Chapter Seventeen
The past two months with Marigold have been intense, blending her own brand of chaos with the storm of club life. Living in her whirlwind has taught me the difference between knowing someone and truly experiencing them.
Damn, she’s so fucking incredible I keep questioning what cosmic accident landed her in my orbit. She fits into the rough edges of my soul like she was carved for them, matching me in ways I’m only starting to unravel.
And the sex… man, it’s out of this fucking world.
I always felt the chemistry, simmering for years, but this is something deeper.
What we have now feels like I’m finally breathing real air for the first time.
We’re discovering each other in ways she never allowed before.
I expected her to run, to let the fear of Damon drive her back into her shell.
That’s been her move for four years. But she surprised the hell out of me by jumping into this with both feet, no hesitation, just raw, honest need.
We both still keep our own spaces, but we’re together more often than not. Manic asked if we’re moving too fast. Maybe. To outsiders, sure. Truth is, it’s not fast enough for me. I’d claim her in front of the whole club and slap my ink on her neck tomorrow if I knew she’d go for it.
The club's been running hot for two months.
Between rebuilding the ports and cleaning up the blackened, skeletal mess the fire left behind at the complex, none of us has had much sleep.
Cypher's been buried in the security situation since the fire.
He never pulled a clean ID from the feeds.
He's built Keres, a facial recognition system, to cross-reference everyone who appeared in footage from both the fire and the marina.
In any future incidents, it'll start eliminating matches automatically.
It's a solid start.
We’re finished sitting back and waiting.
The complex is gone, burned to nothing. The loss gutted Snow, and Marigold felt it just as hard. She got what it meant for Snow to be trusted with a piece of the club’s future.
Butcher, stubborn as ever, refused to hand Snow the keys to the new oceanfront cottage himself.
He wants her in the dark about his part in it, which is bullshit.
I keep the records. I know he bought that place long before we even considered the complex.
If I had to guess, he was thinking of her from the start.
Now the deed’s in Snow’s name, another secret he’s hoarding.
I don’t know what Butcher’s endgame is, but when Snow broke down crying as we handed her the keys, it was clear he’s staking his claim, whether he’ll say it or not.
She walked in, saw the pro-grade kitchen ready for her bakery, and blindsided us all.
She skipped the club and went straight for Butcher.
I’ve never seen a giant like him panic so hard, eyes wide, hands shaking as she wrapped him up in a hug.
The man looked like he might come apart.
The Wicked Whisk officially opens its doors next week. I don't know who’s more excited about it, Marigold or Snow. It’s a win we desperately needed.
But tonight, it’s back to the business that keeps the flour and frosting flowing. The ports are rebuilt, money’s coming in again. Tonight’s our first big run with Ghost, and the officers are taking the transports themselves.
Joker taps the map laid out on the chapel table, the overhead light catching the scarred wood.
“This is where we’ll be meeting Ghost and his men,” he says.
His finger drags along a path he’s marked in red Sharpie.
“This is our route until the first hand-off. Butcher, Cyanide, Gavel, and D-Bag, you’ll carry on through here with Ghost’s crew until the final drop.
” He points to a secondary location further inland.
“This is as far as Ghost goes. Basilisk, Manic, Hannibal, Vortex, and Giblet, you’re the final leg back to the clubhouse.
” Joker uncaps the marker and draws a series of jagged lines, his expression grim.
“This is the route. By the time the product hits you, we’ll have scouts littered throughout the run to watch for shadows.
I don’t expect trouble, but with the shit that’s been going down lately, we can’t be too careful. Any questions?”
No one speaks. The chapel air is heavy with silent understanding. We sync comms, check mags, and load up before rolling out to the bikes.
Leaving Marigold alone makes me uneasy, especially with a lingering threat and no face to pin it on.
Munch volunteered to stay at her house while we’re gone, which gave me some peace of mind.
Going into a run like this with a distraction is a fast track to a pine box, and for the first time in my life, I actually give a shit about the finish line.
Before her, I didn’t give a damn if I went out in a hail of bullets.
Now? I want to grow old with her. Kids or no kids, we haven’t decided, and I’m good either way.
There are enough little ones tearing through the club that I’ve gotten solid at the uncle game.
Hand them back when they get loud, keep the fun parts.
As long as I go to my grave with that woman at my side, nothing else matters.
I pull my phone and fire off a quick text.
ME
Fucking love you.
A few minutes later, the screen lights up. I can’t help but let out a low laugh.
SHADOW
Of course you do. Everyone should. But they're not as smart as you so I'll forgive them. Maybe. Probably not because they totally should love me. I'm a baddie.
Fucking love you too.
Also stay safe. I'd hate to have to follow you into the ground just to kick your ass. Then I'd come back and probably marry your best friend out of spite. Maybe more than one of them. So. Better be safe.
With her, life is never boring.
ME
One day I'm gonna wife you up. Bet.
SHADOW
Marigold has left the chat
Kidding. Maybe. Okay fine. But only if the mask comes with you.
ME
Deal.
SHADOW
And you have to promise to chase me once a week.
ME
Obsessed, little shadow.
SHADOW
With you. Obvs.
ME
Mutual. Gotta go. Be good. Fucking love you.
SHADOW
knife emoji cat emoji kiss emoji Fucking love you.
Joker leads the charge, engines roaring through the lot. We roll out in a tight, staggered pack. Malice and Pope behind Joker, Savior and me in the middle, Pretty Boy on tail. Once we hit the highway, the groups split, peeling off toward their sectors with practiced precision.
As we glide over the shimmering asphalt, my thoughts circle back to her and the ghost she’s been dodging for six years.
Can you even track down a man who doesn’t exist?
Would Damon really risk coming here, knowing these streets belong to the Saint’s Outlaws?
He’s got no power here, not like in Greece.
Here, he’s just another masked face. If he’s been dead on paper, he’s got even less to work with.
But men like that don't think in terms of smart or stupid.
They think in terms of possession. And a man who thinks he owns something doesn't stop because the terrain gets difficult.
Cypher keeps digging, slicing through digital brush with a surgeon’s touch. He’s careful not to set off any alarms tied to their names, but that kind of stealth takes time.
I just hope time doesn’t run out on us.
Joker’s engine snarls, yanking me back to the now. The drop is close. I gather up every thought of Marigold and lock it all behind a steel door in my mind.
Whatever waits ahead demands every piece of me.
Tonight, Ghost brings his own crew for the first time, shifting the balance.
Unknowns everywhere. I want eyes on everything.
Body language, positioning, who stands where relative to Ghost, who moves when he moves.
The unease from our first meeting still clings to me, and I refuse to step into this with anything less than razor-sharp instincts.
Ghost doesn't make us wait this time.
He and his crew are stationed around the yawning open space of the ports, leaning against their blacked-out vehicles like shadows waiting for the sun to go down.
A few of them stand at high alert flanking Ghost. They're the kind of men who don't just pull triggers, they enjoy it. These men are his tops.
Joker, Pope, Malice, Savior, Pretty Boy, and I climb from our bikes. We keep our movements fluid and our bodies loose, the universal language for we’re here for business, not a funeral. But everyone’s calculating, tension crackling in the air until Ghost finally breaks it by stepping forward.
“Gentlemen,” he greets, his chin dipping in a nod that’s technically respectful but feels like a threat.
His eyes still hold that eerie, bottomless emptiness as they sweep over us.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in this life. I’ve looked into the eyes of men who were dying and men who were doing the killing, but I’ve never seen a void this visible.
It’s like staring into a grave that hasn't been filled yet. Scary shit.
“Ghost,” Pope says, his voice a low rumble. “I hope your trip here was successful. We’ve mapped out the routes so this is done cleanly.” He holds his hand out to Joker, who passes over a fresh map. Pope hands it to Ghost. “You and your men study this. If you need to send scouts ahead, do it now.”
While Ghost and his lieutenants bend their heads over the paper, I let my gaze wander over the rest of his crew.
There’s been a persistent, jagged itch under my skin since the second I kicked my kickstand down.
Is it a smart move to pull my phone and start snapping discreet pictures of these assholes?
Probably not. One wrong move and the fragile peace shatters.
Still, my gut says this is our only shot at learning who these people really are.