Chapter 8 #2
I stand at the foot of the bed, hands wrapped around the footboard like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
We stay like that for a long time.
The four of us.
What's left of our family after Los Coyotes took their piece.
Hours pass in that room.
The sun sets.
Someone brings food that none of us eat.
The doctor comes back, checks vitals, adjusts medications, and leaves again.
Dad sleeps through all of it, dragged under by drugs and exhaustion and trauma.
Mom doesn't leave his side.
Just sits there holding his hand, occasionally talking to him in a low voice.
Telling him about what's happened while he was gone.
About me coming home.
About the alliance.
About anything and everything except what we all know: that he was tortured because of me.
Elfe eventually pulls me into the hallway around midnight.
"You need to sleep," she says.
"I'm fine."
"Stop saying that. You're not fine. None of us are fine." She looks at me—really looks at me—and I see concern and exhaustion and something else. "I saw you kiss him."
My stomach drops. "Elfe—"
"The Nomad. Bravos. After the fight, before we left. You kissed him."
"It was adrenaline. Doesn't mean anything."
"Bullshit." She crosses her arms. "I saw your face, Helle. You care about him."
"So what if I do? He's leaving in a few days. That's what Nomads do. They don't stay."
"Maybe he'd stay if you asked."
I laugh—bitter, exhausted. "Why would I ask? I'm not staying either."
Elfe goes very still. "What?"
"I'm leaving. As soon as Dad's stable, as soon as I know he's going to be okay—I'm gone."
"Back to Texas."
"Back to anywhere that isn't here."
"Helle—"
"I can't stay, Elfe. Don't you get it? Every time someone looks at me, they're thinking about what I did. How I betrayed the club. How I'm the reason Dad was taken." I shake my head. "I don't belong here anymore. Maybe I never did."
"You belong here more than you know," Elfe says fiercely. "You're family. You're a part of this club whether you like it or not. And running away again won't change that."
"Maybe not. But staying here—" My voice cracks. "I can't breathe here. Can't think. Can't be anything but the girl who fucked up."
Elfe is quiet for a long moment. "So, you're just going to leave again. Run away. Let that Nomad ride off into the sunset without you."
"He doesn't want me to go with him. He's a Nomad for a reason—he doesn't do attachments."
"Did you ask him?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
I don't have an answer for that.
Elfe sighs. "Look. I'm not going to tell you what to do. You're an adult. You make your own choices. But Helle? Running didn't fix anything last time. Maybe it's time to stop running and figure out who you actually are."
She goes back into Dad's room, leaving me alone in the hallway.
Around two AM, Dad wakes up.
Not fully—he's still sedated, still foggy—but his eyes open and focus on Mom's face.
"Starla," he rasps.
"I'm here. I'm right here." Mom's crying again, but smiling through it. "You're home, baby. You're safe."
"Helle—" His eyes search the room. "Is she—"
"I'm here, Dad." I move closer, into his line of sight.
His eyes focus on me. Sharpen despite the drugs.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
The last time we really talked—really looked at each other—was three years ago.
The night he found out I was the leak.
The night he called me a disappointment.
"You came back," he says finally.
"Of course I did. You're my father."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob. "Stubborn girl."
"Wonder where I get it."
His remaining hand moves—reaches for me weakly.
I take it, and his fingers close around mine.
"What I said," he starts, voice rough and halting. "Three years ago. After Vanir found out. After we knew."
I tense. Don't want to hear this. Don't want to relive that night.
"I was wrong."
The words hit like a slap to the face.
"You were used," Dad continues, each word clearly costing him. "Manipulated by someone who knew exactly what he was doing. And I—" He stops, swallows. "I blamed you for being human. For trusting someone. For falling in love."
Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and fast.
"I was so angry at what happened—at how close we came to losing everything—that I couldn't see past my own rage." His grip tightens slightly. "Couldn't see that you were a victim too. That you lost just as much as we did."
"Dad—"
"Let me finish." He takes a shaky breath.
"You're not a disappointment. You never were.
You're my daughter. You're smart and strong and you survived something that would've broken most people.
" His eyes are wet now too. "And I'm sorry.
For what I said. For making you feel like you had to run.
For not protecting you when I should have. "
I'm sobbing now—ugly, broken sounds that I can't control.
"I'm sorry too," I manage. "For everything. For being so stupid. For trusting him. For—" I can't say it. Can't confess that I killed Andrés and that's why he was taken. "For not being stronger."
"You're the strongest person I know." His voice is fading, exhaustion pulling him back under. "Came into a Los Coyotes safehouse alone. Faced them down. Saved your old man." A weak smile. "That's not weakness. That's a fucking warrior."
"Language," Mom chides gently, but she's smiling too.
"I love you, Helle," Dad says, eyes already closing. "Don't forget that. Don't ever forget."
"I love you too, Dad."
He's asleep again before I finish the sentence.
But something in my chest—something that's been locked tight for three years—finally loosens.
He forgave me.
For the leak, at least.
If he knew about Andrés—knew what I really did—would he forgive that too?
I don't know.
And I'm too much of a coward to find out.
Around four AM, Elfe physically removes me from the room.
"Go," she orders. "Shower. Eat something. Sleep if you can. Mom and I have him."
"But—"
"No buts. You're useless if you collapse. And you smell like death."
She's right. I reek of blood and sweat and gunpowder.
"Fine. But call me if anything changes."
"We will. Now go."
I go back to our family’s old room… but I can't stay in here.
It's too much. Too many ghosts.
So, I grab clean clothes and head to the communal showers.
The hot water is a fucking miracle.
I stand under the spray for thirty minutes, maybe more, watching pink-tinged water circle the drain.
Blood washing away—Javier's, probably.
Maybe others'.
I stopped keeping track after the third body.
Nine people.
I've killed nine people now.
Andrés plus eight Los Coyotes members.
What does that make me?
Monster? Survivor? Warrior, like Dad said?
I don't know anymore.
I scrub until my skin is raw, until I'm sure there's no blood left, and then I stand there letting the water pound against my shoulders until it starts to run cold.
When I finally emerge, I feel almost human.
Clean clothes. Hair still damp.
Bruises visible now without the blood covering them—purple blooming on my ribs, my arms, my knuckles split and swollen.
I look like I went to war, because I did.
I can't go back to the room, can't sit with my family and pretend everything's okay now that Dad forgave me.
I end up falling asleep on one of the sofa’s in the hall, and when I wake up, it’s around six the following evening.
I check in with Elfe, but she tells me to go eat before I come back.
So I leave through the connecting door and head to Bubba's.
The bar is quieter than usual for a Friday night.
Just a handful of people scattered around.
Some civilians who don't know what happened.
A few prospects cleaning up.
And at the end of the bar, sitting alone with a beer that's probably warm by now—
Bravos.
He's cleaned up since I last saw him.
No more blood. Fresh clothes.
But he looks exhausted, dead eyes even deader than usual.
He sees me and something shifts in his expression.
Not quite a smile. But something.
"You look like you could use a drink," he says.
I sit down beside him. Not too close. Not too far. "Yeah. I really could."
Njal appears—the prospect working the bar—and slides a beer in front of me without asking what I want.
"On the house," he says. "For what you did. Bringing Ivar home."
I nod thanks, not trusting my voice.
Njal disappears to the other end of the bar, giving us space.
Bravos and I sit in silence for a moment, both of us staring at our drinks like they hold answers.
"How's your dad?" he asks finally.
"Stable. Doctor says he'll live. Missing a hand, but alive."
"That's something."
"Yeah. It is." I take a long drink. The beer is cold and perfect and exactly what I need. "Thank you. For following me. For saving my ass. For—everything."
"Don't thank me. Just did what needed doing."
"Bullshit." I look at him. "You could've let me die. Should've, probably. Would've been easier for everyone."
"Yeah. I could've." He meets my eyes, and something in them isn't dead anymore. Just tired. Human. "Couldn't stomach it though."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us.
He takes a drink instead of answering, but his jaw tightens, and I see him wrestling with something.
"Because," he says finally, "for the first time in eighteen years, I felt something when I looked at you. And I couldn't just let that die."
My breath catches.
"Eighteen years is a long time to feel nothing," I say quietly.
"Yeah. It is." He turns on his stool slightly, facing me more directly. "Lost my family in a fire when I was fifteen. Parents and two little sisters. Burned alive while I stood outside and couldn't save them."
"Bravos—"
"Been dead inside ever since. Easier that way.
Safer. Can't lose what you don't have." He's not looking at me anymore, staring at his beer like it's a confessional.
"Then you walked into Bubba's wearing racing leathers with dead eyes that matched mine, and something—" He stops. Starts again. "Something woke up."
I don't know what to say to that.
Don't know how to tell him I felt it too—that spark, of finding someone who understands what it's like to carry death around inside you.
"I'm leaving," I hear myself say instead. "As soon as Dad's stable enough. I'm going back to Texas. Or somewhere else. Anywhere but here."
"Why?"
"Because I don't belong here. Can't breathe here. Everyone looks at me and sees the girl who betrayed them."
"Or," Bravos says, "they see the girl who rode into hell alone to save her father. Who fought eight cartel soldiers and walked out alive. Who's got more guts than half the men in that clubhouse."
"You're giving me too much credit."
"I don't think I'm giving you enough." He shifts closer—just slightly, but enough that I can feel the heat from his body. "You're not a fuckup, Helle. You're a survivor. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. There is." His hand moves—hovers near mine on the bar, not quite touching but close enough to feel the intention. "And for what it's worth, I'm leaving too. Few more days, maybe a week. Then I'm back to Texas. Back to being a Nomad who doesn't stay anywhere."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is." He finally looks at me again. "Been lonely for eighteen years. Guess I got used to it."
"Maybe you don't have to be."
The words are out before I can stop them.
His eyes sharpen. "You asking me something?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." I finish my beer in one long swallow. "I don't know how to ask for things. Don't know how to want things without them burning down around me."
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "I know that feeling."
We sit there in silence again, but it's different now.
Charged. Full of all the things we're not saying.
His phone buzzes on the bar.
He glances at it, and his expression shifts. "Shit. I should—"
"Take it," I say. "I'm not going anywhere."
He studies my face for a moment, like he's checking if I mean it.
Then he stands, phone to his ear. "Yeah. I'm here."
He walks toward the back of the bar for privacy, and I watch him go.
Wondering if he'll come back.
Wondering if I want him to.
Knowing I do.