Epilogue
GHOST IN THE GLASS - NEVAEH
The new house still smells like cedar and fresh paint. Crusher had it built on the edge of Club property, close enough to hear the engines when the Saints fire up, but far enough that we can lock a door and pretend, for a few hours, that the world outside doesn’t exist.
Morning light spills across the kitchen counters, catching on the frames I’ve been too nervous to hang. Photos of rides, charity events, and my book launch. A life I never thought I’d survive to see.
I’m barefoot, hair loose, coffee half-gone when the knock comes. Not a Saint’s knock, it’s too soft. Too patient.
By the time I open the door, there’s no one there. Just a plain envelope sitting on the porch. I pick it up. The paper is heavy, like it’s holding its breath. My fingers tremble before I even tear the seal.
Inside is a single photograph. For a split second, my chest locks, and I’m back in the alley with Bria’s blood on my hands. Then I breathe. The Saints taught me that fear’s just another battlefield
Crusher and me our first ride with my acceptance in the club. My arms wrapped tight around his waist, wind tearing my hair back, his face cut sharp by the horizon. Someone had been close enough to take it. Close enough to keep it.
On the back, there’s a faded, smudged mark. But I know it instantly. A Saints Outlaws patch with a red line running through it.
My chest locks up. No note. No name. Just a message sharp enough to slice me open.
I set the photo down on the counter, glass pane beneath it. For a second, I see my reflection doubled in the surface. And then, behind me, a shadow shifts. Broad shoulders. A man’s outline, watching.
I whip around. Nothing is there, just the sound of Crusher’s boots crunching the gravel outside, his voice calling for me.
But the cold doesn’t leave. It’s crawling under my skin now, a whisper I can’t shake. Because whoever left that envelope wasn’t just close. They were inside the walls. Inside the silence. Close enough to breathe me in and walk away without a sound.
The door creaks open, boots heavy on the threshold, and then Crusher’s there, filling the doorway like a wall the world can’t get past. Crusher doesn’t just enter a room, he claims it, and right now, he’s claiming me.
His gaze cuts to the counter, to the photograph, and his jaw flexes hard enough I swear I can hear it crack. A storm’s brewing in him, but before it can break, he’s already moving, closing the space between us in three strides.
His hand finds the back of my neck, firm, warm, anchoring me against the chill still crawling under my skin. His other hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush to him, chest to chest, a human barricade against shadows I can’t even see.
“You’re shaking,” he mutters, low and rough, like gravel sliding over steel.
“I’m fine,” I lie, but my voice betrays me.
His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw, tipping my face up until I have no choice but to meet those dark, furious, protective eyes.
“Not when someone put this in your hands,” he growls, flicking a glance at the photo.
His grip tightens just enough that I feel it down to my spine.
“They wanted you rattled. Wanted you scared. But they’ll have to go through me first.”
The words aren’t a promise. They’re a sentence, stamped and sealed in blood. And just like that, the fear recedes a little. Because when Crusher wraps around me like this, the world shrinks down to one truth. He’s my shield. My weapon. My home.
His eyes meet mine, and I see the cold, certain, brutal truth flash there.
This isn’t over.
The glass still holds the ghost.
Some wear enemy colors. Some wear Saints’. And one of them isn’t finished with us yet.
The Saints survived betrayal once. But in the shadows, a new enemy waits with our blood on her hands.
Coming soon…
Rock’s Reckoning
Eli “Rock” Mercer, Sergeant at Arms, embodies the law of the Club.
His entire identity is built on protecting brothers, enforcing the code, and keeping order.
Myra Jade is everything that threatens that order.
A wild card, a woman with Syndicate blood on her hands, and secrets that could tear the Saints apart if she ever speaks them.