9. Jade
Jade
Sunlight streams through the window, too bright, too cheerful for the situation I’m in.
I wake with a start, disoriented, hand throbbing where I cut it last night. The bandage is tight around my palm, white gauze stark against my skin. For a moment, I don’t remember where I am.
Then it all crashes back. The cabin. The kidnapping. The phone call. Reaper’s order to eliminate me.
Twenty-four hours, he said.
I check the clock. 9:07 AM.
I’ve been asleep for maybe six hours. Feels like six minutes.
My whole body aches. Bruises from the crash, from the motorcycle ride, from being dragged around. My ass still tingles from where Razor spanked me, a reminder that sends shame flooding through me all over again.
I push that thought away. Can’t deal with that right now.
Twenty-four hours started at what, around midnight? So I have roughly fifteen hours left before Reaper’s deadline. Fifteen hours to figure out if Hawk’s actually going to protect me or if he’s just buying time before following orders.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks like hell. Dark circles under my eyes. Bruise on my forehead from hitting the steering wheel. Hair a tangled mess. The cut on my hand throbs with each heartbeat.
I look like a victim.
I head to the bathroom, lock the door, and turn on the shower. The hot water feels good. I’m careful with the bandage on my right hand, keeping it mostly dry while I wash up with the soap and shampoo Shadow left yesterday.
After, I rewrap the gauze as best I can with one hand, then pull on the clean clothes he brought me—one of his old T-shirts and gray sweatpants that are too big. I roll the waistband to keep them up.
I head downstairs, each step careful, listening.
Shadow’s in the kitchen, standing at the stove, spatula in hand. He’s making eggs and bacon, humming something under his breath. Trying to create normalcy out of chaos.
Razor sits at the table, coffee mug in hand, eyes tracking my every movement as I enter the room. Reading me. Assessing.
Hawk’s on the phone by the window, voice low and tense. “I don’t care what he said. I need more time… Because the situation’s complicated… Yeah, I know what complicated means for us.”
He catches sight of me, jaw tightening, and turns away to continue his conversation in a lower voice.
“Morning,” Shadow says, too cheerfully. “Hungry?”
I don’t answer as I move to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. The mundane act of making coffee in a kidnapper’s kitchen feels surreal.
“There’s sugar and cream if you want it,” Shadow offers.
“I take it black.”
“Course you do.”
I lean against the counter, wrapping both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. The bandage on my left hand makes it awkward, but I manage.
Razor’s still watching me. Those dark eyes miss nothing. I can feel him cataloging every micro-expression, every tell, reading me like a book I don’t want him to open.
“Sleep okay?” Shadow asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Just making conversation.”
“We’re not friends, Shadow. You kidnapped me. We don’t do small talk.”
He winces but doesn’t argue. Just goes back to the eggs, flipping them with more force than necessary.
Hawk ends his call, pockets his phone, and turns to face the room. He looks tired. More tired than last night. Lines deeper around his eyes, shoulders tense with stress.
“Reaper’s not backing down,” he says to Razor and Shadow, not to me. Like I’m not standing right here. “He wants confirmation by tonight, or he’s sending enforcers.”
“Can we stall?” Razor asks.
“Already tried. He’s not budging.”
“So we’ve got what, fifteen hours?”
“Give or take.”
Fifteen hours. I was right.
Fifteen hours until men show up to make sure I’m dead.
My hands shake around the coffee mug. I set it down before I drop it.
“What about the alternate plan?” Shadow asks, sliding eggs onto plates.
“Still working on it. Need more time to set it up.”
“Which we don’t have.”
“I’m aware.”
They’re talking like I’m not here. Like I’m furniture. A problem to be discussed, not a person listening to them plan my potential murder.
“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
All three men look at me.
“You’re planning my death,” I continue, voice rising. “The least you could do is include me in the conversation. Or am I not allowed to have a say in whether I live or die?”
Hawk’s jaw tightens. “We’re not planning your death. We’re planning how to keep you alive.”
“Sounds the same from where I’m standing.”
“It’s not.”
“Then tell me the plan. What’s this ‘alternate’ you’re working on?”
He hesitates. Glances at Razor, then Shadow. Some kind of silent communication passes between them.
“Witness protection,” he says finally. “If we can get you to the Feds, convince them you’re valuable enough to protect, they might keep you safe from both clubs.”
“Might.”
“It’s better than definitely dead.”
“Is it? You said yourself the Ruthless Saints have connections. My ex has connections. What’s to stop them from finding me in witness protection?”
“Nothing’s foolproof. But it’s an option.”
“An option you’re still ‘working on.’” I cross my arms. “What does that even mean? How do you ‘work on’ getting someone into witness protection?”
“It means I’ve got a contact. Someone who might be able to facilitate. But it takes time to set up, and time is something we’re running out of.”
Shadow sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast. The smell makes my stomach clench with hunger, but I don’t touch it.
“Eat,” Shadow says. “You haven’t had a real meal since yesterday.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. You need your strength.”
“For what? Running? Fighting? Dying?”
“For surviving,” Hawk says quietly. “Which is what we’re all trying to do right now.”
I want to throw the plate at him. Want to scream and rage and make them understand that I’m not just a chess piece they can move around. I’m a person. A mother. Someone with a life that matters.
But what’s the point? They know all that. They just don’t care enough to change the game.
I pick up the fork and take a bite of the eggs. They’re good. Perfectly cooked. Which somehow makes everything worse.
We eat in tense silence. Razor scrolls through his phone. Hawk stares out the window. Shadow cleans the kitchen with nervous energy.
Then Shadow’s phone buzzes.
He pulls it out, checks the screen. His face goes white.
“Hawk.”
The tone of his voice makes everyone stop. Razor sets down his coffee. Hawk turns from the window. I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
“What?” Hawk asks.
Shadow doesn’t answer. Just walks over and shows Hawk his phone.
Hawk’s jaw clenches. His whole body goes rigid. Whatever’s on that screen, it’s bad.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“What is it?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”
Hawk doesn’t answer. Just stares at the phone like it’s a bomb that might go off.
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck is happening?” My voice is getting louder.
Razor stands, moves to look at the phone over Hawk’s shoulder. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Concern.
“Show her,” Razor says quietly.
“Razor—”
“She needs to see this.”
Hawk hesitates, then slowly crosses the room. Holds out Shadow’s phone to me.
I take it with shaking hands.
The screen shows a text message. A photo attached.
The text reads: My girl is missing. Left Friday night, hasn’t been seen since. Anyone with information, there’s a reward. Serious money. No questions asked.
Below it, a phone number.
And below that, a photo.
It’s me and Mason. Last Christmas. We’re sitting on Linda’s couch. Mason’s in his dinosaur pajamas, holding Spike, grinning at the camera with a gap-toothed smile. I’m beside him, arm around his shoulders, smiling. We look happy. Normal. Like a regular mom and kid on Christmas morning.
Tyler must have taken it. I remember him being there that day, showing up uninvited, inserting himself into our holiday.
I stare at the photo. At Mason’s face. At my own.
My girl, the text says.
Tyler’s claiming me. Putting out word that I’m his, that I’m missing, that he wants me found.
And he’s using Mason’s photo to do it.
My hands are shaking so hard the phone rattles.
“Where did this come from?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
“Group text,” Shadow says quietly. “Tyler sent it to multiple clubs. Ruthless Saints, Satan’s Reapers, probably every MC in a two-hundred-mile radius.”
“Everyone knows I’m missing.”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s looking for me.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t breathe. The room tilts sideways, and I have to grab the counter to stay upright.
“You know Tyler?” I hear myself ask. The question comes from somewhere far away.
Silence.
“Hawk.” My voice is sharper now. “You know Tyler?”
More silence. Heavy, terrible silence that tells me everything I need to know.
“Answer me.”
Hawk’s expression is stone. Carved granite. Unreadable. “Yeah. I know him.”
“How?”
The silence stretches even longer this time.
“How do you know Tyler?” I repeat, voice rising.
Hawk’s jaw works like he’s chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. Finally: “He’s my son.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
My son.
Tyler is Hawk’s son.
The man who kidnapped me, who promised to protect me, who bandaged my hand and told me his word means something?—
Is Tyler’s father.
The room tilts again, but this time I don’t catch myself. My knees buckle, and I slide down to sit on the floor, back against the cabinets, staring at nothing.
“Jade—” Hawk starts.
Something inside me snaps.
I’m on my feet and moving before I realize I’ve decided to move. Launching myself at Hawk, hands outstretched, wanting to hit him, hurt him, make him feel a fraction of the pain currently ripping through my chest.
“You’re his father?!” I’m screaming, voice raw. “You’re Tyler’s father?!”
Hawk catches my wrists before I can land a hit. His grip is iron, immovable.