Chapter Twelve
Wren
Iknew I was screwed the second I walked through the compound's gate.
Ghost stood by the entrance to the main building, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set in that particular way that meant someone was in deep shit.
And judging by how those steel-gray eyes locked onto me like targeting lasers, that someone was definitely me.
So much for slipping back unnoticed and pretending I'd been napping in my room all afternoon like a good little girl. Somehow, he knew. He always fucking knew. From the time I first came to live with him, Ghost always knew when I was doing something I shouldn’t.
He knew when I lied to he knew when I did something he told me not to.
I knew because he always had the same look on his face he had now.
"Office. Now." Ghost's voice cut through the air between us, sharp as a blade and just as dangerous.
I considered arguing, maybe throwing out some bullshit excuse about where I'd been, but the look on his face stopped me cold.
When Ghost used that tone, even Bloody Jack sometimes took a step back.
I nodded once and followed him through the main building, past curious stares from prospects and patched members alike.
The walk to his office felt like a death march, each step taking me closer to the explosion I knew was coming.
Since the first day I’d met Ghost, I’d known he had my back. Always. No matter what. I got in trouble at school, he always took my side. At least to the rest of the world. Behind closed doors, he questioned me, grilled me, until he grew satisfied he had everything. And that’s where we were at now.
Ghost pushed open his office door and waited for me to enter first. I walked in with my chin up, defiance masking the guilt churning in my gut.
The room smelled like leather, gun oil, and the faint trace of Ghost's favorite whiskey.
Cluttered desk, wall of weapons, framed patches and photos from the club's history, I knew every inch of this space.
It had been both sanctuary and execution chamber over the years, depending on what kind of trouble I'd found myself in.
He slammed the door shut behind me, making me flinch. "Sit." Ghost pointed to the worn leather chair across from his desk.
"I'd rather stand."
Ghost's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't a request. Sit. The fuck. Down."
Fuck it. I dropped into the chair, crossing my arms over my chest petulantly.
Ghost remained standing, looming over me like the physical manifestation of disappointment and barely contained fury.
Rarely had I ever seen him this angry. And never at me.
And there went my stomach churning even more violently.
I’d never dealt well with Ghost being angry at me.
Seems like I’d never grown out of him being able to guilt me into submission without doing anything other than looking at me.
"You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?" His voice stayed low, controlled, which scared me more than yelling would have. When Ghost got quiet, that's when you needed to worry.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." He slammed his palm on the desk, making papers — and me — jump. "Don't lie to me, Wren. I saw you with him. At the park."
My stomach dropped. "You were following me?"
"After what happened? After everything I told you? You're damn right I had eyes on you." He braced both hands on the desk, leaning toward me. "I've had someone watching you since the night you came to Honey's place crying because that Copperhead piece of shit broke your heart."
"So what, I'm a prisoner now?" I shot back, heat rising to my face. "You don't trust me to take a fucking walk without a babysitter?"
Ghost straightened, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair.
"This isn't about trust. It's about keeping you safe from people who would hurt you without hesitation.
" His voice softened slightly, though the edge remained.
"Do you have any idea what the Copperheads would do if they knew who you are to me? To this club?"
"He's not—"
"Not what?" Ghost cut me off. "Not really a Copperhead? Not really the enemy? What lie did he feed you this time, Wren?"
I bit my lip, Rocky's words echoing in my head.
I wanted to tell Ghost everything. About Vittorio Luca, about the trafficking operation, about the girls.
But something held me back. If Rocky was lying, I'd look like an even bigger fool than I already did.
And if he wasn't... I needed more proof before bringing Ghost and the club into it.
Ghost moved around the desk, perching on the edge of it, close enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its hardness.
"I took you in when you were just a scared kid with nowhere to go. Gave you a home. Protected you. Made sure you had everything you needed." His voice cracked slightly. "You're my daughter in every way that matters, and I have never, not once, asked anything of you except to be careful."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. "That's not fair," I whispered.
"Fair?" Ghost shook his head. "Nothing about this life is fair, baby.
But what's not fair is you throwing yourself in danger after I specifically asked you not to.
The Copperheads wouldn't hesitate to use you to destroy everyone in this club and make your death last as long as possible. Just to torment me."
I stood up, unable to stay still under the weight of his words. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm so stupid, so naive that I can't handle myself?"
"This isn't about—"
"It is!" I cut him off, my voice rising. "You use informants all the time. You have people feeding you information from every club and crew in this city. How is this any different?"
Ghost's knuckles went white against the edge of the desk. "Because you're not an informant, Wren. You're my daughter. And that man is playing you."
"You don't know that!" My purple hair whipped around as I turned to face him fully. "What if I'm playing him? What if I'm getting information that could help the club?"
"At what cost?" Ghost's voice rose to match mine. "Your safety? Your life?"
"I'm not a child anymore!" I slammed my hands down on the desk, mirroring his earlier gesture.
"The Copperheads are moving thirty girls on Saturday night.
Thirteen-year-olds, Ghost. From a warehouse at the edge of town.
They're going to 'process' them and ship them off to buyers within hours.
" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"That's what Rocky told me. That's what I found out by talking to him. "
Ghost went still, his face unreadable. For a moment, I thought I'd gotten through to him, that he'd see the value in what I was doing.
"The information isn't the point," he said finally, his voice deadly quiet.
"You're putting yourself directly in the line of danger.
If what you're saying is true, those Copperheads would kill you without a second thought if they knew you had that information. "
"But—"
"No buts!" Ghost's control finally snapped. "You're being reckless and childish! That man is either using you for information about this club, or he's trying to set you up as bait in some kind of trap!"
"That's not true!" I shouted back, frustration boiling over. "You don't even know him!"
"And you do?" Ghost's laugh was harsh, bitter. "After what, a couple fucks and some pretty words? You think that gives you special insight?"
The words stung worse than a slap. "Fuck you," I spat, tears threatening to spill over. "I'm not some stupid little girl who can't tell when she's being played."
"Then stop acting like one!" Ghost's voice boomed through the small office, loud enough that I heard movement in the hallway outside. We'd drawn an audience.
We stood there, staring at each other, both breathing hard. Ghost looked older suddenly, the lines around his eyes deeper than I remembered. The anger in his face couldn't hide the fear beneath it. Fear for me.
"Wren," he said, softer now, "I can't lose you. Not to them."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the office door swung open before I could get the words out.
Bloody Jack filled the doorway like a wall of muscle and menace, his massive frame blocking the light from the hallway.
The club president's shadow stretched across the floor between Ghost and me, a physical manifestation of the line I'd crossed.
Great. Just fucking great. If Ghost was the law in my life, Jack was the executioner.
And judging by the thunderous look on his bearded face, I'd just earned myself a one-way ticket to deep shit.
"Thought I heard a family discussion," Jack said, his voice deceptively casual as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His boots thudded heavily against the concrete floor, each step deliberate, unhurried. He didn't need to rush. Nobody was going anywhere until he'd had his say.
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like a cornered animal. One angry father figure was bad enough. Two was irritating as fucking shit. The air in the room seemed to thin as Jack moved to stand beside Ghost, both men now forming a united front against me.
"Jack," I managed, hating how small my voice sounded. "This isn't—"
"Club business?" He raised an eyebrow, glacial blue eyes pinning me in place. "When it involves the Copperheads, it's always club business."
Ghost shot Jack a look. "She thinks she can handle herself. Thinks she's getting valuable intel from this Copperhead."
Jack's expression darkened. He crossed his arms over his massive chest, the leather of his cut creaking with the movement. "You forgettin’ what happened at Hell Night, kid?"