Brittany
The lake looks harmless from a distance. That’s what I keep thinking as I stand at the shoreline watching the Kings of Anarchy fan out into the trees like soldiers instead of bikers, their cuts dark against the bright morning, their boots hitting dirt with purpose.
The water is smooth again, sunlight flashing across it like nothing ugly has ever happened beneath the surface.
If I didn’t know about the blood in the boat, if I hadn’t heard that scream, if I hadn’t seen the way Oaks’ whole body went tight when something rippled under the water, I could almost convince myself this is just a camping trip.
Men laughing. Sunlight gleaming of Harleys parked in a row.
Coffee brewing over propane burners. Normal.
Oaks keeps telling me to stay back, to go uphill, to let the men handle it.
I’m so tired of being handled. I’m tired of being told where to stand like my presence alone is a liability.
I’m tired of men talking about safety like it gives them permission to treat me like something they can move around.
“I can help,” I tell him, and my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
His brow furrows the way it always does when he’s trying not to snap. “No.”
“That ain’t how this works,” I push.
“That’s exactly how this works,” he says, and then he turns away to speak with Royal like the conversation is done.
That small dismissal lights something hot under my skin. I’m not a child. I’m not a stray dog he can tuck behind his leg when things get dangerous. I take one step closer to the water just to prove I can, just to remind myself I’m still in charge of my own body.
The mud is soft near the edge. I can see the drag marks now that I’m looking for them, deep grooves carved into the earth and cutting down toward the shallows. My stomach knots at the thought of someone being pulled like that, heavy and helpless, while the lake kept quiet.
“She could’ve tried to crawl out,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else, because my brain wants a story that makes sense. The water laps the shoreline with a slow, lazy rhythm that feels like mocking. “She could be alive.”
Behind me, boots crunch over gravel and men call to each other in low tight voices. I crouch, squinting at the ground. There are impressions here, half-prints scuffed and ruined by water, details I can almost make out if I get closer, if I just lean a little more. If I can just see.
“Brit.”
Oaks’ voice hits my spine like a warning. I wave him off without looking back. “I’m fine.”
The mud shifts under my sneaker.
It happens so fast my brain doesn’t register it as danger at first. One second I’m balanced on my heels and the next the ground gives way beneath me like a trapdoor opening.
There’s no graceful stumble, no chance to catch myself.
The bank collapses and I slide and the world tilts, sky spinning, dirt and grass tearing free with me. Then cold.
The lake hits like a slap to the lungs. It steals my breath so completely I don’t even get to scream.
Water floods my ears and nose and mouth, shockingly cold, deeper than it looked, and my soaked clothes drag at me like hands.
For a split second there ain’t anything but green darkness and the sound of my own panic roaring inside my head.
I kick and my foot finds nothing but water.
I open my eyes and regret it instantly because the water burns and shapes blur and sunlight filters through in broken stripes that make everything look unreal.
Silt swirls up around me, clouding the little I can see, and my chest screams for air I don’t have.
Something brushes my calf.
Not grass. Not weeds.
Heavy. Slow. Alive.
My heart slams so hard I swear it echoes in my skull.
I kick again, wild and uncoordinated, and the movement stirs more silt until the world turns into a green fog.
The brush against my leg is gone and that makes it worse because now I don’t know where it is.
My lungs are burning. My hands claw at nothing.
The idea hits all at once, sharp and cruel.
This is how the girl disappeared. Quiet.
No one hearing the scream because the water stole it first.
Then arms wrap around me.
Strong. Solid. Human.
Oaks.
Even underwater, even in chaos, I know the way he moves.
He grabs without hesitation, one arm banding around my waist and hauling me hard against his chest. He doesn’t waste time and he doesn’t panic.
He kicks for both of us. We break the surface together in a violent rush of air and water, coughing.
I gasp so hard it hurts, lungs on fire, throat scraping raw, and my body latches onto him like it knows he’s the only solid thing in a world that just dropped out from under me.
“I told you,” he snaps, breath ragged, voice vibrating with fury and fear tangled together.
I cling to him without meaning to. I clutch his shoulders.
My legs wrap instinctively around his hips just to stay above water.
Another ripple rolls beneath us, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel.
Oaks’ body goes tight. He shifts his grip and turns so his back faces open water, shielding me like it’s reflex and not a decision.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I choke out, coughing water, shaking so hard my teeth click.
He drags us toward shore in strong efficient strokes. My wet clothes weigh me down. My shoes feel like bricks. Every splash sounds too loud and every second in the water feels like a gamble.
Oaks curses under his breath and hauls harder, muscle in his arms shaking with effort, determination hard enough to bruise.
He reaches shallow water. He doesn’t let me stand. He doesn’t set me down. He lifts me fully like I weigh nothing and water pours off both of us as he carries me up the bank, chest heaving, body vibrating with adrenaline.
The camp is silent, completely silent. Men stand frozen. Women stare. No one jokes. No one smirks. Even Bethany is quiet, standing at the edge of the clearing watching like she’s trying to decide if this is tragedy or a show.
Oaks doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at anyone.
He carries me straight up the hill like I’m the only thing that matters, and the way my arms are still locked around his neck makes me feel exposed and weirdly safe all at once.
I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my ribs, fast and terrified.
“You’re okay,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s telling himself as much as me. “You’re okay.”
I’m shaking so hard my whole body feels like it’s trying to rattle apart. “Something touched me,” I whisper, and my voice cracks on the word because I can still feel that slow heavy brush against my skin like a memory.
“Probably weeds,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it.
“That wasn’t weeds,” I insist, and my stomach turns when I look past him at the waterline and see Royal scanning the shore like he’s trying to spot a problem that can hide under the surface.
Holler is already moving toward the dock with two men, eyes sharp, posture tight.
Legend stands farther back, watching the lake like he wants to set it on fire.
Bethany steps forward and finally speaks, voice cold and mean. “So now she falls in,” she says. “What is this?”
Oaks doesn’t even turn around. That is when I see the shift, not in words or yelling but in instinct.
He is still on his knees in front of me, body angled protectively without seeming aware of it, blocking me from her line of sight like his body made the decision before his pride could argue.
Bethany sees it too. Her face changes. Not red with rage. White.
Because this ain’t lust and it ain’t gossip.
It’s reflex.
Oaks looks back at me, and his eyes are hard like he’s mad at me for scaring him, and that hits harder than Bethany’s insult ever could.
“You need dry clothes,” he says rough.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I’m trembling and my clothes are sticking to me like a second skin.
“You’re not fine,” he replies, and when I try to stand and nearly wobble, he catches me instantly. Of course he does.
Bethany laughs once, sharp and hollow. “Pathetic.”
He finally looks at her. There ain’t softness in his face, no apology, no patience. “Go back to your cabin,” he tells her, not angry, not yelling, just final. “It’s over, Beth.”
Oaks slides off his wedding ring, flicks it toward the lake.
He’s done with her.
Legend sees it. Sophie sees it from the porch of their cabin. Lottie presses a hand to her mouth like she’s holding in a sound.
Bethany doesn’t argue. She doesn’t scream. She just stares at him like she’s measuring something she already knows the answer to. Then she turns and walks away, heels digging into dirt, shoulders stiff with a pride that looks fragile now.
Oaks’ hand slides to my lower back as he steadies me upright, thumb pressing briefly into my spine like a grounding point. “You don’t go near the water again,” he says quietly. “You hear?”
“I ain’t trying to drown,” I snap, because I hate feeling small.
“I don’t care what you were trying,” he answers, and the words come out like fear dressed as anger. He starts to say something else, stops himself, and the unfinished sentence hangs between us like a ghost.
Then he says in a harsh rush. “You could’ve… disappeared. You could’ve… been pulled under. You could’ve… died.”
He strips off his soaked cut and drops it on the ground, then his shirt. I look past him at the lake again.
It’s calm. Flat. Innocent.
Like it didn’t just swallow me whole.
And somewhere beneath that surface, something moves.
I know it. Oaks knows it. We don’t say it.
He pulls me closer with a firm hand at my waist, and for the first time since this whole mess started, I don’t argue.
Not because I’m weak. Not because I need saving.
But because when the ground gave way, he didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t calculate. He just came for me.
Across the clearing, Bethany finally understands something I’ve been pretending not to see this whole time. Oaks didn’t dive in because of obligation. He didn’t dive in because of the club. He dove in because losing me scared him.
And that is something no wedding ring can stop.