Chapter 11
Rook
Rook rode back to the clubhouse like the road was trying to shake him loose.
The wind cut at his face. The engine roared beneath him. But none of it drowned out Avery’s voice.
“You didn’t ask me to stay.”
He felt that line like a blade sliding between his ribs.
By the time he pulled into the lot, his pulse was a hammer in his throat. He killed the engine, swung off the bike, and stalked inside without looking at anyone.
But the club noticed. They always noticed.
Stone was at the bar, sorting through paperwork. Grim leaned against the pool table, cue stick resting on his shoulder. Fish lined up a shot. Havoc and Ledger were arguing about something stupid. The second Rook walked in, the air shifted.
Stone straightened. Grim’s smirk faded. Fish lifted his head. Havoc muttered, “Oh, hell.” Ledger closed his book.
Rook kept walking. He didn’t make it far.
Stone stepped into his path. “Stop.”
Rook didn’t. “Not now.”
Stone’s grip tightened on his arm, not enough to restrain but enough to anchor him. His expression shifted from concerned brother to President.
“Before you disappear into your own damn head,” Stone said quietly, “we’ve got a problem.”
Rook stilled.
Grim’s smirk vanished completely. Fish lifted his gaze from the pool table, attention sharpening like a blade.
Stone continued, “Couple of our guys spotted Reapers circling near County Road Twelve. Too close to our line.”
Rook’s jaw flexed. “They shouldn’t be anywhere near our territory.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Stone agreed. “I reached out to their Pres Viper. No response.”
That landed heavy. The Reapers always responded, even if it was with attitude. Silence meant something was brewing.
Grim pushed off the table. “You want eyes on them?”
“Yeah,” Stone said. “You and Fish. Quiet recon. See if they’re sniffing around or setting up shop.”
Fish nodded once, slow and deliberate. “If they’re moving product again, we’ll know.”
Rook’s voice dropped, low and lethal. “Thought we shut down their expansion last year.”
“We did,” Stone said. “But men like them don’t stay buried. They wait. They rot. Then they crawl back out.”
Rook exhaled through his nose, the VP in him rising even through the storm in his chest. “Reapers in our territory is never a good thing.”
“No,” Stone said. “It’s not.”
A beat of silence passed, the kind that settled between them.
Then Stone’s gaze softened just enough to show he hadn’t forgotten the other storm brewing in the room.
“Now,” he said, voice shifting back to something quieter, “tell me what the hell happened.”
Rook didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because if he opened his mouth, everything inside him might come out: the anger, the hurt, the longing, the seven years of silence he’d never forgiven himself for.
Grim stepped closer. “You’re still in love with her. Fix it.”
Rook snapped. “I’m not…”
Stone cut him off, voice low. “Don’t lie to us.”
Rook’s chest tightened painfully. “I’m not in love with her.”
Grim raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like someone ripped your heart out and left it on the bakery floor?”
Rook’s fists curled. “Because she left.”
Stone’s expression softened, barely. “And you never stopped carrying that.”
Fish didn’t move, but his gaze lifted, steady and unblinking. “Some wounds don’t stay buried, brother.”
Rook looked away, jaw tight, breath uneven. He hated this. Hated being seen. Hated that they were right.
Stone stepped closer, voice dropping. “Take a Razor. Go up to the lake. Work it out before you tear yourself apart in here.”
Rook didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He shoved past them, boots hitting the gravel as he crossed the lot. No one followed. They all knew when to push and when to let a man break alone.
He fired up one of the club’s Razors, the engine snarling to life.
The night air slapped against his face as he tore down the trail, mud spraying behind him, branches whipping past. The deeper he went into the woods, the quieter the world became: just the engine, the wind, and the storm still lingering in his chest.
By the time he reached the lake, the adrenaline had burned off, leaving only the ache.
He killed the engine. Silence swallowed him whole.
The lake stretched out in front of him, dark and still, reflecting the sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Rook walked to the water’s edge, boots sinking into the soft earth. He bent, picked up a flat stone, and sent it skimming across the surface.
One skip. Two. Three. Gone.
He grabbed another.
He didn’t want to think about Avery. Didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to feel.
But the memories came anyway.
The barracks smelled like sweat, metal, and exhaustion. Noah sat on the edge of his bunk, boots unlaced, uniform damp from drills that had pushed him past the point of feeling anything but pain.
A letter lay in his hands. From home. He recognized the handwriting immediately. His mother’s handwriting. He tore it open with shaking fingers.
“Saw Avery’s Aunt Clara yesterday, Avery’s doing well. She’s made new friends. She’s seeing someone.”
His vision blurred. He read the line again. And again. And again.
The words didn’t change.
Avery. Seeing someone. Already.
His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe.
He stood abruptly, knocking over the metal chair beside his bunk. His bunkmate looked up, startled, but Noah didn’t see him. Didn’t hear him.
He walked into the tiny bathroom, shut the door, and braced his hands on the sink.
His reflection stared back at him, younger than he felt and close to breaking.
He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.
He tried to swallow. He couldn’t.
He tried to stop the tears burning behind his eyes. He couldn’t.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, fists pressed to his forehead, chest shaking with silent, furious grief.
He didn’t make a sound. Didn’t let himself. But he broke. Alone. In a room no one would ever know about.
And when he stood again, something in him was different. Harder. Colder. Quieter.
He folded the letter, tucked it into the bottom of his duffel, and never opened it again.
He didn’t write home after that. Didn’t call. Didn’t let himself hope.
He trained harder. Fought harder. Shut down deeper.
Every night, when the lights went out and the barracks fell silent, he thought of her.
Her laugh. Her smile. Her voice saying his name.
And the image of her with someone else carved him open all over again.
Rook blinked hard, dragging himself out of the memory. His chest hurt. His throat burned. He threw another stone, harder this time. It skipped once before sinking.
He’d been carrying her ghost for seven years. Every deployment. Every night alone. Every time he tried to move on. Every time he failed.
And now she was back — real, warm, close enough to touch — and he didn’t know how to breathe around her.
He picked up one last stone, turning it over in his palm.
He wasn’t in love with her. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
But the truth pressed against his ribs like a bruise he couldn’t stop poking.
He’d never stopped. Not once. Not for a single damn day.
He threw the stone into the lake and watched the ripples spread until they disappeared.