Chapter Three #2
The morning sunlight warmed my skin as I sipped my juice, the glass cool and slick in my hand.
The faint scent of strong coffee mingled with the earthiness drifting in from the greenhouse door left ajar, blending with the constant soundtrack of Joy’s grumbling, the ping of spoons against mugs, and the quiet hum of Joan’s tablet.
As I watched my family—Joy’s sarcastic quips, Charity’s relentless enthusiasm, Faith’s steady practicality, and Joan’s gentle wisdom—I felt a quiet gratitude settle in my chest. After everything we had been through, these simple mornings felt like a gift I never wanted to lose.
In these small, ordinary moments, surrounded by the sounds and smells of home, I belonged. This was my family. This was home.
Zeke strode in, and Faith’s mug paused halfway to her lips.
Charity’s foot stopped its restless bouncing, and Joy’s fingers froze mid-gesture, her arm poised to launch along with a dramatic eye roll.
Zeke went straight to Joan, pressed a quick, tender kiss on her lips, then turned his back to us, pouring coffee with a practiced, almost ritualistic air.
Tension knotted between his shoulder blades, visible even through his faded T-shirt.
Jeans and no cut meant he wasn’t going anywhere.
It was the uniform of an off-duty guardian.
Faith, ever the diplomat, nudged her mug forward and said carefully, “Morning, Zeke.” Her tone was deliberate, as if she were testing the air for danger.
“Morning.” Zeke took a long gulp of coffee, eyes shadowed. He turned but lingered behind the counter as if it could shield him from questions. “I need to tell you all something.”
Joy snapped her laptop shut with a flourish, almost knocking over her glass—always the performer.
Charity, mid-story, cut herself off with a loud, “Wait, what?”—her braid swinging as she pivoted to face Zeke.
Joan set aside her tablet, glasses perched like armor, fingers steepled.
Faith straightened, her gaze sharpening.
I stayed put, juice glass held tight, watching the cracks in Zeke’s armor.
“We’re hosting a visitor for a few days,” Zeke said, voice clipped, not really inviting questions. “A former brother from the Golden Skulls. He needed a place to rest, and I said yes.” He didn’t look at anyone directly.
Charity’s hand shot up as if she were in class. “Who is he? Is he hot? Does he have a tragic backstory?” Sarcasm sharpened her words, but her eyes were searching.
Zeke dismissed her with a flat, “Doesn’t matter,” and Faith’s mouth twitched—the peacekeeper sensing trouble.
Joy flung her arms wide. “What’s his name?” She made a show of leaning forward, elbows planted, as if demanding a secret to be spilled.
“Not important,” Zeke said, crossing his arms like a shield, a warning.
“Why is he here?” I heard myself ask quietly, feeling the weight of Zeke’s protectiveness—always the family’s first line.
Zeke’s gaze locked on mine, a flash of old battles and secrets. “Personal reasons. And let’s be clear: leave him alone. He doesn’t want attention, or questions, or”—he gestured vaguely—“any drama. He’s going through some shit. He needs space.”
Charity snorted, “But?” only to be cut off.
“No,” Zeke barked, voice harder. “I mean it. All of you. Leave. Him. Alone.”
Charity rolled her eyes, arms crossed, sarcasm dialed up. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? We’re not running a secret bunker. Name. Reason. Allergies. It’s basic houseguest data.”
“He’s not a houseguest,” Zeke retorted, jaw clenched. “This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast, Charity.”
Faith interjected, voice low but precise, “Then what is he? You’re being awfully protective of someone you won’t even name.”
Zeke rubbed his face, like he could wipe away the conversation. “He’s a brother who needs help. That’s all you need to know.”
Joan, calm as ever, asked, “Is he in trouble, Shadow? With the club? With the law?” Her voice was a lifeline tossed into the storm.
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then why the secrecy?” Joy demanded, swinging her arms as if conducting an orchestra of frustration. “You’re acting like we’re about to interrogate him. We’re not idiots, Zeke.”
“I never said you were,” Zeke muttered.
Charity leveled him with a sharp look. “You sure act like it. We live here too. If he’s sleeping under our roof, the least we get is a name. Or is that classified?”
“A former brother. That’s it,” Zeke replied, voice flat, final.
Faith’s attention zeroed in. “Former?” she repeated. “So he’s not active anymore?”
Zeke’s jaw clenched. “No.”
“Why not?” I asked quietly—always watching for the cracks, the places Zeke tried to hide his own scars.
“Not your business.”
Charity huffed. “It kind of is, actually. If he brings trouble, we get collateral damage. Club drama, witness protection, alien invasion—whatever. We deserve a heads-up.” She grinned, but her sarcasm was a shield.
“There’s no drama,” Zeke said, almost pleading.
Joy swept her hair back, eyes wide. “So why can’t we know his name? Is he in witness protection? Is he running from the CIA? It’s literally one word, Zeke. One.” She held up a finger for emphasis.
Zeke’s frustration finally broke through. “He doesn’t want to be known right now! He doesn’t want people asking questions or making assumptions. He just wants to be left alone. Is that really so hard?”
Silence, thick as honey, pooled in the kitchen.
Faith exchanged a look with Joan, eyebrows raised. Charity dropped her arms, sarcasm cooling into concern. Joy bit her lip, looking suddenly younger, hands fidgeting with her sleeve.
I studied Zeke. His shoulders appeared weighted, eyes pinched with exhaustion. He had always been the one to shield us from storms, along with our oldest brother, Balthazar. Maybe he saw something of his own pain in the visitor’s need for refuge. Maybe that was why he was so fierce.
Faith’s voice cut through the hush. “How long is he staying?”
“Few days. Maybe a week. I don’t know yet.”
Charity sniped, “So we’re supposed to pretend he’s a ghost?” But her tone was softer now.
“You’re supposed to give him space. There’s a difference,” Zeke insisted.
“Shadow—” Joan started, gentle as rain.
“Please.” Zeke met her gaze, then swept over the rest of us. “I’m asking you, begging you. As your brother. As someone who’s never asked for much. Don’t push. Don’t pry. Don’t try to fix what you think is wrong. He needs quiet. He needs space.”
Faith studied him, thoughtful. “He’s hurting.”
It wasn’t a question. Zeke didn’t answer, but the haunted look in his eyes spoke for him.
“Okay,” Faith said softly, her resolve settling like dust.
Charity spun toward Faith. “That’s it? We’re just going to—” She cut herself off, arms flailing.
“Yes,” Faith said, firm, the anchor in the storm. “We are. Zeke’s right. If this man needs space, we give him space.”
Joy threw her arms up, sighing loud enough for the entire house. “Fine. But for the record, this is weird. Like, next-level weird.”
“Noted,” Zeke quipped, dry as burned toast.
“And if he turns out to be a serial killer, I’m calling it now. No one gets to say they weren’t warned.” Joy flapped her hands for emphasis.
Zeke grunted. “He’s not a serial killer.”
Joy stage-whispered, “That’s exactly what someone harboring a serial killer would say.”
Faith gave Joy her signature eyebrow raise. “Joy, enough.”
“I’m just saying,” Joy mumbled, hands splayed in mock surrender.
Zeke grabbed his coffee, heading for the door, then paused. “I’m serious. If any of you bother him, we’re going to have a problem. Don’t test me.”
After he left, the kitchen hung in a suspended hush. Joy broke it with a theatrical groan. “Well, that was weird.” She made a show of shivering.
“Extremely weird,” Charity echoed, sarcasm back in full force.
Faith sipped her coffee, thoughtful. “He’s protecting him. We must respect that.”
“From what?” I asked, watching Zeke’s retreating form in my mind—guarding, always guarding.
“From us, apparently,” Joan said, tapping her tablet like punctuation. “He only gets territorial when something’s really off.”
Joy leaned in, eyes wide, voice hushed. “Do you think he’s dangerous? Like, secret agent dangerous?”
“No,” Faith said immediately, steady as ever. “Zeke wouldn’t bring someone dangerous home. Not with us here.”
Charity threw up her hands. “What’s the big deal, then? Why’s his name classified?”
No one answered. We all stared at the black-and-chrome motorcycle outside, gleaming in the sun. A silent promise, or maybe a warning.
Personal reasons, Zeke had said.
Going through some shit.
I remembered how the visitor moved last night—deliberate, heavy, carrying burdens. Maybe Zeke recognized the same weight. Maybe protecting him was Zeke’s way of protecting himself, too.
“Hope?” Faith’s voice pulled me back.
I blinked. Faith watched me, steady and concerned.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Fine.”
But I wasn’t. Something about all this felt different. Like the beginning of a story, or a warning, or maybe a chance.