Chapter 6 — Roan
I wake to morning light and the weight of someone else in my bed for the first time in twenty years.
Carina is curled into my right side, head on my chest, one arm across my stomach. Her blonde hair spreads across my pillow and her breathing is deep and even.
She's still in the jeans and t-shirt from last night, and I can see the full curve of her body even through the clothes, the way the fabric pulls tight across her hip where my hand is resting.
My shoulder aches, dull and constant, but manageable.
I lie there watching her sleep and thinking about last night. About her showing up at four in the morning with steady hands and a calm voice. About the way she knelt on my bathroom floor and treated a gunshot wound without flinching. About how I let her.
That's the part that keeps circling back. I let her take care of me.
For years I've been the person who handles things. Who doesn't need help. Who carries the weight alone because that's what keeping Zoe safe required.
And last night I sat on the edge of my bathtub and let this woman I've known for three days clean blood off my skin and irrigate a bullet wound and bandage me back together.
Didn't push her away. Didn't insist I could handle it myself. Didn't default to the self-sufficiency that's been my operating system since I was twenty-two.
I just let her do it.
And it didn't make me weak. Didn't make me vulnerable in a way that felt dangerous.
It made me want more of it.
I shift slowly and catch sight of the note on my nightstand. Zoe's handwriting, the paper folded once. I reach for it, trying not to wake Carina.
Dad - Went to the clubhouse around 6:30. Need to be with Sydney and the others. I'm okay, just processing. Back later. Love you. - Z
I set it down and look at Carina again. Still asleep. Still here.
I want her here every morning. Want her showing up when things go wrong. Want to stop carrying everything alone.
The wanting is clear and immediate and I'm done pretending it's not.
She stirs, makes a small sound.
Her eyes open, dark green and unfocused until she blinks and they clear. She sees me and her expression goes soft before she seems to remember where we are and why.
"Hey," I say quietly.
"Hey." Her voice is rough with sleep. "How's your shoulder?"
"Manageable."
She sits up and I miss her weight immediately. She reaches over and pulls the neck of my t-shirt aside to check the bandaging, her fingers warm against my skin.
I watch her face while she examines her work from last night.
"No bleeding through," she says after a moment. "That's good."
"You do good work."
She meets my eyes and I see the awareness register between us. We're on my bed in morning light, her hands on my skin, and the intimacy of it is impossible to ignore.
"Zoe left a note," I tell her. "Went to the clubhouse around six-thirty. She's with the other women."
Carina nods. "That's probably good for her. Being with people who understand."
"Yeah."
Silence settles between us, weighted. I can see her thinking, processing, and I should probably wait. Give her space to work through whatever she's working through.
I'm done waiting.
"I want you to stay," I tell her.
Her eyes go wide.
"Not just today. Permanently."
I watch her process that. See fear and want war in her expression, see her trying to figure out how to respond.
"Roan, I'm scared," she says finally. "Of the violence. Of what I saw last night. Of losing myself the way I did in Harrisburg. Of making a decision this fast when I've known you three days."
I nod because those fears are real and I'm not going to dismiss them. "The danger isn't going away. Last night is what this life looks like sometimes. The club comes first in certain situations and that's not negotiable."
She flinches slightly but holds my gaze.
"I can't promise you'll never see me bleeding again," I continue. "Can't promise there won't be more calls at four in the morning. Can't promise easy or safe or simple. This world is violent and illegal and most people would run from it."
"Then why are you asking me to stay?"
"Because I've been alone for twenty years.
" I shift to face her more fully despite the pull in my shoulder.
"Built my whole life around being what Zoe needed and what the club needed.
Stopped asking if there was anything I wanted for myself because there wasn't room for it.
Then you walked into that clinic and I want things again.
Want you here when I wake up. Want to not carry everything by myself anymore. "
She's quiet, looking at me with an expression I can't entirely read.
"But you need to decide if you can handle this," I tell her. "If entering this world is worth it. And I won't push you either way. I'm laying out what it is and you get to choose."
"And if I decide it's not worth it?"
The question hits hard but I keep my voice steady. "Then I'll respect that. Won't make it harder than it needs to be."
She stands abruptly, wrapping her arms around herself. Walks to the window and looks out at nothing, her back to me.
"I need to think," she says without turning around. "Really think, not just react to everything that's happened in the last six hours."
"Okay."
"Can I use your shower? I need a minute to clear my head."
"Yeah. Towels are in the cabinet."
She leaves the bedroom and I hear her footsteps in the hallway, the bathroom door closing, the water starting a moment later.
And then I'm alone in my bed with a gunshot wound in my shoulder and no idea which way this is going to go.
I force myself up. The movement pulls at the injury and I have to stop for a second and breathe through it before I can keep going. Get to the kitchen and start the coffee, leaning against the counter while it brews because standing fully upright is taking more effort than I want to admit.
The house is quiet except for the coffee maker and the distant sound of the shower running.
Zoe's not here. Carina's in my bathroom trying to decide whether I'm worth the risk.
And I'm standing in my kitchen realizing that I've already decided she's worth it to me, but that doesn't mean I get a vote in what she decides.
The coffee finishes. I pour two cups, add cream to one because I noticed she took cream at dinner.
Set them both on the table and sit down because my shoulder is starting to make standing a problem.
The shower is still running.
I drink my coffee and stare at the cup I poured for her and try not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
She could decide the danger is too real. That last night was too much. That getting shot at four in the morning is not something she signed up for and she's not interested in signing up for it now.
She could decide she doesn't want to risk losing herself again.
That entering my world means accommodating the club and the violence and the illegality in ways that are too close to what she left Harrisburg to escape.
She could decide three days is too fast. That instalove is a romance novel concept and not something rational adults actually do.
All of those would be reasonable decisions and I wouldn't blame her for any of them.
But sitting here alone in my kitchen, I realize I'll regret it for a long time if she walks away.
Twenty years I've been managing risk, keeping my world small, not giving Marrow leverage points to exploit, building a life that functions through control and discipline and not wanting things I can't have.
And it worked.
Kept Zoe safe. Kept the club stable. Kept me functional.
It also kept me alone.
I used to think that was necessary. That being alone was the smart tactical choice, the way to minimize vulnerabilities and maintain control.
But Zoe was kidnapped last night regardless. The danger found her anyway, not because I pursued Carina but because of who I am. The threat is constant whether I'm alone or not.
Which means keeping distance from people doesn't actually eliminate risk. It just means I'm carrying it by myself.
The shower is still running and my coffee is getting cold and I'm sitting here processing something I should have processed years ago.
Wanting something for myself is not selfish. Zoe is twenty years old and grown and she doesn't need me the way she did when she was six weeks old.
She needs me to be her father still, needs me to show up and keep promises and be present. But she doesn't need me to sacrifice my entire life for her anymore.
She needs me to be okay. To have a life that's more than just work and the club and twenty years of deliberate isolation.
And maybe letting someone care for me isn't weakness. Maybe it's just letting myself be human for the first time in two decades.
I drain my coffee and pour another cup. Look at the clock. Eight forty-five.
The shower is still running.
I think about going to check on her and decide against it. She asked for time to think and I need to give her that, even though waiting is harder than I expected it to be.
I've been making decisions for twenty years. Tactical decisions, strategic decisions, life-or-death decisions.
And most of them I could control the outcome through planning and execution and following through.
This one I can't control. I can lay out what I want and be honest about what it means, but I can't make her choose me. Can't convince her or push her or do anything except wait and see what she decides.
And that lack of control is sitting in my chest sharp and uncomfortable.
My phone buzzes. Text from Clint.
Zoe's doing okay. Sydney's got her. She wants to stay here a bit longer. That work?
I text back. Yeah. Tell her I'm fine. Home when she's ready.
His response is immediate. You good?
I look at the bathroom door, still closed, the shower still running.
Ask me in an hour.
He doesn't respond to that, which means he knows exactly what I'm talking about.
I set the phone down and stare at Carina's coffee going cold on the table.
Think about the way she looked at me last night when she was treating the wound. Focused and calm and entirely present. Think about the way she kissed me on my bathroom floor, desperate and hungry and real. Think about waking up with her in my bed and how right it felt to have her there.
Think about the fact that I'm forty-two years old and I've spent the last twenty years being exactly what everyone else needed and I'm just now realizing I'm allowed to need something too.
The shower shuts off.
I sit up straighter despite the pull in my shoulder. Hear the silence from the bathroom, then small sounds. Movement. The cabinet opening and closing. Her getting dressed maybe, or drying her hair, or standing there staring at herself in the mirror trying to figure out what to do.
I wait.
The coffee in front of me is completely cold now.
I don't pour it out. Just leave it there like maybe she'll still want it, like maybe she'll come out of that bathroom and sit across from me and tell me she's staying.
More silence from the bathroom. The house is so quiet I can hear my own breathing.
I think about what I'll do if she says no. Respect her choice, like I told her I would. Not make it harder. Let her go back to her clinic, to her rental house and her life that doesn't include gunshot wounds at four in the morning.
And then I think about what I'll do if she says yes.
Build something real with her. Bring her to the clubhouse tonight and claim her in front of the club. Integrate her into my life and Zoe's life and stop being alone. Figure out if twenty years of isolation can end, if I can actually let someone in after being closed off for this long.
I want to find out. That's what I keep coming back to.
I want her to choose this. Choose me. Choose the danger and the violence and the complications because underneath all of that is something real, something worth keeping.
But wanting it doesn't mean I get it.
The bathroom door is still closed. I check the time. Nine o'clock.
She's been in there for fifteen minutes and I have no idea what that means. No idea if she's crying or thinking or trying to figure out how to tell me this is too much.
All I can do is sit here and wait and hope that three days is enough time to build something worth the risk.
Hope that when she walks out of that bathroom, she looks at me and says yes.
I stare at the closed door and wait to find out which version of the future I'm getting.