Chapter 37
Sophia
A week passed.
A week of sawdust and hammering, of scorched walls being torn down and rebuilt stronger, thicker, reinforced with steel plates and new security systems. The Saints worked from dawn until long after sunset, sweat and grief mixing into something that looked like determination.
The smell of fresh lumber clung to the air around the clubhouse, mixing with the faint ghost of smoke that still lingered from the attack.
Brick, Ghost, and Vandal handled most of the grunt work: hauling lumber, replacing boards, clearing debris.
The clubhouse would rise again.
But Grim didn’t stay there. He stayed with Sophia. Always. She didn’t ask him to; she couldn’t. But the thought of being alone in the dark made her chest tighten.
Her little house, soft and warm, smelling faintly of vanilla, cinnamon, and old books, became their refuge. The first couple of nights, Grim had stood in her doorway like he expected someone to rip her away again. He checked the locks three times. He didn’t trust the world anymore. Not with her.
He walked the perimeter twice. He slept on the side of her bed closest to the door, one arm always around her, even in sleep. He didn’t say it out loud, but she knew: He was terrified to let her out of his sight. And she didn’t blame him.
Sophia struggled too. Trauma lived in her bones now, in the way her breath hitched when a door slammed too hard, in the way she flinched at the sound of motorcycles revving in the distance.
Some nights she woke up gasping, hands shaking, the memory of cold metal bars closing in around her.
Grim would pull her into his chest, whispering, “I’ve got you.
I’m here. I’m right here,” until her breathing steadied.
Other nights, Grim jolted awake, drenched in sweat, eyes wild, reaching for her like he expected her to be gone. Sophia would cup his face, whispering, “Estoy aquí, Maddox. I’m here,” until the panic drained from his eyes and he collapsed against her, breathing her in like she was oxygen.
They healed each other slowly. Painfully. Beautifully.
The Saints came by every day. They carried Switchblade’s absence with them, in the quiet moments, in the tired eyes, in the way they worked without complaint. They didn’t hover. They didn’t pity. They simply showed up, quietly, consistently — like family.
Stone brought food and updates on the rebuild, his voice steady even when his eyes softened with worry. He stood on her porch one afternoon, boots dusty, cut streaked with sawdust, a container of lasagna in one hand.
“We’re reinforcing the north wall today,” he said. “New steel plates came in this morning.”
Sophia nodded, trying to picture it. “Good.”
Stone hesitated — just a beat — then added, “And… we’re building the medical room.”
Sophia blinked. “You are?”
Stone’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “It was your idea. Figured it was time we stopped patching people up in the kitchen.”
Sophia huffed a soft, surprised laugh. “Yeah. That would be nice.”
“We want you to look at it,” Stone said. “Tell us what we’re missing. What we need. How it should be set up.”
Sophia’s breath caught. “Stone… I don’t know if I’m—”
“You don’t have to come today,” he said gently. “Or tomorrow. Or next week. But when you’re ready… it’s yours. You tell us what to put in it. You tell us how to build it right.”
Sophia swallowed hard, emotion tightening her throat. “You don’t have to do that.”
Stone shook his head. “We do. You’ve patched up enough of us so far, and most likely will be fixing up more in the future. You’re family. And family gets a say.”
Sophia looked down at her hands, blinking fast. “Thank you.”
Stone nodded once, like the matter was settled. “When you’re ready,” he repeated. “Just tell me.”
He left the lasagna on the counter and walked out, boots thudding softly against the porch. Grim watched him go, then looked at Sophia — really looked — and she saw the pride in his eyes.
“You deserve that,” Grim murmured.
Sophia didn’t feel strong yet. But for the first time since she’d been taken, she felt… useful. Wanted. Included.
And that was its own kind of healing.
For a moment, the house fell quiet again, not the suffocating quiet of the cage, but a softer one. A settling. A breath. Sophia stood there with her hand still resting on the counter, feeling the weight of Stone’s words settle into her bones.
Then the day moved again.
Not all at once. Not loudly. Just… one brother at a time.
Grim hovered nearby, watching each man work with a tension that only eased when Sophia didn’t flinch. Every time she stayed steady, even for a second, he breathed a little easier.
Havoc fixed her broken porch light without being asked, muttering about “damn shadows” and “safety first.”
As he tightened the last screw, Havoc glanced toward the window where Grim hovered in the hallway, pretending not to watch. His voice dropped, low enough that only Sophia could hear.
“He’s running himself ragged, you know.” He didn’t look at her when he said it — just tested the bulb, the light washing warm across the porch.
“Man’s held together with duct tape and stubbornness. Just… don’t let him do it alone.”
Before she could respond, Havoc stepped off the porch, muttering something about checking the breaker box, like he hadn’t just said the most unexpectedly gentle thing she’d heard all week.
Sophia watched him go, a small knot forming in her chest. Havoc joked, barked, filled every room with noise — but that wasn’t what she’d seen just now.
He’d noticed Grim’s unraveling. He’d noticed hers.
And somehow, beneath all that chaos, he understood both.
More than she expected. More than she was ready for.
The porch light hummed softly above her, warm and steady. A small thing. But it made her feel… safer. Seen.
She exhaled slowly, grounding herself as footsteps approached again.
Rook installed a new deadbolt on her back door, testing it a few times before nodding in approval.
Avery stood beside him, a small box from Sweet Treats cradled in her hands.
She offered them with a soft smile, careful not to crowd Sophia, her voice gentle as she said, “Thought you might like something fresh.”
The visit was brief, warm, and exactly what Sophia could handle.
These small, gentle visits felt like stepping stones, tiny pieces of normal life she could touch without drowning.
She wasn’t ready for crowds, but this… this she could manage.
And when they left, another presence stepped in to take their place.
Ledger set up cameras around the property, adjusting angles, muttering about blind spots, and promising her that nothing — nothing — would get past them again.
Fish never came inside. But Sophia sometimes saw him at the edge of the property, moving like a shadow, checking the tree line before disappearing again.
Lacey stopped by once with a basket of muffins, cheeks pink, eyes glossy with worry. She didn’t stay long, just squeezed Sophia’s hand and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re home,” before slipping out again.
Sophia didn’t realize how much she needed that until she saw them standing on her porch, covered in sawdust, offering her a bag of groceries and a tired smile. Being cared for felt strange after so much fear, but it also felt like healing.
On the seventh day, Abuela arrived.
She didn’t knock. She never knocked. She swept into the house with a giant pot of pozole, muttering in rapid Spanish about “ni?os stubborn as mules” and “men who don’t eat enough.” The smell filled the kitchen instantly, warm, rich, and comforting, like a hug made of chiles and hominy.
Grim tried to stand when she entered the kitchen.
Abuela smacked his arm lightly. “Sit. You look like a scarecrow.”
He sat. Because no one disobeyed Abuela.
She ladled steaming pozole into bowls, the broth shimmering with red oil, the scent of oregano and lime drifting through the room. She set a bowl in front of Grim, then cupped his cheek with a hand that smelled like cilantro, onions, and soap.
“Mijo,” she said softly. “Eat.”
Grim swallowed hard. He ate.
Slowly at first. Then faster. Then like a man starved for something he didn’t know he’d been missing. Sophia watched him, her heart twisting at the way his shoulders loosened, the way his eyes softened, the way he seemed to breathe differently, deeper and steadier, with every bite.
When Abuela left, Sophia walked her to the door.
On her way back down the hallway, Sophia slowed, something tightening in her chest without warning. Her breath hitched, sharp and instinctive, the same way it had in the cage when footsteps meant danger. The house was quiet, warm, safe… but her body didn’t believe it. Her pulse kicked hard anyway.
She pressed a hand to the wall, steadying herself, whispering, “It’s okay,” even as her vision narrowed for a heartbeat.
The wave passed. Not quickly. Not cleanly. But it passed.
When she returned to the kitchen, Grim was still standing there — staring at the empty bowl like it had knocked the breath out of him.
He didn’t hear her come in.
His hand came up to his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes. His shoulders tightened, then shook once, a sharp, contained tremor, the kind a man makes when he’s trying not to fall apart.
Sophia froze.
He’d held it together through blood and fire. Through the trauma. Through the nightmares. Through the memorial. He’d broken, yes, but he hadn’t fallen apart. Not like this.
But now… over a bowl of pozole?
Her chest ached.
She didn’t need to hear his thoughts to understand.
She saw it in the way he stood, rigid and braced, like the smallest kindness had cracked something open inside him.
She saw it in the way he wiped at his eyes quickly, like he didn’t want her to see.
She saw it in the way he exhaled, shaky and uneven, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
It hit her then, soft and sharp all at once.
This was the first time in decades anyone had mothered him. Fed him. Cared for him without asking for anything in return. And it broke him in a way violence never had.
“Maddox…” she whispered.
He startled slightly, dropping his hand, trying to school his expression, but his eyes were still red, still wet at the corners.
Sophia didn’t say a word. She just stepped close and touched his arm.
Grim leaned into her touch immediately, like he didn’t even think about it, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. Like her hand was the only thing keeping him upright.
Sometimes, when the house was quiet and Grim’s breathing settled into that deep, steady rhythm beside her, Sophia would open her eyes and stare into the dark.
The memories didn’t slam into her anymore.
They just drifted in, cold and unwelcome, the echo of metal bars and silence brushing against the edges of her mind.
Grim’s arm tightened around her in his sleep, pulling her closer without waking, as if his body sensed the shift in hers before she even moved. That instinct, that unconscious protectiveness, steadied her more than words ever could.
She breathed him in, cedar and leather and home, and the memories thinned, fading the way shadows do when morning starts to push through.
That night, Sophia fell asleep on his chest, her breath warm against his skin, her fingers curled into his shirt like she was anchoring herself to him.
Grim wrapped around her protectively, one arm under her head, the other around her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever been given.
She felt him press his face into her hair, breathing her in, vanilla, warmth, home.
His voice was a whisper in the dark. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Half-asleep, Sophia murmured something soft in Spanish, a prayer, a promise, a thank-you.
Grim’s arms tightened around her.
And for the first time since the night she was taken, Sophia felt him breathe — really breathe — like the weight he’d been carrying finally loosened in the safety of her arms.