Chapter 7 Ashes in the Morning
SEVEN
ASHES IN THE MORNING
STEEL
I wake to the kind of silence that doesn’t trust itself.
No wind, no hum of the heater, no sound except the faint rhythm of Aria’s breathing beside me.
Her long, dark hair fans across the pillow, tangled, streaked with the faint glow of dawn that sneaks through the front-rimmed windows.
For a second, I let myself believe this is what peace feels like.
Her cheek is pressed to my arm, her breath is warm against my skin. The snow outside throws pink, then gold, then white light across her face. The color shifts like she’s half-caught between two worlds, one I belong to and one I never will.
The smell of smoke still clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of her perfume. The room feels too still, like the whole world’s holding its breath. My arm’s half-numb from where she’s been lying, but I don’t dare move. Not yet.
I should move. Should get up, get dressed, and start checking on possible damage to the Compound. The storm might’ve buried half the property, and the crew will be waiting. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I just lie here, memorizing the quiet.
Her hand shifts against the blanket, fingers brushing mine in her sleep. The smallest touch, but it cracks something open inside me. Last night’s heat still lives under my skin. Her voice, the way she whispered my name like it was a promise and a sin all at once.
Aria’s fingers are curled like she’s still clutching something from a dream. Her lips part when she exhales, a soft sound that breaks whatever armor I’ve got left.
I study her face. The faint bruise of exhaustion under her eyes, the tiny scar near her lip, I used to trace with my thumb.
The kind of details you forget until you see them again and realize they never left you.
Christ, I forgot what this felt like. Waking up and wanting to stay with her in my arms. I know it’s not possible. She’ll run before the frost melts.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, I imagine her staying. Her in my kitchen, coffee in hand, sunlight catching the silver chain around her neck. The image hits so hard I almost believe it, until I remember what it costs to keep someone in my world.
The sun climbs higher, slicing through the snow glare. Light spills across the bed, catching on the Saint’s ring I left on the nightstand. Tama’s ring. I stare at it until the shine turns to memory.
The last time I saw it on his finger was the day we lowered him into the ground. The day she walked away. Two ghosts buried in one afternoon. I reach for it without thinking. The metal’s cold enough to bite.
The fire’s burned down to faint coals. My clothes are still scattered on the floor. My jeans twisted near the bench, my cut draped over the chair where she threw it last night. I pull it on anyway, the leather stiff from cold, the patch rough against bare skin.
The weight settles differently this morning. Heavier, like it knows what I did.
Outside, the storm’s aftermath hums a low groan of ice shifting on the roof, the distant creak of tree limbs snapping free of snow. Inside, the air smells like smoke and her. I’m caught between them, not sure which one will fade first.
I look back at her sleeping form. The way she’s curled toward where I was lying, like her body didn’t get the memo I left. Aria shifts, rustling the sheets. I glance back and see her half awake, one eye open, confusion and softness mixed together.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Go back to sleep.”
“You’re bossy,” she mumbles, but her smile’s small and tired.
“Part of the job description.” She snorts, curling deeper into the blanket. I turn away before I start believing this could work.
I pick up Tama’s ring again and roll it between my fingers. It’s the same one he wore every day. Saint’s Outlaw insignia carved deep, edges worn smooth from years of gripping throttles and gavel handles. The last piece of him that still feels real.
I’ve carried it since the funeral. Never took it off the chain, never gave it up. Not until now.
My thumb catches the faint groove on the inside of the band. He had it inscribed years ago: Earn peace. I didn’t understand it then. I do now.
Maybe peace isn’t what you chase on the road or buy with loyalty. Maybe it’s the look she gave me last night when I finally stopped fighting the inevitable. Maybe it’s her.
Maybe this is what he meant. Maybe peace isn’t something you win. Maybe it’s something you hand over to the one person who can still believe you deserve it. The thought terrifies me more than any bullet.
I dress in silence, the movements automatic. Jeans, boots, T-shirt. Every sound feels louder than it should, like the universe is reminding me I’m not built for soft mornings.
The clock on the wall ticks slowly. The heater kicks in, hissing once before settling into a low hum. The faint light glints off her phone on the workbench. The same phone that lit up last night with that message neither of us wanted to see.
I check her phone. No new messages since that one. The threat still sits there on the screen, black text on white.
You weren’t supposed to survive the storm.
My stomach knots. The words look harmless sitting there, but they hum with intent. I scroll once, no name, no trace. Whoever sent it knew exactly when to strike. I thumb over the screen and almost delete it. Instead, I memorize it. That kind of threat deserves remembering.
I slide my phone into my pocket, grab my cut, and step back to the bed.
Aria’s on her side now, one arm across the pillow, her face half hidden by her dark hair.
There’s a peace in her expression I haven’t seen in years.
She looks like the girl who used to fall asleep in the back of my truck after long drives to nowhere, when the only thing that mattered was staying out past curfew and outrunning everything else.
I could almost pretend we’re still those kids. The ones who thought loyalty and love were enough to outrun bloodlines and bullets.
I kneel beside the bed. My knees creak, my chest tightens, and for a second, I almost lose my nerve. Then I slip Tama’s ring into her hand. Her fingers twitch automatically, curling around it like it belongs there.
“Until I earn peace,” I whisper. The words taste like rust.
I stand, step back, and watch her hand tighten around the ring. For once, I don’t feel like I’m carrying my father’s ghost. I feel like I’m finally giving him a reason to rest. The ring glints once in her palm, a flash of gold against pale skin. It looks right there, like it found its way home.
The urge to wake her, to tell her what it means, hits hard. But I don’t. Because if I start talking, I won’t stop.
She stirs, her long dark lashes fluttering. “Steel?”
I straighten too fast. “Yeah.”
Her eyes find me, still foggy with sleep. “You leaving?”
“Clubhouse needs checking. Roads will be clear soon.”
Her mouth tugs down. “You could’ve waited.”
“Could’ve,” I say, reaching for the door. “Shouldn’t.”
The corner of her mouth tilts up, not quite a smile. “You’re still terrible at goodbyes.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Guess I am.”
I hesitate long enough to make it hurt. “Stay until the plows make it through. Lock the door behind me.”
She pulls the blanket tighter, watching me like she’s memorizing my edges. “You ordering me?”
I almost smile. “Just asking nice.”
Her eyes soften. “You don’t do nice.”
“Trying something new.”
There’s a flicker between us, something tender, fragile. Her hand slips from under the blanket, and I take it without thinking. The contact is small, quick, but it hits like a lifetime.
Her thumb brushes my wrist, catching on the pulse there. “Be careful.”
“Always.” The lie tastes familiar. Careful isn’t in my nature, but I’ll pretend for her. I let go before the moment can hurt us both.
Outside, the world’s white again, blinding under the mid-morning sun. The snow’s piled high against the garage door, the kind of drifts that swallow noise whole. My boots crunch through the crusted surface, and every step leaves a mark I know the wind will erase before noon.
The air smells like metal and pine sap, sharp enough to sting.
My fingers ache from the cold before I’ve gone twenty feet.
Every sound feels magnified, the scrape of leather, the grind of snow underfoot, the faint echo of the highway beyond the ridge.
The world’s moved on, but I’m still stuck in last night.
By the time I reach the main road, the cold’s cut through the leather. My breath fogs the air, burning my throat.
The distance between the garage and the clubhouse isn’t far, just a few hundred feet, but it feels like miles. Like walking out of something I wasn’t supposed to find.
Every step feels heavier than the last. Every breath tastes like regret. I tell myself this is what leadership looks like, walking away first, even when it tears something vital out of you. Halfway there, I stop. The air’s sharp enough to sting, but it clears my head.
I can still smell her on my jacket. Smoke, jasmine, and sin. It makes my chest ache in a way no bullet ever has. I drag in another breath and keep walking.
The clubhouse looks half asleep under the snow. The front steps are buried, the porch light dim. The world around it’s nothing but white silence and tire ruts.
Inside, the air hits different with oil, leather, heat, and noise. Familiar chaos. My chaos.
Rock’s voice rumbles from the main room. “Boss is back!”
Crusher looks up from where he’s pouring coffee behind the bar, eyes bloodshot but alert. “You look like hell.”
“Feels mutual.” I strip off my coat, hang it on the rack, and grab the mug he slides over, letting the caffeine burn down my throat.
“You check the shop?” Rock asks.
“Yeah. Generator’s shot. Storm took out a couple of trees out back, nothing major.”
Crusher nods. “Aria still around?”
My spine stiffens, and I hesitate long enough for both of them to notice. “She’s fine,” I say finally. “Staying till the plows make it through.”
Rock whistles low. “Man, that’s one way to spend a snowstorm.”
I ignore the grin that follows. “Anybody check on the north fence line?”
“Throttle’s out there now,” Crusher says. “Said he’ll radio when he gets eyes on the road.”
I nod, but my focus drifts. The phone buzzes in my pocket again. I pull it out, half-hoping it’s her.
It’s not.
It’s the same number that sent Aria the threatening messages. Same message. Same threat. Only this time, the timestamp’s updated.
Read: 9:14 a.m.
Someone’s still watching. A chill crawls up the back of my neck, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold. Whoever’s out there didn’t just send a warning, they’re tracking.
The coffee goes sour in my stomach.
Crusher frowns. “What?”
“Nothing.” I pocket the phone. “Handle the morning brief without me. I’m gonna check the perimeter.”
“Steel.”
“Not a request,” I demand.
Crusher nods once. “You got it.”
I push out the door, the cold hitting harder now that I’ve been warm. My breath burns white. The snow crunches underfoot, the sky too blue for what’s coming.
I glance back once, toward the garage in the distance. Smoke still curls from the chimney, faint against the pale morning.
She’s in there. Safe, for now. But the peace I left her with feels like a lie. The text burns in my pocket, a silent countdown I can’t ignore. I tell myself that’s enough, but the truth is, the quiet after a storm is never peaceful. It’s just the pause before you find out what survived.