Chapter 3
Rook
The ride back to the clubhouse should’ve cleared his head.
It didn’t.
Rain slicked the pavement, spraying up from his tires as he tore down the back roads. The storm had thinned to a cold drizzle, but the wind still cut through his clothes, sharp enough to sting. He welcomed it. Pain was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.
His breath fogged inside the helmet, hot and uneven. He cracked the visor open, letting the cold slap him in the face. Didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Avery Brooks.
Her name alone was enough to make his chest tighten, a slow, familiar ache he’d spent seven years trying to bury.
Seven years of pretending he didn’t remember the sound of her laugh.
Seven years of forcing himself not to look at the bakery every time he rode past. Seven years of convincing himself he’d imagined the way she used to look at him, soft and trusting, like he was something good.
And then tonight she’d looked at him like she didn’t know him at all.
His grip tightened on the handlebars, knuckles white under his gloves.
He was riding past the bakery like he always did when the storm hit. He’d recognized the beat-up compact before he recognized the woman inside it. Avery’s Aunt Clara had driven that car for years, and he’d jump-started it more times than he could count.
Avery was crying. Alone. In the rain. In front of Sweet Treats.
Her hair plastered to her cheeks. Her hands shaking. Her voice small and wrecked. The kind of broken that hit him in places he didn’t let anyone see.
He’d carried her inside before he even realized he’d moved.
Stupid. Weak. Predictable.
Old instincts came back too fast. Protecting her was too easy. Seeing her again hurt too damn much. And she still felt like home — that was the part that gutted him.
The road curved sharply, and he leaned into it harder than he should’ve. The back tire skidded, fishtailing for a heartbeat before catching again. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t care. Let the storm take a swing at him. Let the road try to throw him.
Nothing could hit harder than the memory that slammed into him next.
He hadn’t meant to remember this. He never let himself remember this.
He was seventeen, walking home from the spring dance. Avery’s heels dangled from her fingers, her bare feet padding softly on the pavement. She kept brushing her hair behind her ear, cheeks still flushed from dancing, from laughing, from being the brightest thing in the room.
He remembered thinking she didn’t even know she glowed.
“You didn’t have to walk me home,” she’d said, though she’d looked at him like she was glad he did.
“Yeah, I did,” he’d answered, because he always did.
A breeze picked up, cool against the warm night. She shivered. Without thinking, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It swallowed her whole. She smiled down at it, fingers curling into the sleeves like she was holding onto something precious.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He couldn’t look at her for a second. Not when she sounded like that.
They reached the corner where their streets split. She stopped, turning toward him, the streetlight catching the gold in her brown eyes. She stepped closer — too close — her breath warm in the space between them.
“Noah?” she whispered.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, chewing her lip, eyes flicking to his mouth before darting away. “Do you ever… think about things being different?”
He knew what she meant. God, he knew.
He opened his mouth.
He almost said it. Almost told her he thought about it every damn day. Almost closed the distance between them. Almost touched her the way he’d wanted to for years.
But fear won.
Fear of ruining what they had. Fear of not being enough. Fear of losing her before he ever had her.
So he shoved his hands in his pockets and said the safest, stupidest thing he could’ve said.
“You should get home. It’s late.”
Avery’s face fell, just a flicker, but he saw it. She nodded, stepped back, and whispered, “Goodnight, Noah.”
He watched her walk away.
He didn’t sleep right for weeks.
Another memory hit him before he could shove the first one back down.
Avery stood on the curb, suitcase by her feet, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail she kept redoing because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She was trying to smile. Trying to be brave. Trying to pretend she wasn’t ripping his world out from under him.
“Noah,” she’d whispered, voice trembling. “Say something.”
He had. Just not the right thing.
“You’ll do great,” he’d said, hands shoved deep in his pockets so she wouldn’t see them shake. “College is… it’s good for you.”
Her eyes had searched his face, desperate, hopeful, begging for something he didn’t know how to give.
Begging him to ask her to stay.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He was eighteen and stupid and terrified of ruining the only good thing he’d ever had. Terrified she’d stay and regret it. Terrified he wasn’t enough.
So he stood there like a coward while she hugged him tight, her face pressed into his chest, her breath shaking against him.
“Goodbye, Noah,” she’d whispered.
He hadn’t said it back.
He couldn’t.
She pulled away slowly, like it hurt, like she was waiting for him to stop her.
He didn’t.
He watched her get into the car. Watched her close the door. Watched her buckle her seatbelt with trembling hands.
And when the car pulled away, he stood frozen on the curb, heart pounding, throat burning, watching the girl he loved drive out of his life.
He didn’t move until the taillights disappeared.
He didn’t breathe right for months.
The memory hit him so hard he almost missed the next turn.
He jerked the bike back into line, breath ripping out of him in a harsh exhale. His chest felt too tight, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.
He hadn’t let himself think about that day in years.
Didn’t let himself remember the way she’d looked back at him through the rear window. The way her face crumpled when he didn’t chase her. Or the way he’d stood there afterward, fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, hating himself for every word he didn’t say.
But tonight, seeing her soaked and shaking and hurting, every buried memory clawed its way to the surface.
He wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t soft or safe, and he sure as hell wasn’t someone she should want.
He was Rook now.
Vice President of the Bloodline Saints.
A man with scars he didn’t talk about. A man who knew how to break bones and bury secrets. A man who didn’t get second chances.
But the second she said “Noah,” he wasn’t Rook at all.
He was the boy she left behind.
The clubhouse came into view, lights glowing warm against the dark. Music thumped faintly from inside, low bass, laughter, the clatter of pool balls. Normal sounds. Familiar sounds. Sounds that usually grounded him.
Tonight they grated.
He pulled into the lot, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, helmet still on, rain dripping from the edges. The sudden silence after the engine cut out was too loud, too sharp, pressing against the inside of his skull.
He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to feel anything.
But the problem was he felt everything.
He swung a leg off the bike but didn’t move toward the door. His boots sank slightly into the wet gravel as he stood there, helmet dangling from his fingers, rain soaking through his clothes.
He should’ve walked away tonight. Should’ve left her in that car and kept riding until the storm swallowed him whole.
But the second he saw her, wet hair, trembling hands, eyes red, he was eighteen again, watching her pack her life into a suitcase and walk away from him without looking back.
He’d told himself he was over it.
He was a liar.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, water and rain mixing on his skin. His fingers trembled. He curled them into a fist until the shaking stopped.
He’d worked too damn hard to become the man he was now. Disciplined, dangerous, carved into something the club could rely on.
Rook didn’t break. Rook didn’t bend.
But Noah?
Noah was the part of him he’d locked behind iron doors. And she’d cracked them open with a single word.
He exhaled sharply, breath fogging in the cold air. His chest felt too tight, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out. He pressed a hand to the tank of his bike, grounding himself in the cold metal.
He didn’t want to go inside.
Didn’t want the brothers to see the storm he’d brought back with him. Didn’t want their jokes, their knowing looks, their questions. Didn’t want to admit—even to himself—that one glimpse of Avery Brooks had undone seven years of discipline and distance.
But the door swung open before he reached it.
Warm light spilled out onto the gravel, cutting through the rain.
And Rook straightened, jaw tight, shoulders squared, forcing the storm inside him back behind the walls he’d built long ago.
He wasn’t ready but walked in anyway.
The door hadn’t even shut behind him before he caught the tail end of a conversation.
Stone’s voice carried first. “Near the county line. Two bikes. Didn’t stop.”
Grim muttered, “Reapers don’t come this far out unless they want something.”
Havoc snorted. “Or unless they’re lost. Dumbasses probably took a wrong turn.”
Ledger didn’t laugh. “They weren’t lost.”
A beat of silence. Heavy. Knowing.
Rook’s shoulders tightened before he could stop them. He didn’t turn toward the group, didn’t ask for details. He didn’t need to. The word Reapers alone was enough to put a cold edge under his skin.
Stone noticed him then, the shift in the room immediate, the tension folding itself away, the brothers straightening like they hadn’t been talking about anything at all.
“Rook,” Stone said, voice steady. “You’re late.”
Stone stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, expression carved from rock. The overhead light caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes, the weight he carried like a second cut.