Chapter 2 — Zoe
I don't sleep.
The guest room bed is comfortable but I lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me.
Footsteps move down the hallway, and then the distant creak of bedsprings when Dean finally lies down in the next room. Twenty feet of wall and empty air between us. I could walk through his door if I wanted to.
I don't move.
Not because the want isn't there. It's there. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the rough way he kissed me against the wall, how his palm felt cupping my breast through my thin shirt.
But I meant what I said about knowing what this would cost. My father's friendship. The easy distance I've kept from the MC world even while living at its edges. The safety of not being someone a rival club could use as leverage.
Eight months ago, Marrow pulled me out of my bedroom window while my father was at the clubhouse. They put a gun to my head for two hours. I've been in therapy since, and I know exactly what it means to be close to someone in this world.
But lying here in the dark, I'm not thinking about therapy or complications or my father's reaction. I'm thinking about the way Dean looked at me. Like he'd been holding himself back from something he wanted desperately, and the restraint had finally broken.
Around six I give up. The sky outside is starting to lighten. I get out of bed and run my fingers through my hair, still wearing the same shorts and oversized shirt from last night.
Light spills from the kitchen when I walk down the hallway.
Dean is standing at the counter with his back to me. Shirtless, jeans slung low enough that I can see the dimples at the base of his spine. He's making coffee in a french press with the focus of someone who needs the ritual more than the caffeine.
I stop in the doorway and let myself look at him.
His shoulders are broad, muscles moving under scarred skin when he reaches for the kettle.
There's a tattoo across his left ribs—Vigil's reaper, dates underneath that I can't read from here.
His back tells stories I don't know yet.
Burns. A long pale scar that looks surgical.
The kind of body that's been used hard and kept functional through sheer will.
He turns and sees me. Goes completely still.
We stare at each other across his kitchen. The silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of conversation.
"Coffee?" he finally asks.
"Yeah."
He pours two mugs and hands me one. I lean against the counter and take a sip. Black, strong, exactly how I make it for myself.
"So," I say. "Are we going to talk about last night, or pretend it didn't happen?"
"We should probably talk about it."
"Okay." I wait. "Talk."
He leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. The muscle in his jaw works like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say.
"This is complicated," he finally says.
"I know it is."
"Your father is my best friend. Twenty years. If he finds out about this, that friendship might not survive it."
"I know."
"We'll have to tell him," Dean says. "Soon. I can't keep this from him."
"I know that too." My throat is tight. "And he's going to be angry. At both of us."
"Yeah. He will be." He looks at me. "And you're still okay with this? Knowing what it'll cost?"
I set my mug down and walk closer, stopping just outside the space he's holding around himself.
"Remember when Marrow took me eight months ago?
" My voice is hard. "When you were at the clubhouse and they pulled me through my bedroom window?
I sat with a gun to my head for two hours.
So yes, I know what this world is. I know the club comes first. I know people die.
I'm not naive about what choosing you means. "
Dean's expression doesn't change but his hands tighten against his ribs.
"When Vigil finally showed up, I watched Tate shoot one of them in the shoulder.
Watched the other one run. Watched my father beat a man unconscious six feet from where I was sitting.
So yeah, I know what this world is. I know the club comes first. I know you're violent when you need to be.
" I take another step. "And I'm still standing here. "
His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Want something for myself when it costs other people."
"Then maybe—"
His phone rings.
The sound slices through the kitchen. Dean glances at the screen and his entire face changes. Every soft edge hardens.
He answers. "Yeah."
I watch him listen. Watch his jaw tighten, watch his free hand curl into a fist at his side. The way he's breathing changes—slower, more controlled, like he's forcing his body into a specific shape.
"Where." Pause. "When." Pause. "How." Another pause. "Who."
Each word is flat and precise. No inflection. No emotion bleeding through.
"I'm coming," he says, and hangs up.
When he looks at me his eyes are different. Distant. Already somewhere else.
"What happened?" I ask, even though I already know it's bad.
"Perry's dead. Marrow killed him this morning."
Perry.
The name hits me and for a second my mind goes blank. Then it floods.
Last Thanksgiving. Perry brought chocolate chip cookies his sister made.
Set them on the counter at Dad's house and stood there looking awkward until I tried one and told him they were good.
Then he smiled, relieved, and said his sister would be happy to know that.
Later when I was cleaning up, he told me he was proud of me for moving out.
For building something of my own. He said it quiet, sincere, like he understood what it cost to step away from my father's orbit.
Like he saw me as a person, not just Roan's daughter.
He was thirty-four years old. He had a sister who baked him cookies. He came to Sunday dinners and never talked over anyone and always helped with dishes.
Now he's in the morgue.
"When?" My voice sounds strange.
"Chuck found him about an hour ago. Outside his apartment."
"Jesus." My throat is tight. "Are you—"
"I have to go to the clubhouse." He's already moving toward the hallway. "We're planning retaliation."
"Should I leave?" The question comes out before I think it through. "Go back to my apartment?"
He stops. Turns to look at me. "No. Stay. Please."
That one word changes everything.
"Okay," I say. "How long will you be gone?"
"I don't know. We need to coordinate, then move."
"Move where?"
He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his voice is slow. "I can't tell you that."
I nod. My hands feel cold. "Will it be dangerous?"
"Yes."
"Are you part of it?"
"I'm leading it."
I knew this was what the MC meant. Knew it abstractly. But abstract and real are different countries, and real is Dean telling me he's walking into violence in a few hours and there's nothing I can do but wait.
"Okay," I say.
He starts down the hallway again, then stops. Turns back. Crosses the kitchen in three strides and cups my face with both hands, kissing me hard enough that I taste the desperation underneath it. His tongue in my mouth, his fingers tight against my jaw.
When he pulls back I'm breathing hard.
"I'll come back," he says.
"You can't promise that."
"I'm promising it anyway."
Then he's moving again. I hear his bedroom door close, drawers opening, the sound of him getting dressed fast. Three minutes later he walks past the kitchen in black jeans, black t-shirt, his cut on, boots laced.
He doesn't slow down but he says, "Lock the door behind me.
Don't leave. I'll call when I know more. "
The front door opens. Closes. His bike starts. The engine fades.
I stand in his kitchen holding my cold coffee. The house feels enormous and empty without him in it. I could leave right now. Walk back to my apartment, put distance between myself and this before it gets any deeper.
Instead I sit down at his table and wrap both hands around the mug, feeling the ceramic cool under my palms. Outside the window the sky is getting lighter. Birds are starting.
I stay exactly where I am.
The house is too quiet.
I try to work. Open my laptop and stare at the design project I was supposed to finish yesterday. The colors look wrong. The spacing feels arbitrary. I close it after twenty minutes.
I make coffee. Drink half a cup and pour the rest down the sink.
Perry died this morning. Dean is planning how to retaliate right now. In a few hours he's going to walk into violence and there's nothing I can do but wait.
I think about Perry's sister. Whether she knows yet. Whether anyone's told her that her brother isn't coming home. Whether she'll keep making cookies out of habit before she remembers there's no one to give them to anymore.
I think about Dean doing this for years. Walking into danger. Coming back. Repeat. How many times can you walk through fire before your luck runs out?
My phone sits on the coffee table. Silent. He said he'd call when he knew more and it's almost noon now. I pick up the phone and put it down. Pick it up again.
The fear sits in my chest like something solid. I can feel its edges. Its weight.
Eight months ago Marrow took me. I remember the zip ties cutting into my wrists. The chemical smell of the van. The cold metal of the gun pressed against my temple. The voice saying "Your daddy better care enough to come get you."
My therapist says trauma changes your nervous system. Makes your body remember danger even when your mind knows you're safe.
Right now, I'm safe. Dean's at the clubhouse. Marrow doesn't know I'm here.
But Dean isn't safe. He's planning to walk into a warehouse with men who have guns. Men who killed Perry. Men who would kill Dean without hesitation if they got the chance.
I can't eat. Try making toast around one and manage two bites before my stomach revolts.
The clock moves so slowly it feels deliberate.
I pace. Living room to kitchen to hallway to living room. My feet make soft sounds on his floors. Everything in this house is his. His furniture. His dishes. His bed that I've never slept in.
What if he doesn't come back?
The thought arrives unbidden. Unwelcome. I try to push it away but it sits there.
Perry didn't think he was going to die this morning. He probably woke up normal. Made coffee. Maybe texted someone. Walked outside. Then nothing.
Just gone.
Dean could be gone by morning.
Four pm. One hour.
I sit back on the couch, and pull my knees to my chest. Press my face against them and try to breathe through the tightness in my throat. I made this choice. Told him I could handle his life. Told him I knew what this world was.
Knowing it and living it are different countries.
My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it.
A text from my dad: You still at Dean's?
I stare at the screen. He doesn't know. Doesn't know I'm in love with his best friend. Doesn't know what happened between us last night. Doesn't know that if Dean dies tonight it'll break something in me that won't heal.
I text back: Yeah. I'm fine.
His response comes fast: Good. Stay there. I'll check in tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Like tomorrow is guaranteed.
I set the phone down.
Four thirty. Thirty minutes until Dean gets home.
I think about what I'll say to him. Whether I should ask him not to go. Whether that's fair. Whether loving someone means letting them walk into danger because it's who they are.
Four forty-five.
I hear the bike before I see it. The engine sound gets louder. Closer. Then stops.
The front door opens.
Dean walks in.
I'm on my feet before I decide to stand. Looking at him. Trying to memorize his face.