Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brandy
The smell of bacon and coffee filled the kitchen, warm and familiar and so achingly normal that I almost forgot why I was here. Almost forgot the weight pressing down on my chest, the secret growing inside me, the life I’d left behind in Nebraska.
Almost.
But not quite.
I sat at the kitchen table—the same scarred oak table where I’d eaten breakfast every morning of my childhood—and watched my family move around me like I’d never left.
Mom stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the same practiced ease she’d always had, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her apron dusted with flour.
Duke leaned against the counter with his coffee mug, dressed in his work clothes, and I couldn’t help feeling like the reason they were all here was simply because I had come home.
Tracy sat across from me, scrolling through her phone with one hand while shoveling eggs into her mouth with the other.
Chris was at the sink, washing dishes and humming under his breath.
And Dad sat at the head of the table, watching me with those sharp, knowing eyes that had always seen too much.
I’d slept for nearly fourteen hours straight after collapsing in my childhood bed.
When I’d finally woken up, the morning light was already filtering through the windows, and the house smelled like breakfast. Mom had knocked softly on my door, told me to come eat when I was ready, and left without asking questions.
But I knew the questions were coming.
They always did.
“So,” Duke said, setting his coffee mug down with a soft thunk. “You gonna tell us where you’ve been all this time, or are we supposed to guess?”
“Where are the kids?” I asked, ignoring my brother’s question.
“School. Stop deflecting,” Duke ordered. He’d always been the bossy one. Thought because he was the oldest it made him a third parent.
I forced a smile, picking at the edge of my pancake with my fork. “Nebraska.”
“Nebraska?” Tracy looked up from her phone, her eyebrows raised. “The hell were you doing in Nebraska?”
“Working,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Cleaning, mostly.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Technically what I got paid for at the clubhouse was cooking and cleaning. The sex was an added benefit.
“Did you make any friends?” Mom asked from the stove, her voice gentle. She slid another pancake onto the serving plate and turned to look at me, her expression soft with maternal concern.
“A few,” I said. “Yeah. Some good people.”
Grace. Sam. Even some of the other club girls who’d been kind to me in their own way.
They weren’t friends in the traditional sense—not the kind of friends you called when you needed to talk or went shopping with on weekends—but they’d been there for me when I needed them.
There was Tiffany and Amber. Amber got her happy ever after.
She was in California now with Massacre.
She beat the odds of being a club whore.
Jade was my best friend. Or had been until she died in the first attack on the clubhouse.
“And college?” Dad asked, his voice quiet but firm. “You finish your degree?”
My stomach twisted.
I’d only made it halfway through the first year.
“No,” I said softly, staring down at my plate. “I didn’t finish.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not judgmental. Just... sad.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Mom said, coming over to set the serving plate on the table. She squeezed my shoulder as she passed. “You can always go back. It’s never too late.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Chris brought over a fresh pot of coffee and refilled everyone’s mugs, the clink of ceramic against ceramic the only sound in the kitchen. Tracy went back to her phone. Duke took another sip of coffee and stared out the window at the barn.
And Dad kept watching me.
I could feel his gaze like a physical weight, pressing down on me, searching for something I wasn’t ready to give. He’d always been able to read me better than anyone else. Always knew when I was lying, when I was hiding something, when I was in trouble.
And right now, I was all three.
“Brandy,” he said quietly, setting his fork down. “How far along are you?”
The world stopped.
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth, my breath catching in my throat. The kitchen went silent—no clinking dishes, no humming, no scrolling phones. Just dead, suffocating silence.
I looked up slowly, my eyes wide, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.
“What?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“How far along are you?” Dad repeated, his voice calm and steady, like he was asking about the weather.
Mom turned from the stove, her hand flying to her mouth. Duke straightened, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. Tracy’s phone clattered onto the table. Chris stopped mid-step, the dish towel still in his hands.
“Dad—” I started, but the words died in my throat.
“You have the same look your momma had every time she got pregnant,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not disappointed, just... knowing. “So how far along are you?”
Tears burned at the back of my eyes, hot and stinging and impossible to hold back. My hands started shaking, and I set my fork down before I dropped it.
“I—” My voice cracked. “I don’t—”
“Brandy?” Mom’s voice was soft, gentle, as she moved around the table and knelt beside my chair. She reached out and took my trembling hands in hers, her touch warm and steady and so full of love it broke something inside me. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Just tell us.”
I looked at her—at her kind eyes and her worried expression and the unconditional love written all over her face—and the dam broke.
“Three months,” I whispered, the tears spilling over and running down my cheeks. “I’m three months pregnant.”
The words hung in the air like a confession, like a sin I couldn’t take back.
Mom squeezed my hands tighter, her own eyes filling with tears. “Oh, baby.”
Duke set his coffee mug down with a heavy thunk. Tracy leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair. Chris just stood there, staring at me like he didn’t know what to say.
And Dad—Dad just watched me with those sharp, knowing eyes.
“Who’s the father?” he asked quietly.
My breath hitched, my chest tightening until I couldn’t breathe. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the question behind the question. Saw the understanding in his eyes, the recognition of something he’d hoped I’d never be part of.
I shook my head slowly, my eyes wide, my hands trembling in Mom’s grip.
I didn’t have to say it.
He already knew.
Dad’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He took a slow, deep breath, his hands curling into fists on the table. Then he stood, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech that made me flinch.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t look at me.
Just turned and walked toward the back door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
“Dad—” I started, but he was already gone, the screen door slamming shut behind him.
I sat there for a moment, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears. Then I pushed back from the table and followed him, ignoring Mom’s soft protest.
I found him standing at the fence line, his hands gripping the weathered wood, his shoulders tense and rigid. The morning sun cast long shadows across the yard, and the air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of grass and earth and home.
I walked up beside him and stopped, saying nothing. Just stood there, waiting.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dad spoke.
“Who?”
The single word was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid.
I took a shaky breath, my hands twisting together in front of me.
“His name is Torment,” I said softly. “He’s... he’s an officer in the Soulless Sinners MC. Out of New York.”
Dad’s hands tightened on the fence, his knuckles going white.
“I had a paternity test done before I left Nebraska,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s his. There’s no doubt.”
For a long moment, Dad didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, staring out at the fields beyond the fence.
Then he turned to me, and before I could say anything else, he grabbed me and pulled me into his arms, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough and broken. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby girl. I should’ve protected you better. Should’ve kept you away from that world. Should’ve—”
“Dad, no—” I tried to pull back, but he held me tighter.
“I failed you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I let you go out into the world without knowing what was out there, without knowing what those men are capable of. And now—”
“You didn’t fail me,” I said, my own tears soaking into his shirt. “You didn’t. I made my own choices. I—”
“You shouldn’t have had to make those choices,” he said fiercely. “You should’ve been safe. Should’ve been protected. Should’ve—”
He broke off, his arms tightening around me until I thought my ribs might crack.
And in that moment, standing there in my father’s arms, I understood something I’d never understood before.
The difference between club loyalty and family loyalty.
Club loyalty was conditional. It was earned through service, through obedience, through being useful. It could be taken away the moment you stopped being valuable, the moment you became a liability instead of an asset.
But family loyalty?
Family loyalty was unconditional.
It didn’t matter what I’d done or where I’d been or what mistakes I’d made. It didn’t matter that I’d dropped out of college or lied about college or gotten pregnant by a man whose world was built on violence and chaos.
I was still loved.
I had always been loved.
I just hadn’t understood it until now.
“Dad!” Chris’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and urgent. “Someone’s coming up the drive!”
I stiffened, my heart lurching in my chest.
Dad pulled back, his hands gripping my shoulders as he looked down at me. His eyes were red-rimmed but fierce, protective in a way I’d never seen before.
“Go find your mom,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “I’ll handle this.”
“Dad—”
“Go,” he said firmly, kissing my forehead. “I’ve got this.”
I hesitated, my stomach twisting with fear and uncertainty. But the look in his eyes—the absolute certainty, the unwavering determination—told me there was no point in arguing.
So I turned and walked back toward the house, my legs shaking, my heart pounding.
Behind me, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
And I knew—without looking, without seeing—that everything was about to change.