Chapter 19
NINETEEN
AINSLEY
The cabin is too quiet after Knox leaves. The silence settles over everything like a heavy blanket. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the windows feels louder in the stillness.
Jax checks around the cabin twice, then a third time, his movements careful.
He moves like a man who expects the trees themselves to attack, his hand never far from the gun at his hip.
His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. Every part of his body screams alert.
I sit on the edge of the couch with Owen asleep against my chest, counting the minutes by the sound of the wind rattling through the pines outside.
His tiny breaths are warm against my collarbone, the only comfort in the growing dread that wraps around my ribs like barbed wire.
"He'll be fine," Jax says when he comes back inside for the third time, snow dusting his shoulders. He brushes it off with rough, annoyed movements. He doesn't sound like he believes it any more than I do. His voice is hollow, automatic, the kind of thing you say because silence is worse.
I nod anyway. What else can I do?
We don't talk much after that. There's nothing safe to say.
Every topic feels like it might crack open something we can't handle right now.
Every so often Jax's phone lights up with a short text from Knox or Steele, where they are, nothing detailed.
Just enough to know they're alive. I try not to watch the screen, try not to count the seconds between messages, try not to imagine what it means when the gaps stretch longer. I fail.
Sometime after three in the morning, Owen wakes hungry, his soft whimpers quickly turning to loud cries.
I heat a bottle in the small kitchen, the microwave way too loud in the dead of night, while Jax stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the front windows.
The generator hums under everything like a second heartbeat, steady and endless.
I test the formula on my wrist, the routine so familiar now it's almost calming.
Almost enough to quiet the panic clawing at the edges of my mind.
I'm putting Owen back in the crib, his eyelids already drooping, when I hear it, the soft, wrong sound of gravel under tires that aren't supposed to be here. The crunch is far away but clear. My entire body goes stiff.
Jax is already moving. He kills the lights in one smooth motion, making everything dark, and pulls me into the bedroom by the wrist, his grip firm but not painful.
"Stay down," he whispers, his face inches from mine in the blackness. "Do not come out unless I call for you. You understand me?"
He's gone before I can answer, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound that makes my knees weak.
I drop down beside the crib, one hand on Owen's back, feeling him breathe, the other wrapped around the small gun Knox left in the nightstand.
The metal is cold and heavy in my palm. My heart is trying to climb out of my throat, pounding so hard I'm sure whoever's outside can hear it.
Outside, a car door opens. Then another. The sounds are slow, unhurried. Confident.
Voices. Male. More than one. I try to hear, pressing my ear toward the door.
I hear Jax's voice, low and hard. "You're on private property. Turn around."
A different voice answers. One I know in my bones, one that still haunts my nightmares.
"Where is she, Jax?"
Justin.
My blood turns to ice. Every muscle in my body locks up. Owen moves under my hand, sensing my tension even in his sleep. I freeze, barely breathing, needing him to stay quiet.
There's the sound of a fight, boots on wood, a grunt, something heavy hitting the porch. Furniture falling over. The sick thud of flesh on flesh.
Then a gunshot.
The sound cracks through the night like thunder, so loud it seems to split the world in half.
Owen wakes with a startled cry, his face scrunched up in fear and confusion.
I clamp my hand over his mouth, tears streaming down my face, trying to keep him quiet, trying to keep us invisible. My whole body is shaking.
Another shot.
Then silence. Terrible, choking silence.
The bedroom door opens.
I raise the gun with shaking hands, trying to remember everything Knox taught me. Breathe. Aim. Don't hesitate.
Justin fills the doorway. He's older than the last time I saw him up close, thinner, meaner.
His face is all sharp angles and cruelty now, the handsome mask he used to wear completely gone.
There's blood on his knuckles and a gun in his hand, still warm from firing.
Behind him I can see a second man, tall, broad, unfamiliar, with cold eyes that sweep the room like he's done this a hundred times before.
"Put it down, Ainsley," Justin says, almost gentle. That familiar tone, the one he used to use right before things got bad. "Or I start shooting through the walls and hope I don't hit the kid."
My hands shake so hard the barrel wavers, the front sight dancing in the darkness. Owen is crying now, loud and scared, his screams cutting through everything.
Justin's eyes flick to the crib and something ugly crosses his face. Something possessive and hungry. "You've got three seconds."
I lower the gun. I have no choice.
He crosses the room in three steps, takes the gun from my numb fingers, and shoves it into his waistband. Then he grabs my arm hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pulls me up.
"We're leaving. Now. Pack whatever the kid needs. You've got sixty seconds."
"Jax, " My voice breaks on his name.
"Is bleeding out on the porch. You want him to die faster, keep arguing."
My stomach drops. The world tilts. No. No, no, no. I can't breathe. Can't think past the image of Jax lying in his own blood.
"Move," Justin snarls, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I move.
I grab the diaper bag with shaking hands, barely able to see through my tears, shove in the extra formula, the rabbit, a change of clothes.
I'm on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where my brain has shut down.
Justin never lets go of my arm, his grip a constant, bruising reminder.
When I reach for Owen, he does it himself, lifting my son with a familiarity that makes bile rise in my throat.
Owen screams, reaching for me with both hands, his face red and streaked with tears.
"Shh, shh," Justin coos, his voice a mockery of tenderness. "Daddy's got you."
I want to claw his eyes out. I want to scream. I want to rip Owen out of his arms and run until my legs give out. But I can't. Because if I do, he'll hurt Owen. Or he'll go back and finish what he started with Jax. Or both.
Jax.
The thought of him bleeding, dying, alone, gasping for air, calling for help that won't come—I can't breathe.
Justin forces me out of the bedroom, one hand wrapped around my upper arm, the other holding Owen against his chest like a shield.
I try to look toward the porch, desperate for any sign of movement, any sign of life, but the second man blocks my view, his body placed to keep me from seeing.
All I can see is a dark shape on the ground.
Not moving. A pool of something black spreading beneath it.
No.
Justin shoves me into the back seat of a dark car with Owen in my lap.
The inside smells like cigarettes and stale fast food.
The second man climbs into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to watch us.
Justin gets in beside me, the gun resting casually on his thigh, pointed in my direction like an afterthought.
As we pull away, I look back once, craning my neck to see through the rear window.
The cabin is lit up now, headlights cutting through the darkness, flashlights bobbing like fireflies, figures moving with frantic urgency.
Someone is kneeling beside the shape on the porch, their hands pressed against what must be a wound.
I can't tell who it is. Can't tell if they're trying to save him or saying goodbye.
Jax.
Then the trees close in and he's gone.
We drive for a long time.
I lose track of the miles, the turns, the hours.
Everything blurs together into an endless stretch of darkness and fear.
Owen eventually cries himself into an exhausted sleep against my chest, his little body limp with exhaustion.
I hold him tighter than I should, my arms aching, but I can't let go.
Justin doesn't speak. Neither do I. Every mile puts more distance between me and the only people who have ever made me feel safe. Between me and any hope of rescue.
My mind won't stop replaying it.
The gunshots. The sound of them, loud, final, irreversible.
The blood. So much blood, spreading across the weathered wood.
Jax's voice, cut off mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-life.
He's dead.
He's dead because of me.
I killed him.
The thought loops over and over until I can't tell where one ends and the next begins, until it becomes a mantra, a punishment, a truth I can't escape.
Knox lost his brother because of me. The brother who looked up to him, who trusted him, who followed him into this mess because of me.
Mason lost one of his men. One of his family.
Lucy. Tiny. Steele. Everyone at the clubhouse who welcomed me, protected me, cared for Owen like he was their own.
I destroyed another family. Just like I destroyed my own.
Justin glances over at me, studying my face in the darkness. "You're quiet."
I don't answer. What is there to say?
"You know what they'll do?" he asks, his voice almost casual, like we're talking about the weather. "They'll blame you. Every one of those bikers. That brother of his? He's going to hate you. He'll probably put a bullet in you himself if he ever sees you again."
I close my eyes, trying to block out his voice, but it seeps in anyway.
"You think I'm the monster," Justin continues, warming to his theme now. "But you're the one who got him killed. You brought this on yourself, Ainsley. You always do. Everything you touch turns to shit. Everyone who tries to help you ends up destroyed."
I want to scream at him. I want to tell him he's wrong, that he's the one who did this, that he's been the monster all along.
But I can't.
Because he's right. Not about everything, but about enough.
Jax died protecting me. Knox will never forgive me. Owen will grow up knowing his mother got the only father he ever knew killed. Got the man who held him at night and taught him to smile killed over her stupidity, her weakness, her inability to just disappear properly.
By the time the car finally stops, I'm numb. Hollowed out. Empty.
We're at a small, isolated house at the end of a dirt road. The house is barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness, windows dark, paint peeling. No neighbors for miles. No lights except the ones Justin turns on as he drags me inside, each click of a switch showing more of my new prison.
He locks the door behind us and sets Owen, still asleep, thank God, on a stained couch that smells like mildew and neglect.
Then he turns to me.
"You thought you could just leave," he says quietly, his voice more dangerous than any shout. "Take my son. Shack up with a couple of biker trash and play house. Did you really think I wouldn't find you?"
I don't answer. There's nothing to say that won't make this worse. I learned that lesson years ago.
He steps closer. I don't back up. I don't have the energy. Don't have anything left to fight with.
"You're going to remember who you belong to," he says, his breath hot on my face. "And then we're going to disappear. Somewhere none of those animals will ever find you. Mexico, maybe. Or further. Somewhere you'll learn to be grateful I took you back."
I look at my sleeping son, his face peaceful, unaware that his world has just shattered again.
If I make it out of this, I won't be able to live with myself. The guilt will eat me alive from the inside out.
Jax is dead. Dead and cold and gone because I was too weak to protect myself.
Knox will never forgive me. Why would he? I wouldn't forgive me.
I took Jax from his family. From the club. From everyone who loved him.
I don't deserve to survive this.
But Owen does.
So I'll do whatever it takes to keep him alive. I'll endure whatever Justin has planned. I'll become whatever I need to become.
Even if it kills me. Especially if it kills me.
At least then I won't have to live with what I've done.