Chapter 20 #2
I hesitated, the question catching me off guard. I’d been so focused on Brandy, on the photos and the stories and the glimpses into her past, that I hadn’t been prepared to talk about my own. “I’m also from Connecticut. Near the coast,” I said carefully. “Grew up in Madison.”
Hannah’s head snapped up, her eyes widening slightly. “Madison?” she repeated, her voice carrying a note of recognition that made my stomach tighten. “You’re from Madison?”
I nodded slowly, already regretting the admission. “Yes, ma’am. Born and raised.”
“I’m from Madison too. What’s your family name?” she asked, setting down her fork, her full attention now on me.
“Dunaway,” I said, the word feeling heavy in my mouth.
Hannah’s expression shifted, something clicking into place behind her eyes. “Dunaway,” she repeated softly, like she was testing the name, rolling it around to see if it fit. “I remember that name. Your family was in the papers years ago. There was a... a tragedy, wasn’t there?”
The air in the room changed instantly. I felt my entire body go rigid, every muscle locking down, my jaw clenching so hard I thought my teeth might crack.
Mercy glanced at me sharply, his expression shifting from casual to alert in a heartbeat.
He knew. He knew exactly what Hannah was about to say, and he knew I didn’t want to talk about it.
“Their daughter,” Hannah continued, her voice gentle but relentless, the way people’s voices got when they were recounting a tragedy they remembered from the news.
“She was just a baby. Kidnapped right out of her stroller while her mother was grocery shopping. It was all over the news for months. They never found her, did they?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but sit there, frozen, as the memory crashed over me like a wave I’d been holding back for years.
Zoey. My baby sister. Taken when she was fifteen months old, stolen from a grocery store parking lot in broad daylight while my mother had turned her back for thirty seconds to load bags into the car.
Thirty seconds. That was all it took for our entire family to shatter into pieces that could never be put back together.
I’d been nine years old. Old enough to remember the before—the way my mother used to smile, the way my father used to laugh, the way our house used to feel warm and safe.
And old enough to remember the after—the police, the reporters, the search parties, the vigils, the slow, agonizing realization that Zoey was never coming home.
That she was gone. That someone had taken her, and we would never know why or where or if she was even still alive.
“I’m so sorry,” Hannah said softly, her voice full of genuine sympathy. “I can’t imagine what your family went through. What you went through.”
I felt Brandy’s hand on my arm, her touch light and tentative, like she was afraid I might shatter if she pressed too hard. “Torment,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”
I pulled away from her touch, the movement sharp and instinctive, like a wounded animal retreating from a threat.
I couldn’t let her comfort me. Couldn’t let her see how deep that wound still went, how much it still bled even after all these years.
I’d spent my entire adult life building walls around that pain, compartmentalizing it, locking it away in a place where it couldn’t touch me.
And I wasn’t about to let it out now. Not here.
Not in front of her family. Not in front of her.
“It was a long time ago,” I said, my voice flat and emotionless, the tone I used when I needed to shut down a conversation in therapy before it went somewhere I couldn’t follow. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
The words came out harsher than I intended, and I saw Brandy flinch, her hand dropping back to her lap. Hurt flashed across her face, quickly masked, but I’d seen it. I’d hurt her. Again. Just like I’d been hurting her since the moment I’d arrived.
“Of course,” Hannah said quickly, her voice apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
I nodded stiffly, then forced myself to shift gears, to redirect the conversation to safer ground. “We should talk about why I’m here,” I said, my voice still too controlled, too clinical. “About Brandy. About the baby. About what happens next.”
Hex, who’d been sitting at the head of the table the entire time, silent and watchful, finally spoke. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Let’s talk about that.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Every eye turned to Hex, who hadn’t moved from his position but somehow seemed to fill the entire space with his presence.
He was a large man—not compared to some of the brothers I knew—but there was something about him that made size irrelevant.
An intensity. A coiled violence that sat just beneath the surface, waiting.
I met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away even though every instinct I had was screaming at me to tread carefully. “I came here to claim Brandy,” I said, the words clear and deliberate. “To claim her and the baby. To make sure they’re both protected. To make sure they’re both taken care of.”
“Claim,” Hex repeated, the word dripping with disdain. “That’s what you call it in your world, isn’t it? Claiming. Like she’s property. Like she’s something you can just stake a flag in and call yours.”
“It’s not like that,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew how hollow they sounded.
Because in the MC world, that was exactly what it was.
A claim meant ownership. Protection, yes, but also possession.
And Hex knew it. He’d lived it. He’d been part of that world long enough to understand exactly what I was offering and exactly what it meant.
Mercy cleared his throat, stepping in before the situation could escalate further. “There’s a complication,” he said, his voice calm and measured, the voice of a man used to negotiating tense situations. “A Federation rule that applies to this situation. It’s... complicated.”
“Complicated,” Hex repeated, his eyes never leaving mine. “Explain.”
Mercy glanced at me, then back at Hex. “The Biker Federation has rules that govern all active clubs. One of those rules, which was created after you left the Silver Shadows, clearly states that family members of excommunicated brothers are forbidden from joining or being claimed by any active club. It’s meant to prevent conflicts, to keep old grudges from bleeding into current club business. ”
“Is that so?” Hex smirked, rubbing his chin, though I could tell from his expression that he already knew where this was going.
“And you’re an excommunicated brother,” Mercy said bluntly. “Which means Brandy, as your daughter, falls under that rule. Technically, Torment claiming her violates Federation law.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Hex didn’t react—didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink.
He just sat there, staring at me with those cold, calculating eyes, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was deciding whether or not to kill me right here, right now, in front of his family.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” Brandy asked. “My father isn’t a Silver Shadow.”
Hex looked at Hannah and the two of them had a conversation the rest of us weren’t a part of.
Then he huffed—a short, sharp sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so devoid of humor.
“Fucking Federation law,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“Of course those jackasses would come up with something so fucking stupid.”
“It’s not insurmountable,” Mercy said quickly. “There are ways around it. Exceptions. Precedents. But it’s going to take time. And it’s going to require approval from the Federation Council.”
“Time,” Hex repeated. “And in the meantime? What happens to my daughter? What happens to my grandchild?”
“They’re protected,” I said, my voice firm. “No matter what the Federation says, no matter what rules apply, I’m not walking away. I’m not leaving them vulnerable.”
“No,” Brandy said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “This doesn’t make sense.”
I turned to look at her, confused. “Brandy—”
“I said no,” she repeated, her voice stronger now, more certain.
“I’m not letting you claim me out of obligation.
I’m not letting you tie yourself to me and this baby because you think it’s the right thing to do, or because your club expects it, or because of some stupid Federation rule when my father isn’t even in a club. ”
“It’s not an obligation,” I said, but the words felt weak even to my own ears.