Chapter 10 #2
Elfe nods slowly. "Okay. I believe you. Just—don't lose yourself in him. Stay you. The you that races and fights and doesn't take shit from anyone."
"I won't. I promise."
She pulls me into a hug—quick and fierce. "Good. Because I just got you back. I'm not losing you again."
"You won't."
We pull apart, and she grins. "Now come on. Mom's been asking about you, and Dad's awake and cranky, which means he's feeling better."
I follow my sister and head into Dad’s room.
It looks less like a medical ward today.
The equipment is still there—IV pole, monitors, all the machinery keeping him alive—but there are also flowers on the windowsill now.
Cards from club members. Evidence that life is returning to normal.
Dad's sitting up in bed, looking better.
There’s even color in his face.
Eyes alert and focused instead of clouded by pain meds.
He sees me and his expression softens.
"There's my warrior daughter," he says.
The words hit me like a punch to the heart.
My warrior daughter.
He's never called me that before.
Always called Elfe the warrior. The strong one. The fighter.
Never me.
Tears burn in my eyes but I blink them back. "Hey, Dad. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck, then the truck backed up and hit me again." But he's smiling. "But I'm alive. Thanks to you."
"I didn't—"
"You did." His remaining hand—the right one, thank the Gods—reaches for me.
I take it, his grip surprisingly strong. "You came for me. Rode into Los Coyotes territory alone. That takes guts."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." He glances at Mom, who's sitting in the chair beside his bed looking tired but content. "Your mother tells me you've been taking care of things while I was gone."
"Elfe did most of it."
"Elfe had help." Mom's voice is gentle. "Don't diminish what you did, sweetheart."
I don't know what to say to that.
After a few minutes of small talk—Dad's recovery, the club, what he's missed—Mom stands.
"Elfe, stay with your father for a minute. I need to talk to Helle."
My stomach drops.
Elfe gives me a look that says good luck, and Mom leads me out into the hallway.
She doesn't speak right away.
Just looks at me with those mother's eyes that see everything.
"I need to say something," she says finally. "And I need you to listen."
I tense, expecting judgment.
"I was angry when you left three years ago. Angry that you didn't come to me, didn't let me help. Angry that I'd failed you somehow as a mother."
"Mom—"
"Let me finish." Her eyes are wet. "But I understand now. You were trying to protect us. Trying to deal with your pain alone because you thought you deserved it."
"I did deserve it."
"No. You deserved compassion. Understanding. Family." She takes a shaky breath. "And I'm sorry I couldn't give you that before. That your father and I were so consumed with the club, with survival, that we didn't see you drowning."
Tears are streaming down my face now.
Mom reaches up, wipes them away gently. "Tell me about Texas. Really tell me. Not the version you fed us over the phone."
My stomach clenches. "What do you mean?"
"Helle. I'm your mother. I know when you're lying." Her voice is gentle but firm. "College, studying, the normal life you said you were building—none of that was true, was it?"
The words stick in my throat.
"No," I whisper finally. "It wasn't."
"Tell me the truth. Please. I can't help you if I don't know what you've really been through."
So I do.
All of it.
"I dropped out before I even went to Texas. Couldn't focus, couldn't—I was drowning in guilt and I just stopped going."
Mom listens without interrupting.
"I work at a dive bar called Cactus Jack's. Shitty place, drunk customers, barely made rent most months." The confession pours out of me. "And I raced. Illegally. Underground circuits, street racing. Made money when I won, which was most of the time."
"And the racing?" Mom asks quietly.
I look up sharply. "How did you—"
"That man at the bar. The first night you came home. He recognized you. Called you 'Hell.'" She's not angry, just sad. "I put it together."
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm so sorry for lying. For everything."
Mom pulls me into her arms, holds me while I break apart.
"Shh. I'm not angry. I'm just—I wish you'd told me sooner. I wish you hadn't felt like you had to carry all of this alone."
"I was ashamed. Thought you'd be disappointed."
"Disappointed?" She pulls back, holds my face in her hands. "Helle, you survived. That's what matters. You found a way to survive when everything fell apart."
"I lied to you for three years."
"Because you were scared. Because you thought we'd judge you." She wipes my tears with her thumbs. "But I'm not disappointed. I'm proud. You didn't have our support, our money, our help—and you still made it. Still found a way to keep going."
"I worked in a bar and raced bikes illegally."
"You were resourceful. You were a survivor." Mom smiles through her own tears. "And you're one hell of a rider if you were winning most of the time."
I laugh, hard.
"So you're not mad?"
"I'm not mad. I'm just glad you're here. Glad you're alive. Glad you came home." She hugs me again, tighter this time. "And whatever you decide to do—stay in Florida, go back to Texas, run off with that handsome Nomad who can't stop looking at you—I support you."
My face heats. "Is it that obvious?"
"Sweetheart, the whole compound knows. You two aren't subtle."
I groan. "Great."
"But Helle?" Mom pulls back, serious now. "Promise me you'll call. Text. Let me know you're okay. Don't disappear for three years again."
"I won't. I promise."
"And the racing—do you still love it?"
The question surprises me. "Yeah. I do."
"Then don't give it up. Not for anyone." Her voice is fierce. "Find a legal way to do it if you can, but don't stop. Life's too short to give up the things that make you feel alive."
We go back into Dad's room together.
Elfe is telling him some story about the meeting the other day, gesturing with both hands while Dad listens with an amused expression.
He stops when he sees us.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"Everything's fine," Mom says. "Just mother-daughter talk."
Dad looks at me, studies my face. Whatever he sees there makes him nod.
"You settling in okay?" he asks. "Getting rest?"
"Yeah, Dad. I'm good."
"Good. Because you look like hell warmed over."
Elfe snorts. "Dad. Language."
"What? I can't tell my daughter she looks like shit?"
And with that, we all laugh.
It feels normal.
Almost.
There's a knock at the door, and Dr. Castellano enters with his medical bag.
"Time for my daily torture session," Dad mutters.
"Don't be dramatic," the doctor says, moving to check vitals. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable."
"Good. Let's take a look at that arm."
Mom, Elfe, and I step into the hallway to give them privacy.
"He's doing well," Dr. Castellano says a few minutes later, emerging from the room. "Infection is responding to antibiotics. Another week and he should be able to move around more. Two weeks, maybe go home."
"Home," Mom breathes. "That sounds good."
Home.
The word echoes in my head.
I don't have a home anymore.
My apartment in Texas was just a temporary place to sleep, and Florida hasn't felt like home in years.
Maybe home isn't a place.
Maybe it's just wherever you are when you're not running.
Maybe home could be with someone instead of somewhere.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I suddenly feel like I need air.
The clubhouse feels too small suddenly, too many people, too many memories.
I head outside, find a spot by the fence overlooking the back property.
The woods where Bravos and I—
My face heats at the memory.
"Thought I'd find you here."
I turn. Bravos is walking toward me, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed in a way I haven't seen before.
"How was the meeting?" I ask.
"Fine. Damon's coordinating with his DEA contacts. Runes is mapping targets. We've got a solid plan." He stops beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. "But I kept thinking about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He turns to face me. "How's your dad?"
"Better. The doctor says another week and he'll be mobile. In two weeks, maybe he can go home."
"Good. That's good."
Silence settles between us. Comfortable. Easy.
"I've been thinking," I say. "About us. About Texas."
"Yeah?"
"I don't have a home there. I mean, I have an apartment, but it's not—it's just a place." The words come faster now. "So, maybe when we get back, if you’re really serious about this we figure out what home looks like. Together."
Bravos goes very still. "Are you asking to move in with me?"
"Maybe. Eventually. Or maybe you move in with me. Or we get our own place halfway between Sharp and Austin." I'm rambling now, can't stop. "I just—I don't want to keep running, and you make me feel like maybe I don't have to."
He pulls me close, wraps his arms around me. I bury my face against his chest, breathing him in.
"Then let's stop running," he says quietly. "Both of us."
"Yeah. Let's do that."
We stand there together as the sun moves across the sky.
Tomorrow the alliance will meet again, finalize plans, and coordinate strikes against Los Coyotes.
In a few days, Bravos will ride back to Texas.
A week, maybe two, and I'll follow once Dad's stable.