Chapter 5
FIVE
AINSLEY
I wake to the sound of a truck engine rumbling outside.
For a second, my body tenses, old instincts kicking in, telling me to run, to hide, to grab Owen and disappear. But then I remember where I am. The cottage. The club property. Where strong men stand guard and no one yells.
I ease out of bed carefully, my ribs still tender but better than yesterday. I can breathe deeper now without wincing. Progress.
Owen is still asleep in the temporary laundry basket, his little chest rising and falling in that perfect rhythm. I press a kiss to his forehead and pad barefoot to the window.
A massive black truck is parked crooked in the gravel, and climbing out of it is a man the size of a small building.
Tiny, Lucy’s husband. I’ve seen him before, looming in the background at the clubhouse, swallowing entire doorways, making every other patched member look almost reasonable by comparison.
He’s even bigger up close. Broad as a refrigerator, tall enough that he has to duck under the porch overhang, arms like tree trunks and a face that somehow still manages to look friendly instead of terrifying.
He spots me through the glass and lights up like Christmas morning, already talking before he’s even fully out of the truck.
“Morning! Special delivery. One luxury baby throne, carved by yours truly because apparently the store-bought ones offended my delicate sense of craftsmanship. Also Lucy said if I didn’t stop hovering she’d put me on laundry duty, so here we are.”
I open the door. He fills the entire frame.
“Morning,” I manage, stepping back.
He doesn’t wait for permission. Just moves past me into the cottage, boots heavy on the hardwood, still talking the entire way down the hall like silence is personally offensive to him.
“Pale blue. Excellent choice. Very ‘I have my life together and also my child will not grow up to be chaotic.’ We’re putting this against the far wall.
Window’s a trap. Drafts, sunlight, the occasional judgmental bird.
All enemies of quality infant sleep. Trust me, I’ve done the research. Mostly by listening to Lucy complain.”
I nod, throat tight, already realizing I’m not going to get a word in edgewise.
He sets the crib pieces down with surprising care for a man who looks like he could bench-press the entire cottage, then pulls a screwdriver from his pocket and starts assembling it with quick, efficient movements, narrating like he’s hosting a very intense home-improvement show.
“Don’t look so stressed. I’ve built enough of these to qualify as a professional.
This wood could survive a toddler tantrum, a small earthquake, and possibly a light apocalypse.
Kid’s going to be spoiled. I’m okay with that.
Someone in this family has to be the fun one, and between me and the rest of these emotionally constipated men, I’m winning by default. ”
Within fifteen minutes the crib is fully assembled, sturdy and beautiful. He stands back, gives it a solid shake that somehow doesn’t rattle the walls, and keeps going.
“Listen to that. Not a single squeak. If this thing ever fails, you have full permission to mock me publicly. Until then, sleep easy knowing your child is resting in superior craftsmanship. Tell him I expect a verbal thank-you around age three. I’ll be patient. Mostly.”
He finally glances at me, mouth tipping into a grin that makes him look slightly less like a mountain that learned how to walk.
“You need anything, diapers, snacks, someone to scare off bad decisions, call Lucy. She’s the brains. I’m just the oversized delivery guy with opinions and excellent woodworking skills. And I’ve got a lot of opinions.”
Then he’s already heading for the door, still talking over his shoulder.
“Seriously. Call. Stubbornness is overrated and usually ends with someone crying. Prefer it not be you.”
And just like that he’s gone, climbing back into his truck and leaving the cottage feeling strangely warmer than it did five minutes ago.
I stand on the porch, staring at the dust cloud his truck leaves behind, and feel something crack open inside me.
For a long moment, I just stand there, watching the empty road.
Then I look down at the porch beneath my feet, dusty, littered with dried leaves and debris, and something shifts inside me.
I can do something about this.
I should do something about this.
I move carefully back inside, my ribs protesting slightly, and find an old broom leaning against the kitchen wall. It's worn, the bristles uneven, but it'll work.
I step back onto the porch and start sweeping.
Slow. Methodical. Deliberate.
Each stroke of the broom feels like reclaiming something. Not just the porch, but myself. My ability to do something. To contribute. To control even the smallest piece of my environment.
Justin never let me clean without criticism. You missed a spot. You're doing it wrong. Why can't you do anything right?
But here, there's no one watching. No one judging. No one waiting to tell me I've failed.
Just me. The broom. The porch.
I sweep the dust and leaves into a pile at the edge of the steps, then carefully bend to scoop them into my hands and toss them into the overgrown grass. My ribs ache, but it's manageable. Bearable.
I'm doing something.
When the porch is clear, I step back and look at it, really look at it, and feel a flicker of satisfaction.
It's small. It's nothing, really.
But it's mine .
I set the broom aside and walk down the steps, moving slowly across the yard. The grass is long and wild, dotted with clusters of wildflowers, purple, yellow, white. They sway gently in the breeze, bright and alive.
I crouch carefully and pick a handful, their stems soft and delicate in my hands. I gather more, moving slowly, breathing through the discomfort in my ribs.
When I have enough, I carry them back to the cottage and find a mason jar under the kitchen sink. I fill it with water and arrange the wildflowers inside, their colors vivid against the plain glass.
I set the jar on the kitchen counter, and for the first time since I arrived, the cottage feels less like a shelter and more like a home .
Next, I move to the windows.
They're streaked with dust and grime, the glass cloudy and dull. I find an old rag under the sink and wet it, then start wiping down the glass.
Slowly. Carefully.
With each stroke, the view outside becomes clearer. The trees. The fence. The open sky.
I can see now.
Not just through the glass, but in a way I haven't been able to in years.
I'm not hiding anymore.
I'm not trapped.
I'm here .
By the time I finish the windows, my arms are trembling and my ribs are throbbing, but I don't stop. I move to the small pile of donated baby clothes sitting in a basket near the couch, soft onesies, tiny socks, a few blankets.
I sit on the couch and start folding them, one by one.
Each piece is a gift. A kindness I didn't ask for but desperately needed.
I smooth the fabric carefully, folding each onesie with precision, stacking them neatly in the basket. My hands are steady. My breathing is calm.
This is something I can do.
Something I can control.
Something that's mine to give back, even if it's just keeping their generosity organized and cared for.
I'm halfway through the pile when I hear Owen stirring in his crib.
I set the clothes aside and move to his room, my heart lifting at the sight of him blinking up at me, his little fists rubbing at his eyes.
"Hey, sweet boy," I whisper, lifting him carefully.
He babbles softly, his hands reaching for my face, and I carry him back to the living room.
I settle him on a blanket on the floor and hand him one of the soft onesies to hold. He grabs it, his fingers curling around the fabric, and I smile.
"See this?" I say softly, holding up another onesie. "We're going to fold it. Like this."
I demonstrate slowly, folding the tiny garment, then setting it aside.
Owen watches, his wide eyes tracking my movements, and I feel something warm and fierce bloom in my chest.
I'm teaching him.
I'm showing him that we can do this.
That we're capable .
That we're not helpless.
When the last piece is folded, I sit back and look around the cottage.
The clean porch. The wildflowers on the counter. The clear windows. The neatly folded clothes.
It's not much.
But it's something .
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel it, not safety, not yet, but purpose .
This space is mine.
Even if it's temporary. Even if it's borrowed.
Right now, in this moment, it's mine .
And I'm going to take care of it.
These people don't know me. They don't owe me anything.
But they keep showing up anyway.
I'm folding laundry on the couch when I hear another knock.
This time, I don't tense. I just stand and move to the door, opening it to find Scarlett standing there with a notebook tucked under her arm and a no-nonsense expression on her face.
"Got a minute?" she asks, already stepping inside.
"Of course."
She glances around the cottage, taking in the details, the new crib visible through the hallway, the wildflowers I picked this morning sitting in a jar on the kitchen counter, the laundry basket on the couch.
"Looks good in here," she says, moving to the kitchen table and setting down her notebook. "Sit."
I sit.
Scarlett flips open the notebook and pulls out a pen. "Let's talk money."
My stomach drops. "I don't have—"
"I know. That's why we're doing this." She starts writing, her pen moving quickly across the page. "Right now, the club is covering your housing, utilities, and basic groceries. That's not changing."
"But—"
"No buts. You're under club protection, which means you're family.
Family doesn't pay rent." She doesn't look up from her notes.
"Once you start working at Perdition, you'll earn a paycheck.
Tips are yours to keep. We'll set up a savings account for you, something separate, something that's yours . "
I blink hard, refusing to cry.
"What if I can't—"