28. MARCY
MARCY
Hot water pounds against my back, steam curling around me like a fog I can’t shake. I press my palms against the tiled wall and lower my head, eyes closed, letting the stream try to wash away the weight sitting squarely on my chest.
It doesn’t.
The house is quiet for once—no Sam shouting about breakfast, no Hawk singing off-key in the hallway, no CJ pacing with his coffee and his eternal frown of focus. Just me and my thoughts. The worst company.
I haven’t told them everything.
Not about the second part of my plan.
The first part—the reporter, the evidence, the story? They’re onboard. Hesitant, but onboard. But the next part? The part that puts me directly in the line of fire?
They’ll never let me go through with it.
I lean back into the spray, water hitting my face now. My chest aches. Not from the pregnancy—not physically at least—but from the sheer, twisting anxiety building behind my ribs.
The court date is getting closer. My father’s grip is tightening. His voice is everywhere—on screens, in headlines, in the sudden silences that follow when people recognize my name. He’s two steps ahead. Always has been.
And I can’t just sit around waiting for a miracle or hoping the guys dig something up last minute.
Something has to give.
And if that means facing him on my own… I will.
I rub my stomach slowly, breathing in the steam, grounding myself. “You’re not gonna grow up afraid of him,” I whisper. “Not you.”
The truth is, I’m scared. Terrified. But I’ve lived my entire life under this man’s thumb, and now I’ve got more than just myself to protect.
The guys… God, they’ve been everything. Patient, fierce, loyal. But I know them. They’ll shut this idea down the second they hear it. And I love them too much to ask them to make the kind of sacrifice I might be willing to make.
So I won’t ask. I’ll just… do.
Because if I’m going to take Jake down, it might take the one thing he’s never prepared for.
Me.
Steam thickens the air, beads of water cascading over my shoulders as I rinse shampoo from my hair. I’m so lost in my worries that I miss the quiet click of the bathroom door. I only realize I’m not alone when warm hands slide around my waist, palms smoothing over my belly.
“Mind if I join?” CJ’s voice is low, teasing against my ear.
I lean back into his solid chest, letting the tension in my shoulders melt. “Door was open.”
He presses a kiss to the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. “You were somewhere else in your head,” he murmurs. “Thought I’d bring you back.”
His hands roam up my rib cage, fingers splayed wide, gentle but firm.
The feel of him—warm skin, sure movements—grounds me instantly.
I turn my face toward the spray, eyes fluttering shut as he slips to his knees behind me.
Hot water streams down my spine as his breath fans across the small of my back.
“Hands on the wall, sweetheart.”
I obey without thinking, palms flat against the slick tile.
He kisses the dip of my lower back, then drags his tongue slowly upward, the contrast of heat and water making my pulse thrum.
When his mouth settles between my thighs, I gasp, knees wobbling.
He keeps one arm wrapped around my hips, steadying me while the other strokes along my inner thigh in soothing circles.
“Always so good for me,” he whispers against wet skin, the words vibrating through every nerve.
He lingers there, giving slow, patient laps of his tongue until the heat spirals tight in my core and pleasure crests like a wave. I press my forehead to the wall, breath hitching, his praise washing over me as surely as the water.
“CJ… please.” The plea slips out, breathy and desperate.
He rises, lining his body with mine, guiding one hand to brace beside mine on the tile while the other cups my breast, thumb brushing a waterslick peak.
The blunt head of his cock nudges gently before he slides in, filling me with one smooth thrust that steals every coherent thought.
I moan, head tipping back to his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. Every glide is deliberate, reverent. His free hand smooths over my belly, promising protection even in pleasure. “So perfect. Made for me.”
He moves unhurriedly, each measured stroke coaxing soft sounds from my throat, building tension once more. When I tighten around him, he holds me close, whispering, “Let go, love.”
I do—warmth blooming and shattering through every limb. He follows with a quiet groan, pressing kisses along my wet shoulder, staying buried in me until our breathing steadies.
He turns me carefully, cupping my face, water cascading between us. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes, afraid he’ll know the truth.
CJ shuts the water off, steam curling around us like a curtain. I reach for my hidden worry—tuck it deeper—and paste on an easy smile.
“Tell me something,” I say, easing the glass door open.
He grabs a thick towel, wraps it around my shoulders, and starts patting me dry with the kind of care that makes my chest ache. “Hmm?”
“The 12 Devils,” I prompt, stealing the question before he can study my eyes too closely. “Your dad started it, right? Why a biker club instead of, I don’t know, a security firm?”
A hint of pride flickers across his face. Distraction achieved.
“He wanted more than a business,” CJ says, rubbing gentle circles over my back. “He came home from Vietnam and watched too many brothers get lost—booze, bad memories, no purpose. So he bought a bar, slapped a devil patch on his jacket, and said, ‘Come ride with me. We’ll look after each other.’”
He lifts me effortlessly, bridalstyle, the towel cocooned around me. I hook my arms around his neck, studying the hard line of his jaw while my secrets thrum at the back of my skull.
“He made rules,” CJ continues as he carries me to the bedroom. “No drugs. No trafficking. Respect women. Protect kids. Cops raided us even back then, but nothing stuck. My dad figured if people were gonna judge bikers, we’d give ’em something worth judging—loyalty.”
He sets me on the edge of the bed and kneels to dry my calves, then my feet. The tenderness in the act almost unravels me.
“You still follow those rules,” I say softly.
“Every damn one.” He looks up, eyes warm but searching. “World’s gotten messier, but the code doesn’t change.”
I reach down, threading fingers through his damp hair. “He’d be proud of you.”
He smiles—small yet genuine—and rises to pull the comforter back. As he slides in beside me, I press close, hoping he can’t feel the thudding truth in my chest: that I’m planning something he’d never let me do alone.
His arm curls around my waist. “Whatever happens in court, we handle it together,” he murmurs against my temple.
I nod, kiss his shoulder, and nestle in. I let his heartbeat lull me to sleep while my mind races ahead to the risk I’m not ready to share.
I’m halfway through curling my hair when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I set the curler down and run my fingers through the last section, letting the wave fall. My stomach’s been doing flips all morning, but it’s not nerves. Not really. It’s more like… focus.
I zip up my boots, grab my coat from the hook, and check my phone one last time.
Still nothing from her since the last text.
Bianca: Brunch? My treat. Let’s talk. Just us.
Like this is just some overdue heart-to-heart. Like she hasn’t been sleeping with the man who’s tried to destroy everything I care about.
She truly thinks we’re meeting for brunch.
I pull my coat tighter and sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.
The photo’s already in the message draft.
One of those perfectly timed, too-clear-to-be-a-coincidence shots.
My father and Bianca, tucked into a private corner of a quiet hotel entrance.
His hand on her lower back, the other one grabbing her ass. Her lips close to his ear. Laughing.
Not cautious. Not afraid. Comfortable. Anybody can tell what they are.
I stare at it for a long second, and then hit send.
No text. No smiley face. No warning.
Just the image.
My phone buzzes within seconds.
Bianca: Wait, what?
Bianca: Marcy…
Bianca: Where did you get that?
Bianca: Please don’t do this.
Bianca: Let’s just talk. I’ll explain everything. Please come meet me. I’m already at the café.
I set the phone down on the dresser like it’s nothing. I’m not going. I never planned to.
She’s sitting at our usual table, probably checking the door every few minutes, wondering why I’m late. Rehearsing excuses. Trying to figure out how to spin what I now know is real.
Let her wait.
Let her wonder.
Let her sit with it.
I know what she’s going to do next.
Bianca doesn’t handle pressure well. Never has. She masks it with peppy texts and half-truths, but the second she feels the walls closing in, she runs straight to the person who built them.
So, yeah. I know she texted my father the photo.
And I know exactly how angry he is right now.
I grab my bag and head for the door, moving quietly so no one hears me leave. CJ’s in the garage, Hawk and Ryder out back. No one should notice.
But then?—
“Where are you going?”
I jump. Sam’s leaning against the wall near the staircase, cradling a half-empty juice box in one hand, a controller in his other hand. He’s in socks and a T-shirt. Both his brows are comically raised.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. I thought CJ dropped him off at his friend’s house earlier. My mind stumbles, scrambling.
“Uh, just… going shopping,” I say quickly, trying to keep my voice light. “Grocery store.”
He studies me for a second, then shrugs. “Gotcha.”
And just like that, he turns back to his game, completely unbothered.
I exhale and slip out the door, heart thudding harder than it should be. Once I’m in the car, I pull out slowly, eyes flicking to the mirror.
A few streets down, a black sedan merges behind me. Nothing unusual. Normal car. Normal distance.
Except after I drive for a few minutes, I notice it’s been behind me through two turns.
I park CJ’s car in the farthest corner of the lot, close to a dimly flickering street lamp and the thrum of some tired country song bleeding through the bar’s walls.
The sun’s nearly gone now, the last threads of daylight stretching like smoke across the sky.
A few cars are scattered around. The kind of place that never gets crowded but is never quite empty, either.
Perfect.
I sit for a few minutes, engine off, keys dangling from my fingers, just watching. A guy in a denim jacket steps out for a smoke. Two women laugh as they stumble out, lighting up before climbing into a rusted SUV. No one notices me. No one’s supposed to.
When enough time passes to make my being here look casual, I get out and head for the bar’s entrance.
Inside, the air smells like spilled whiskey and old varnish. There’s a handful of people nursing drinks in the booths and a couple at the pool table in the back. A bored bartender is wiping down glasses behind the counter. No one even glances up when I walk in.
I slide into the booth in the far corner, the one with a cracked leather cushion and a view of the parking lot through the streaky front window. I order a club soda I won’t drink and place my phone face-down on the table. Then I wait.
And wait.
This part? This is for him.
He thinks I came here for something shady. To pass something off. To collect something secret. And I want him to think that. I want him to be just angry enough to come down here himself and try to stop me.
And sure enough—after ten, fifteen minutes—I see the glint of headlights pause near CJ’s car. It’s that sleek, black sedan that was tailing me discreetly. The one he drives when he doesn’t want to be seen.
I don’t move. Don’t react.
Just sip the edge of my drink and wait.
Five more minutes pass. Then I gather my things, toss a few bills on the table, and step out into the chill air of evening. I open the car door, about to get inside when I hear a click of shoes behind me.
“How did you find out?” My father’s voice.
I turn, slowly, almost relieved. He took the bait.
He steps out from between two parked cars, face half in shadow, eyes cold with rage.
“Dad,” I say, meeting his fury evenly. “What brings you here? Were you following me?”
He takes a step closer, tone clipped. “Don’t play games with me, Marcy.”
“I’m not,” I say lightly, stepping a foot away from the door but keeping it open. I don’t trust my father. He might try to grab me.
His jaw twitches. “That picture. Where did it come from?”
I give a small shrug. “Let’s just say it fell into the right hands at the right time.”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“No,” I say, tilting my head. “I do.”
He glares at me. “You have no idea how deep this goes.”
“I do, actually,” I say, letting the words hang. “Deeper than you think. I have proof.”
He barks a humorless laugh. “Impossible. Your motorcycle men have no proof.” He spits on the ground.
Every admission is a sign of guilt. I already knew the truth, but hearing it from his own lips still rattles me.
“Is it?” I arch a brow. “You forget there was someone else present there except for the guys. Someone close to you. Someone who you claimed to love.”
He narrows his eyes. That gets him. Just for a moment, his face shifts. The name hits like a stone.
“I told her about you and Bianca,” I continue, voice steady. “She didn’t take it well.”
He says nothing, but the tension in his shoulders coils tighter.
“Turns out, she’s been keeping things. Emails. Footage. Records. Little souvenirs from her time with you. Things you probably thought she deleted.”
“Nadia wouldn’t dare,” he mutters.
“Oh, she would,” I say, smiling slightly. “You know what they say about a woman scorned…”
His hands clench. “This is a bluff.”
“Is it?” I take a slow step forward. “Because I know all about Project Blackthorne. Every ugly, blood-soaked piece of it.”
His face goes still. Just a flicker, but I see it—the crack.
“I should’ve never let you near that club,” he growls.
I keep my voice calm. “You should’ve never underestimated me.”
That’s when he moves.
Quick. Too smooth.
His hand disappears inside his coat. When it comes out, there’s a gun in it. He levels it at me without a word.
The streetlight catches the metal’s glint, and my breath hitches.
“Dad…” My voice barely rises. I take half a step back, breath catching. “What are you doing?”
He lifts the gun slowly, like it weighs nothing. His face is calm. Controlled.
“This ends now,” he says.