15. Rowan
15
ROWAN
The shopping bags rustle as I nudge my apartment door shut with my hip. I’ve never been one for retail therapy, but after three hours at Wolf Pike’s modest mall, I feel almost normal. Like I’m just another woman buying necessities.
I dump the bags on my couch, surveying my haul. Four pairs of jeans that actually fit. Three tops that don’t scream, “I’ve been living out of a duffel bag.” Work shoes that won’t kill my feet during double shifts. Nothing extravagant, but more than I’ve owned at once in months.
I should be focusing on saving every penny, but the unexpected morning off was too good to waste. I still don’t know why Brick closed the diner until noon, but I’m not complaining. A few hours to myself felt like a luxury after eight straight days of work.
And if I’m being honest, I needed the distraction after last night. I can’t believe I showed off on Maddox’s bike like that. What was I thinking? One moment of pride could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to hide.
The memory of the brothers’ stunned faces makes me smile despite myself. But that smile fades as I replay the wheelie. Too smooth. Too practiced. The kind of skill that comes from years of training, not “learning a few years ago,” as I claimed.
And then I hugged them. All three of them. What possessed me to launch myself at Brick like that? The feel of his solid body against mine, his hands automatically finding my waist—I can still feel the imprint of his touch hours later.
At least the promise of borrowing one of their bikes was worth the risk. Freedom on two wheels again, the wind in my face, the power between my thighs—I’ve missed it more than I care to admit.
My phone chimes from the kitchen counter, pulling me from my thoughts. An unsaved number lights up the screen, sending a spike of adrenaline through my system. I stare at it, paralyzed for three rings, before I swipe to answer.
“Hello?” I keep my voice neutral, my body already tensing for flight.
“Ro? It’s me.”
Relief floods me so intensely I have to sit down. “Em? What are you doing? We agreed?—”
“I know, I know. No direct contact unless it’s an emergency.” Emma’s voice sounds different—more confident than when I left her at that bus station three months ago. “But I almost got caught yesterday.”
My blood freezes. “What happened?”
“Two of Dad’s men were on campus. I spotted them by the library.” She lowers her voice. “I think Cypher’s expanding his search.”
Hearing Dad’s name—his chosen name—sends a shiver through me. Cypher, founder of the Vipers MC. My father. The monster we ran away from.
“Are you safe?” I press the phone closer to my ear as if to draw her closer.
“I’m good. Better than good, actually.” There’s a smile in her voice now. “Can we switch to video? I want to show you something.”
I hesitate. Video calls can be traced and intercepted, but the need to see my sister’s face overwhelms my caution. I tap the camera icon, holding my breath until her image appears.
“Holy shit.” I can’t help laughing. “Your hair!”
Emma grins back at me, her once-brown locks now electric blue, cut in an edgy style that frames her face. Multiple piercings line her ears, and there’s even one in her eyebrow.
“Like it? No one would recognize me now.” She turns her head, showing off the full effect. “The scholarship program finally processed my asylum request. I’m officially Emily Callahan, not Emma Cypher. We have the same fake surname now.”
Relief and pride swell in my chest. The plan worked. The arrangements I made with the scholarship director—explaining just enough about our situation to get her protection without revealing the full extent of who we’re running from—paid off.
“You look amazing, Emma—Emily.” My voice catches. “How’s school?”
“Incredible.” Her eyes light up. “My roommate’s awesome. Classes are challenging, but in a good way. No one knows who I am here.”
“Who you were,” I correct gently.
“Right.” She studies me through the screen. “You’ve changed too. Your face has filled out again. You look happier.”
“I’m getting there,” I admit. “Found a job. Actually using my baking skills.”
“Legit baking?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “No special ingredients?”
The joke makes us both laugh, but there’s an edge to it. We both know what Dad had me putting in those specialty orders.
“One hundred percent legal flour and sugar,” I promise. “The owners don’t even know my real name, let alone anything else.”
Yes, they don’t know that only my sister addresses me as Rowan. They don’t know it’s the name I came up with when I was seventeen in preparation for when I ran away.
“Good.” She glances over her shoulder, suddenly serious. “Listen, I can’t stay on long, but I needed to warn you. Dad’s getting desperate. Someone told me he’s hired outside help to find us.”
The words land like stones in my stomach. “What kind of outside help?”
“The kind that doesn’t care about jurisdictions or warrants.” She lowers her voice further. “Be careful, Ro. I don’t think he’s given up.”
“He never will.” The truth tastes bitter on my tongue. “Not until he makes an example of us.”
“I should go. Love you.”
“Love you too, Emily Callahan. Stay safe.”
Her image freezes for a moment before disappearing, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the darkened screen. She looks so different now. So free. While I’m still jumping at shadows, afraid to get too comfortable.
The clock on my microwave reminds me to get ready for work. The diner opens at noon.
I change into my new jeans and one of the lightweight tops I bought—nothing fancy, but clean and flattering. As I lock my apartment, I wonder about last night’s text from Brick. Good riding tonight. Those three words have been living in my head rent-free since I read them.
When I arrive, the diner’s lights are still off. I use my key to let myself in, flipping switches as I go. The routine of opening calms my nerves—checking supplies, prepping stations, and turning on equipment. By the time I’ve mixed the first batch of dough, I’m almost relaxed again.
The bell above the door chimes just after noon. I look up, expecting the first customers, but it’s the brothers. Their expressions are serious, a heaviness to their movements that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Morning, princess.” Maddox’s greeting lacks its usual teasing edge. “Place looks good.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly uncertain. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Brick answers too quickly. “Just a busy morning.”
They move through the diner with unusual tension, checking things that don’t need checking, having quiet conversations I can’t quite hear. Something’s wrong, but it’s clearly not something they’re sharing with the hired help.
Maddox and Brick leave thirty minutes later, heading back to the garage. Ryder stays behind, settling into his usual spot in the kitchen without a word.
“What happened?” I ask him directly when we’re alone. “You guys seem off.”
He simply shrugs, turning his attention to the grill. Typical Ryder response, but somehow, it feels more deliberate than usual.
The Saturday lunch rush keeps us too busy for further questions. By evening, the strange mood has settled into the background, just another mystery about the Kane brothers that isn’t my business to solve.
As I clean up after closing, disaster strikes. The tap I’m using to fill a mop bucket suddenly jerks in my hand, the metal coupling splitting and a spray of water hitting me directly in the chest.
“Shit!” I leap back, but it’s too late. My lightweight top is completely soaked, clinging to my skin like a second skin. The thin material does nothing to hide my black bra underneath, and the sudden chill makes certain things very obvious.
I twist the knob to shut off the water, but nothing happens. The coupling must have broken internally. Water continues spraying everywhere, soaking the floor and anything within range.
Ryder’s taking out trash in the back alley, so there’s no help there. I race to the main water valve under the sink, shutting it off with a decisive twist. The spray dies immediately, leaving me standing in a puddle, dripping and furious.
“Great,” I mutter, looking down at my saturated top. “Just great.”
I need to change, or at least get this shirt off so it can dry. The diner’s closed, and it’s just me and Ryder. It’s not like I haven’t been seen in a bra before.
Still, privacy seems wise. I head for the pantry, which has a small fan we use to keep it ventilated. Perfect for drying a soaked top. I close the door behind me, twisting the little lock for good measure, and peel off my wet shirt. The air is cool against my damp skin, raising goose bumps along my arms.
I wring out the shirt as best I can before hanging it directly in front of the fan. With any luck, it’ll be dry enough to wear home in twenty minutes or so. I rub my arms, trying to warm up, wondering if there’s a spare shirt somewhere I could borrow.
The sound of footsteps approaching makes me freeze. There’s a pause, then a sharp knock on the pantry door.
“Just a minute!” I call out, reaching for my still-soaking shirt. Before I can grab it, the door shudders under a sudden impact.
Wood splinters around the lock. The door flies open, hitting the wall with a bang.
Ryder stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable as his eyes lock on me—standing in just my bra and jeans, water still dripping down my skin.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
And somehow, I forget to breathe.