Chapter Sixteen
THE ROOM WAS quiet, the muffled thrum of voices from the clubhouse fading to nothing behind the closed door. The quiet wasn’t peace, though, it pressed heavy against me, thick with the echoes of whispers I couldn’t shake.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, scraps of folded paper scattered in a wide arc around me. My fingers moved automatically. Crease, fold, press. Another bird took shape, its fragile wings stretching upward like it wanted to escape.
The flock lay across the blanket, dozens of them, pale and weightless, waiting for a freedom I could never give them.
I kept folding, even as my chest pulled tight and my throat ached. Every time I tried to push away the image of her—Roxy, bold and beautiful, red lips curving around Ashen’s name—it pressed sharper. Her perfume, her laugh, her confidence. All of it lingered like smoke, choking me.
He’s been with her. Barely leaves her side.
The whispers replayed over and over until they drowned out my own thoughts. My hand trembled, the fold biting uneven into the paper. I pressed harder, hard enough the crease nearly tore straight through.
The door opened.
My head jerked up, heart slamming against my ribs. For a breath, panic clawed through me—then I saw him.
Ashen.
He filled the doorway, broad shoulders shadowing the hall behind him. The harsh overhead light caught in the strands of his hair, the ink curling over his forearms, the hard set of his jaw.
His gaze swept the room once before finding me on the bed, surrounded by my paper flock, my hands clenched too tight around the newest bird.
“You’ve been busy,” he said. His voice was soft, even, but it carried something else too. Concern.
I dropped my eyes to the bird in my lap, shoulders hunching. The ache in my chest clawed deeper, full of questions I didn’t dare ask.
Ashen stepped inside, shutting the door with a quiet click that sealed us off from the noise outside. His boots thudded low against the floor as he crossed the room, each step unhurried, deliberate, as if he was waiting for me to tell him to stop.
I didn’t.
When he reached the bed, he lowered himself onto the edge. Close enough that I felt the heat rolling from his body, but not close enough to crowd me.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. Not a question. No push, no demand. Just certainty.
My fingers stilled on the paper. I couldn’t look at him.
He exhaled rough, dragging a hand down his face. His jaw ticked, the sound of his teeth grinding tight. “If it’s Roxy…” His voice hardened, clipped with anger. “If she said anything to you, tell me. I’ll handle it.”
The name cut jagged through me. My throat worked, but no sound came. I folded the bird again, my hands shaking, the edges crumpling beneath the pressure.
Ashen leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees, his presence filling the space between us. “Look at me, Wren.”
Slowly, I did.
His eyes locked on mine—steady, fierce, unflinching. “I told her I wasn’t interested in what she was offering. You understand? She doesn’t matter. Not to me. Not to this club. And sure as hell not when it comes to you.”
The words landed like blows and balm all at once. My lips parted, the ache in my chest straining for release. I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But the silence pressed heavy around me, pinning the words inside.
So I set the bird down on the blanket with the others, its wings trembling like it could break apart under its own weight, and hoped he could see everything I couldn’t say.
Ashen’s gaze followed it, lingering on the fragile shape before lifting back to me. His jaw flexed, the hard lines softening when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to fold yourself into pieces to prove you matter, Wren.” His voice dropped, quiet but forceful. “You already do.”
The words lodged deep, raw and unfamiliar, as if they were meant for someone else but landed square in me.
My chest ached. My throat burned.
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t push the sound past the wall inside me. But my fingers moved on their own, loosening from the paper bird and brushing against his hand where it rested on the blanket.
The contact was light, accidental maybe, but I didn’t pull back.
For the first time since Roxy’s laugh had chased me from the room, the weight pressing on my chest eased just enough to let me breathe.
***
SLEEP WOULDN’T COME.
I’d tried, curled tight under the blanket, eyes squeezed shut, counting the slow drag of my breaths, but every time I blinked, my mind replayed too many dark thoughts. Too many images I couldn’t shut away. Venom’s voice. Roxy’s laughter. The whispers that clung sharper than knives.
Even Ashen’s words, solid and certain, hadn’t silenced them.
The walls felt too close. My chest too tight.
I slipped from the bed, feet silent against the floor, and eased the door open. The hallway stretched dark and quiet, the earlier rumble of voices gone.
Cool night air swept over me as I stepped outside. The desert spread wide and endless, the sky spilling full of stars. Crickets hummed steady in the brush, a low chorus against the dry wind. Somewhere far off, a coyote called, long, lonesome, reminding me how vast the world really was.
Ashen sat on the porch steps, broad shoulders bowed forward, a cigarette glowing faint between his fingers. Smoke curled into the air in restless threads, rising toward the endless black sky.
He didn’t turn when I drew closer, but I knew he felt me. He always did.
“You can’t sleep either,” he said softly, voice carrying like gravel over stone. Not a question.
I shook my head, pulling the blanket tighter around me as I lowered onto the step beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just near enough that the heat of his body brushed the edge of the chill clinging to my skin.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. It just was. Easy in its own way.
Ashen tapped ash off the cigarette, his eyes on the horizon where the desert rolled away into blackness.
“This place gets loud,” he murmured. “Clubhouse. Brothers. Deals. Always noise. But out here?” He lifted the cigarette slightly, like he was offering the dark sky itself.
“Out here it’s just the land. Doesn’t lie to you. Doesn’t play games.”
I followed his gaze. The stars swallowed me whole—bright and sharp, spread wide across the heavens like they’d been scattered by some careless hand.
I was still getting used to what it felt like to breathe air that wasn’t pressed against four walls.
For a moment, it was like the world stretched wide enough to hold even me.
The words burned inside me, pressing hard against my throat. Thank you. Two small words that felt as heavy as stone. I wanted to give them to him. Wanted him to know.
But the same damn fear clamped down, sealing them inside.
Instead, I shifted. Just enough that my shoulder brushed his arm. Not leaning. Not bold. Just a touch, enough to feel the solid warmth of him.
Ashen’s body stilled at the contact, then eased again. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t move closer. Just sat steady beside me, letting me have the choice.
After a while, he dragged the last pull from his cigarette, flicked it into the dirt, and braced his elbows on his knees. His voice came low, almost casual, but it carried weight.
“You want me to crash in your room tonight? I’ll take the floor. Just so you feel safe.”
The words caught me off guard, striking deep. Safe. The word slammed against the wall inside me, knocking hard at the silence I’d wrapped around myself for years.
My lips parted. My throat scraped, raw from disuse. And before I could stop it, before I could shove the sound back down, it slipped free.
“Yes.”
Just one word.
Ashen’s head turned sharply, his eyes catching mine in the dim porch light. For a heartbeat he didn’t move, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Then the corner of his mouth curved, soft and fierce all at once.
“Then that’s where I’ll be.”