Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Jersey
For what feels like hours on end, we remain posted at the gate, our focus glued on the main entrance. “Is it common for these negotiations to drag on like this?” I inquire, my voice thin with a lack of experience in the grueling timelines of the club’s underworld dealings.
Slayer stands immobile, his profile a hard silhouette against the abrasive glare of the yard lights.
He appears as if he’s cut from granite, his jaw clenched with a lethal intensity.
I can feel the vibration of his stress radiating outward, a heavy energy that makes every breath feel forced.
The thick humidity of the night clings to me, and with every passing minute that lacks the roar of a Harley, the silence becomes a physical weight pressing against my lungs.
He eventually releases a shallow, controlled breath, his hand instinctively dropping to the grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband.
It’s a subconscious reflex, the movement of a man who exists in a state of perpetual combat readiness.
“Nothing is ever normal in this life, Jersey girl,” he rasps.
“Sitting down with the feds is no different than a high-stakes poker game. You don’t walk away until the final card is played, and sometimes that takes until the sun comes up.
” He doesn’t shift his gaze, but his large hand finds mine, squeezing with a strength that betrays the fact that he is just as tightly wound as I am.
We stand as a unit, waiting for the gates to hiss open and for our world to either find its footing or go up in smoke.
Finding my courage, I decide to play on his card table metaphor, admitting, “Speaking of high-stakes games, I think my own house of cards is about to tumble, Slayer.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” he asks, turning his head to lock his eyes onto mine, searching for the meaning behind my words.
I break the contact, looking instead toward the glowering, imposing silhouette of the clubhouse.
The secret I’ve been hauling regarding my parents’ latest threats feels like a crushing pressure, a structure ready to collapse under its own weight.
I’m desperate to tell him about the emails, the incessant demands for the inheritance, and the way they’ve been circling me like sharks, but the admission feels like swallowing lead.
“It means I’ve been hoarding secrets that should’ve been shared,” I whisper, my voice trembling as the sticky night air settles over us.
“Secrets that make all this safety feel... like a fleeting illusion.” The confession is a terrifying gamble, a bridge I’m finally forcing myself to cross.
I’ve spent so many years fearing that my baggage would make me a burden or a liability to anyone I cared about.
But with his hand anchored in mine, I realize I can never truly be his if I’m still hiding things from him.
His touch is the only thing keeping me from shattering as the facade I’ve built starts to wobble.
To truly be his old lady, I have to bring the darkness of my past into the light, hoping the man who fought so hard for his brother’s freedom is willing to fight for mine as well.
“Tell me why you’re just now bringing this to me, Jersey.” Slayer’s voice is a low rumble, laced with a concern that cuts straight through my barricades. He isn’t just asking out of curiosity, he’s demanding the truth because he’s already claimed me.
I look up at him, the harsh compound lights highlighting the intensity of his gaze. He remains perfectly still, his hand providing the strength I need to finally speak the truth.
“You've opened the door, baby, now it's time to walk through it,” he decrees.
“I haven't given you much about the people who shared my DNA,” I admit, my voice sounding small in the vast night. “It wasn't because I didn't want you to know, it's because the memories are a constant reminder that I was never a priority, just a nuisance to those who should’ve protected me from day one. They aren’t just people I’m related to, Slayer, they’re the masterminds behind every nightmare I’ve ever had to outrun.
Every time I think of them, I'm that four-year-old in a cavernous house, just wanting someone to give a damn while I was being treated like a mistake.” I pull in a shallow breath, the weight of the history I’ve kept buried rising up to choke me.
“They’re closing in, Slayer. Their weapons aren’t steel, but their thieving hunger is just as lethal.
The emails, the threats... they’re hunting the inheritance from my grandparents due to land in my account in three months.
They’ve gambled away millions, and now I’m their last score.
They don’t care that I raised myself or that they let monsters into my life while they chased their next high.
To them, I’m not a daughter, I’m a resource to be tapped until I’m dry.
” I look at our joined hands, his rough skin a grounding contrast to mine.
“I’m terrified that as long as they’re breathing, I’ll never be free.
No matter how many gates you put up, they find a way to reach through and remind me that I’m just a social trophy to them. ”
“How long has this been escalating, Jersey?”
“My entire life,” I whisper, the words feeling like a stone dropping into a dark abyss.
“But with every birthday, the threats get more severe.
They used to be content to ignore my existence, but now they treat my age like a countdown to their own payday.
I know they won't stop at emails once that money hits my bank.
They don't see a daughter who survived despite them. They see a bank account with a face.”
Slayer’s grip on my hand becomes like a vise, his jaw grinding with a lethal intensity. I can see the shift in him—the man who is so gentle with me has become a steel wall. The warmth in his eyes has frozen into a flat, dangerous glint that belongs solely to the Vice President of the Kings.
“They won't see a cent of it, Jersey,” he swears, the lethalness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. It isn’t a reassurance, it's a decree.
“They've spent years treating you like an object, but they're about to find out you’re under the protection of a King now. I don’t give a damn about blood.
If they think they're going to bleed you dry, they're going to have to go through me, and I don’t follow the rules of your society friends. "
He pulls me in, his large frame acting as a physical barrier against the ghosts of my past. In the shadow of the clubhouse, with the war against the Dragons still looming, I realize I’ve just handed him another battle to fight.
But the way he holds me tells me he doesn’t see it as a burden—he sees it as his duty.
“I don’t have society friends, Slayer,” I rebut.
“I never fit into that plastic world they tried to mold me for. I keep my circle small, limited to people who actually see the real me. The only person outside of you who knows anything about my past or the rapacious hunger of my folks is Britton. She’s the only one who didn't look away when things got ugly, the only one who understood that my silence wasn’t a choice, but a survival tactic.
” I look up at him, my heart hammering a frantic, hopeful beat against my ribs.
“Now you know too. You’re in the circle, Slayer.
And even though I’m terrified of what they might do next, I’m not running anymore.
Not when I finally have something special worth fighting for. ”
His eyes darken with a lethal intensity, a promise of violence aimed at anyone who would dare threaten the people under the umbrella of his protection.
He doesn’t offer empty platitudes or shallow reassurances, instead, he offers the full, crushing weight of the Kings.
“I’ll fight for the both of us,” he vows, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.
“They’ll regret the day they ever decided to use you as some sort of bargaining chip.
No one touches what belongs to me, Jersey.
Certainly not the people who were supposed to love you. ”
“I’m sorry I kept this from you, Slayer. It’s just with the stuff going on with Boston and the war with the Dragons, I didn’t want to place another burden at your feet.”
He reaches out and lifts my chin, forcing me to meet a gaze that is both unyielding and surprisingly tender, stating, “You never have been and never will be a burden, Jersey.” In this moment, with his rough, calloused thumb tracing the outline of my jaw, something he tends to do when he’s trying to settle my frayed nerves or make a point, I realize that the safe rooms and iron gates of the compound are only part of the refuge he’s built for me.
The real shelter is right here, moored by a man who refuses to look away from the ruins of my past and sees a woman worth fighting for.
“You need to find another word other than burden to represent yourself with, darlin’. ”
Teasing him, I ask, “What words would you use to define me, Slayer?”
He doesn’t hesitate, his eyes searching mine with a terrifying honesty that makes me feel seen. “Beautiful, smart, caring, artistic, are ones I’d start off with, gorgeous,” he suggests.
“You’re biased, Slayer,” I whisper, a shy smile tugging at my lips as I try to deflect the intensity of his praise. I’m still learning how to accept them.
“Wasn’t when I first met you, Jersey girl,” he explains, his expression softening with a memory that seems to ground him.
“Those were the first things that entered my mind when I saw you.” He leans down, his forehead resting against mine as the stillness of the compound swirls around us.
“I didn't need to know your history to know your worth, Jersey. I saw it the moment you walked onto this land.”
“One day I’ll get there and be comfortable saying those things about myself,” I muse.
I let the words hang in the balance, a fragile promise to the girl I used to be. It’s a long road from hiding in the shadows of a house full of liars to standing tall in the light of his devotion, but with his hand clutched in mine, the journey feels possible.
“And until you get there, I’ll remind you every single damn day,” he states.
The low rumble of motorcycles revving in the distance has us both turning our heads toward the compound’s entrance.
The vibration of the engines resonates through the gravel beneath our feet.
“They’re back,” I say, sighing in relief as the tension that has been coiling in my chest for hours finally begins to unfurl.
“Yeah, they are,” he replies. He doesn’t shift his gaze from the approaching lights, his profile a hard figure of the Vice President who just found his own brand of tranquility.
“Let me talk to Riptide and then I’ll be home.
” The word home carries a weight it never did before, a promise.
He reaches out, his calloused thumb tracing a soothing path over the back of my hand, a silent vow that the club’s business is nearly done for the night.
“I’ll be waiting on you to crawl into bed with me,” I remark, a smirk accompanying the words.
“In the morning, I want to see those emails and text messages, Jersey. No more keeping shit from me, you hear?”
“I hear you, loud and clear, Slayer.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a bit,” he says, squeezing my hand and turning me around, patting my ass, and pushing me toward the path home.
“Alright, alright, I’m going,” I cheekily say over my shoulder. I don’t look back but I feel his eyes stuck on me until I open the door and walk through the threshold. “Damn, I’m one lucky girl.”