Chapter 51
Chapter
Fifty-One
FALLON
The phone vibrates again in my pocket, insistent as a wasp trapped against glass.
Daniel. Third call in the last ten minutes.
I can picture him perfectly—standing outside the restaurant we were supposed to meet at, tie probably loosened in that way that means his temper is fraying, checking his watch with mounting fury.
I ignore it, staying exactly where I am—curled in Kade's lap while his fingers stroke through my hair with rhythmic precision.
The motion seems to calm him more than me, like he needs the tangible proof that I'm here, that I'm real, that I'm safe.
His heartbeat thrums steady beneath my ear, a counterpoint to the adrenaline I can feel thrumming through his muscles.
He's coiled tight, ready to move, but his hands remain gentle. Always gentle with me.
The living room feels wrong. Too formal, too exposed.
The furniture Daniel selected suddenly looks like stage dressing for a performance about to turn violent.
Four armed men occupy the space like soldiers preparing for battle—Ash leaning against the wall by the window, positioned where he can see the driveway through a gap in the curtains.
Havoc stands near the front door, arms crossed, the gun at his hip barely concealed by his leather cut.
Havoc checks his phone every few seconds, probably coordinating with someone, his face carved from stone in the lamplight.
Their weapons are visible, no attempt to hide the violence they're capable of.
I'm not stupid. I know what's about to happen tonight.
Daniel is going to die in this house. In our house, the one he picked out, the one where he's hurt me in every room, left bruises on every surface.
The thought should horrify me. Should make me scream, call the police, do something—anything—to prevent murder from happening in my own living room.
But all I feel is tired. So fucking tired of being afraid, of walking on eggshells, of measuring every word and movement to avoid his fists.
Tired of existing in the spaces between his moods, tired of the constant calculations—will this make him angry, will that set him off, how do I make myself smaller, quieter, less?
What terrifies me isn't Daniel's death. What terrifies me is these men getting caught. Getting hurt. Going to prison because of me.
I've grown close to them during my stay at their house—the way Ash makes jokes to lighten the mood, how Beck always checks if I've eaten, materializing with sandwiches or takeout containers like he can sense when I've forgotten my body needs fuel.
Havoc's quiet protectiveness. They're Kade's brothers.
His family. The only family he really has besides Walker and Grace.
And they're about to commit murder to protect me.
My phone buzzes again. Texts this time, notifications lighting up the screen in rapid succession. I pull it out, reading them without opening the messages—a small act of defiance that will cost me later.
Except there won't be a later, will there?
Daniel: Where the fuck are you?
Daniel: You stood me up you ungrateful bitch
Daniel: When I get home you're going to pay for this
Daniel: I'll make sure you remember your place
Kade's hand stills in my hair. His entire body goes rigid, that predator stillness that means danger. "He threatening you?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out flat. Empty. I've read variations of these texts hundreds of times. The words have lost their power to frighten me—they're just words now, familiar as breathing.
His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking beneath stubble. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Almost gentle. "Good. Let him come."
Time does something strange after that—stretches and contracts like it's lost its shape.
I'm aware of Kade's arms around me, the murmur of low voices as the guys do final checks on their weapons, the way shadows lengthen across the floor as the sun drops lower outside.
My mind floats somewhere above my body, observing from a safe distance.
Dissociation, probably. Trauma response.
My therapist—the one Daniel stopped letting me see—would have a term for this numbness.
Then I hear it. The garage door rumbles open, that familiar mechanical growl that means he's home.
Every man in the room moves instantly, weapons drawn, positioning themselves in the formal dining room just off the living area.
The choreography is precise, practiced. They've done this before—maybe not murder, but violence.
The kind of coordinated movement that only comes from training or experience or both.
"Don't worry." Kade lifts me off his lap, setting me on the couch with unexpected gentleness. His hands are steady, certain. No hesitation.
His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones like I'm precious. Breakable. "He's not going to touch you."
He kisses the top of my head, and I breathe him in—that scent that's become home, comfort, safety. Spun sugar, and amber. Everything Daniel isn't.
"Okay." The word barely makes it past my lips. My throat feels tight, not with tears but with the effort of staying present, staying here instead of floating away.
I watch him disappear into the dining room with the others, vanishing into shadows and strategic positions. The light from the kitchen doesn't quite reach that space—Daniel insisted on accent lighting only, said overhead fixtures were "pedestrian." Now that darkness becomes a tactical advantage.
Then I sit. And wait.
My hands fold in my lap. I stare at them—at the wedding ring that spins too loose now. The door from the garage to the mudroom slams with enough force to rattle the windows.
"Where are you?" Daniel's voice booms through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings he insisted on. Footsteps heavy as he storms through the kitchen—I can track his movement by sound alone.
My heart hammers against my ribs. That voice means pain, means violence, means run. My body knows it before my brain catches up, every nerve ending screaming danger.
He appears in the doorway, tie loosened, top button undone.
His face is flushed with rage and something else—alcohol, probably.
The flush creeps down his neck, mottles his skin.
His eyes find me on the couch and something ugly twists his features.
The mask slips. The successful DA, the charming politician—gone. Just the abusive husband underneath.
"You little fucking bitch." He stalks forward, every step deliberate. Predatory. The way he moved the first time he hit me, testing to see if I'd run.
I stand without thinking, muscle memory overriding logic. My body knows what happens when he gets too close—knows the reach of his arms, the speed of his fists, the cold calculation in his eyes when he decides where to leave marks that won't show.
"You're going to pay for that." His hand reaches for me, fingers already curled into a fist.
I back away, nearly tripping over the coffee table—that same table whose corner split my lip open six months ago when he shoved me. My hip hits the arm of the couch.
"If you fucking run, I'll—"
"You'll what?"
Kade steps out of the dining room, cutting Daniel off mid-threat. His voice is quiet. Deadly. The kind of quiet that makes smart people back away.
Daniel stops, confusion flickering across his face before his lawyer mask slides into place. The transformation is instant—shoulders straightening, expression shifting into professional neutrality. "Who the hell—"
His eyes drop to Kade's cut. The leather vest with its patches and insignias. Recognition dawns, followed by calculation. I can see his mind working, categorizing threat levels, planning his next move.
"You're making a mistake here." Daniel's tone shifts, becoming reasonable, professional. The voice he uses in courtrooms to make judges believe him, to make juries doubt victims. "I would ask your president before you make your next move."
"Why?"
Ash steps out from the shadows, Beck and Havoc flanking him. Three more cuts. Three more reasons for Daniel to panic, though he's still trying not to show it.
"What the fuck is this?" Daniel's voice rises, control slipping. His hands flex at his sides—the gesture he makes before he hits me. "I will make sure your whole club is behind bars tomorrow."
"You would have to live to see it."
Kade moves, crossing the space between us in three strides. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm and completely unafraid. He pulls me against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat—steady, calm, certain.
"It's okay, Peaches." His breath ghosts against my ear, warm and gentle. "You're safe."
And I am. Anytime I'm with Kade, I'm safe. The fear that's been my constant companion for three years recedes, pushed back by his presence like darkness before light.
"You're sleeping with him? You stupid fucking slut!" Daniel's face goes purple, spittle flying. His hands shake—with rage or fear, I can't tell. "I'll destroy you. Both of you. I'll—"
"So you like to beat and rape women?" Ash's voice cuts through Daniel's threats, conversational and curious, like he's asking about the weather.
Daniel's eyes fly to him, shock breaking through rage. His mouth works, but no sound comes out.
"How did it feel?" Havoc asks, taking a step closer. The overhead light catches the gun at his hip.
"What are you talking about?" Daniel sputters, but his eyes dart to the exit. Calculating distance. Wondering if he can make it.
"When we beat the shit out of you." Havoc's smile is vicious, all teeth and malice. "Did you like it?"
Understanding crashes across Daniel's face. Horror. Recognition. He remembers—the fists, the way they left him bleeding and broken. The message that should have been enough.
"I want to see if he likes being raped," Havoc adds, cracking his knuckles with deliberate precision. The sound echoes in the suddenly silent room.
"Take him."
Kade's command is simple. Final. The voice of someone who's given this order before.
The guys move as one, grabbing Daniel. He screams, struggles, tries to fight back with his courtroom authority and empty threats. "You can't do this! I'm the District Attorney! I'll have you arrested! I'll—"
But three MC members against one lawyer is no contest. They're stronger, faster, trained in violence Daniel's only ever practiced against someone smaller and weaker than himself. His arms are wrenched behind his back. His legs kick uselessly as they drag him across the floor.
They haul him toward the bedroom—our bedroom, the place where he's hurt me countless times. Where he's raped me when I said no, called it his "marital right" when I cried.
"I'll be back." Kade's lips brush my temple, gentle as a prayer. "You stay here. You don't need to see this."
He disappears down the hallway, following his brothers and the man who's about to stop being my husband.
I sit back on the couch, exactly where Kade left me. My hands fold in my lap again. I stare at the wall, at the abstract art Daniel selected because it "demonstrated sophistication." The shapes blur and blend. I don't blink.
Then the screams start.
Daniel's voice—the one that's ordered me around, belittled me, threatened me for three years—rises in agony.
Begging. Pleading. Words I can't quite make out but understand perfectly.
The sounds are inhuman, animalistic. The sounds I've made in that same bedroom, muffled against pillows Daniel shoved my face into.
I should feel something. Horror. Guilt. Disgust. The Good Girl from Nebraska should be calling 911, should be screaming for them to stop, should be something other than what I am.
I feel nothing.
The numbness spreads through me like anesthetic, cold and complete. I'm aware, distantly, that this probably means something is broken inside me. That functional people don't sit calmly while their husbands are tortured and murdered. But I can't seem to care about that either.
The screaming continues a while. Then stops. Silence falls, heavy and complete.
I stand. Walk down the hallway. My legs move without conscious direction, carrying me toward the bedroom like I'm sleepwalking. Each step measured, careful. The way I've walked through this house for three years—quiet, so quiet, don't disturb him.
The bedroom door is open.
Daniel kneels naked on the floor, stripped of his expensive suit and his dignity.
Kade's hands are wrapped around his throat, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks that don't matter anymore.
Their eyes meet—my husband's bulging and desperate, bloodshot and terrified.
My lover's cold and focused, measuring the pressure, calculating the seconds until death.
I should turn around. Should walk away. Should not witness this.
Instead, I step inside.
The carpet muffles my footsteps but Kade's gaze finds mine immediately. His hands don't stop, don't loosen. He watches me watch him kill my husband, and I see the question in his dark eyes—Is this okay? Do you want me to stop?
I don't answer. Don't nod or shake my head. Just stand there, bearing witness.
I look down at Daniel. At the man who destroyed me piece by piece, who made me afraid in my own skin, who stole three years of my life and tried to take more. Who killed the baby I didn't know I wanted until it was gone.
His face turns purple. Red. His hands claw uselessly at Kade's forearms, leaving scratches that well with blood.
Kade's muscles tense, cords standing out in his neck and arms as he squeezes harder. His face remains expressionless, focused. Professional.
Daniel's eyes go glassy. Empty. The light inside them—that sharp, calculating intelligence he used to manipulate and control—flickers and dies like a candle in the wind.
His body goes slack.
Kade holds on for another thirty seconds, making sure. Then releases him and Daniel crumples to the floor with a dull thump, lifeless limbs sprawling at unnatural angles. His eyes stare at nothing. His mouth hangs open.
I stare at the corpse that was my husband.
Relief floods through me so powerful I nearly stagger. Pure, overwhelming, beautiful relief. It crashes over me in waves, washing away three years of fear and pain and careful survival. My knees go weak. My breath catches.
He's dead. My husband is dead. I'm free.
I can't make sense of what I'm feeling—this lightness in my chest, this absence of weight I've carried so long I forgot what breathing felt like without it.
My hands tremble but not with fear. With something else.
Something that might be joy if joy didn't seem like such an obscene thing to feel while standing over a corpse.
I should be horrified. Traumatized. Broken.
Instead, I feel reborn.