edge to it now. “Every morning. Without fail. Especially when it alerts me that there was movement in my den, and someone tried to access files.”
My heart stops.
Actually stops.
I feel the moment it happens, the split second where everything inside me seizes up in pure, terror.
He clicks something on his screen, and my worst nightmare materializes in high definition.
Me.
In this very room.
In the middle of the day, thinking I was so careful, so clever.
The footage shows everything.
Me punching in the code.
Me entering the den.
Me rifling through files.
Me trying to access his computer.
Searching, desperately, for anything about Marcus.
“Imagine my surprise…” Ghost says, his tone deadly calm, “… when I saw this.”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I can’t do anything but stare at the screen as it plays my betrayal on loop.
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Ghost finally turns to face me, his eyes hard as flint. “I can show this to Sin right now. Let him deal with you however he sees fit…” He pauses, letting that image sink in. “Or… you can tell me what the fuck you were looking for?”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with threat and possibility. My brain screams at me to lie, to deflect, to do anything but tell the truth.
But I’m so tired of lying.
I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on.
If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging.
“I was looking for information about Marcus Delaney.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
“I’m an investigative journalist. I know when something doesn’t add up, Ghost. His death was ruled an accident, but the pieces don’t fit. I need to know what really happened.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or calculation.
“Why?” The question cuts through the air like a blade. “Why him specifically?”
This is the moment.
The calculated risk.
The gamble that could save me or damn me completely.
“Because I think this club is hiding something about his death.” I take a step closer, injecting every ounce of conviction into my words. “You brought me here to show what you’re really about. Good, bad, and ugly. Which category does Marcus Delaney fall under, Ghost?”
For a long moment, he simply stares at me.
I see him weighing options, running scenarios, deciding whether to believe me or drag me to Sin.
Then he scrubs a hand over his beard, jaw working like he’s chewing on something bitter.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “It’s not my place to decide if we tell you. But we need to talk to Sin. Now.”
Before I can respond, his hand wraps around my arm, not violently, but firmly enough that I know there’s no escape.
He pulls me toward the door, back into the main room.
The moment we emerge, conversations stop.
Brothers look up from their coffee, their card games, their hangovers.
All eyes track our movement across the clubhouse.
Nitro pushes himself up from the couch, concern etching lines in his forehead. “Ghost? What’s going on?”
“Need the pres,” Ghost says shortly, not breaking stride.
The tension in the room skyrockets. Everyone can sense it. Something significant is happening, something that could change everything.
My legs feel like water, but I force them to keep moving. Each step brings me closer to the inevitable confrontation.
Closer to Sin finding out who I really am.
What I’ve done.
This is it. No more running. No more hiding.
The truth is coming, and I have no idea if it will save me or destroy me.
But as Ghost leads me through the clubhouse, past brothers who have become almost like family, and toward the man I can’t stop thinking about even as I betray him, I realize something terrifying.
I don’t know which outcome I’m more afraid of.
And that, more than anything else, tells me just how deep I’ve fallen.
How completely I’ve lost myself in this world I was supposed to infiltrate and destroy.
I think I’m about to find out the truth Marcus died for.
I just hope I survive it.