Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Grace
I wake up alone.
The trailer is quiet except for Charlie's soft snoring from her bed on the floor.
I reach across the sheets and they’re cold.
Shadow's been gone for a while.
My ribs ache.
The fresh tattoo underneath the bandage is sore, tender, a constant reminder of yesterday.
Of his name permanently marked on my skin.
Property of Shadow.
I sit up carefully, wincing at the pull of healing skin, and check my phone.
Text from Shadow, sent an hour ago:
Meeting with Damon and the brothers. Stay in the trailer, or walk to the clubhouse. Don't go anywhere else alone. I'll be back soon. Love you.
I text back:
Love you too. Be safe.
Then I just sit there, staring at the message, trying not to think about tonight.
About Flint.
About the meet.
About Shadow riding into a confrontation that could get him killed.
Charlie whines, bumping her cone against my leg, and I reach down to scratch behind her ears.
"You need to go out, girl?"
She wags her tail, and I sigh. Can't put it off forever.
I get dressed carefully—jeans, tank top, avoiding anything that rubs too much against my bandaged ribs.
Shadow's hoodie over it because the Vegas morning is cooler than I expected and boots.
I clip Charlie's leash to her collar, mindful of the cone, and step outside.
The Reapers Rejects compound is already busy despite the early hour.
Brothers are moving around, working on bikes, and talking in low voices.
The tension is palpable.
Everyone knows what's happening tonight.
I walk Charlie to the grass area, trying to stay invisible, trying not to think about the fact that in less than twelve hours, my husband is riding into a fight that could end with him dead.
"Grace?"
I turn.
A woman is walking toward me—maybe late twenties, beautiful in that effortless way some women have.
I can’t see her face because the sun is shining right in my eyes, but when she gets closer, she comes into view.
Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, leather jacket over a tank top, jeans that fit like they were made for her.
Siren, my brother’s wife.
"Hey."
Siren's smile is warm but edged with something sharp.
She's assessing me, I can tell. Sizing me up.
"Shiv said you were stirring up some ruckus." She looks me over, takes in Shadow's hoodie, the way I'm favoring my left side. "Fresh ink?"
I nod. "Yesterday. Ribs."
"Let me guess—Shadow's name? Cattle brand style?"
"How did you—"
Siren grins. "Because that's exactly what I'd do if I was marking myself for a man like that.
Plus, Shiver mentioned it." She gestures toward the clubhouse.
"The guys are doing their thing, planning the meet, talking strategy.
Thought you might want some company. Us girls could make breakfast for the brothers.
Give us something to do besides sit around worrying. "
I hesitate. "I don't want to be in the way."
"You won't be. Come on. Charlie can come too."
The clubhouse kitchen is bigger than I expected—industrial, set up to feed dozens.
Siren moves around it like she owns the place, pulling out eggs, bacon, and bread.
"Does any of this ever get easier?" I ask, trying to make conversation.
"Yes and no, some days are better or worse than others." Siren cracks eggs into a massive bowl. "But I wouldn’t trade it for the world." She laughs, but there's affection in it. "Your brother is intense. But I'm guessing you know that."
"Yeah. I remember."
Siren glances at me. "You okay? With all of this?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. "I'm scared. But I'm trying not to show it."
"Fuck that." Siren's voice is sharp, direct. "Be scared. You're allowed to be scared. That Flint asshole threatened to cage you like an animal. That image in itself will fuel nightmares."
I blink, surprised by her bluntness.
Siren keeps cooking, unbothered. "But here's the thing about being an ol’ lady in this life—you get to be scared and strong at the same time. You don't have to choose. You get to trust your man to handle the violence while you handle your own shit."
"What's my shit?" I ask quietly.
"Surviving. Supporting. Showing everyone you chose this life, chose him, and you're not backing down." Siren looks at me. "Shadow's going to kill Flint tonight. You know that, right?"
"Yes."
"And you're okay with that?"
I think about Flint's voice on the phone. The cage threat. The way he talked about me like I was property.
"Yes," I say firmly. "Flint needs to die. For what he threatened. For what his brother did to me years ago. For all of it."
Siren's smile is approving. "Good. That's the right answer. Because you know how violent this life can be. Fuck, you grew up in it. These men? They're violent. And if you're going to be Shadow's ol’ lady, you need to accept that part of him."
"I do. I have."
"Then wear his name with pride." Siren nods toward my ribs. "Show everyone you chose this. Chose him."
I pull up my shirt slightly, showing the edge of the bandage.
Siren grins. "Can I see?"
I peel back the bandage carefully. The tattoo is still red, still healing, but the letters are clear.
SHADOW.
In rough, cattle-brand style below the Shotgun Saints insignia—the cattle skull with curved horns, crossed shotguns behind it forming an X, "MC" in bold letters below, and "SHOTGUN SAINTS" arched above in Western-style lettering.
"Perfect," Siren says. "Very Texas. Very possessive. I like it." She lifts her own shirt, shows me her ribs.
Same placement. Different style.
Property of Shiver.
"We match," I say, and something about that makes me feel less alone.
"Ol’ lady solidarity." Siren replaces her shirt and goes back to cooking. "Shadow's obsessed with you. Shiver said he's never seen a man that gone over a woman."
My face heats. "Is that... normal?"
Siren laughs, genuine amusement. "Normal? No. But this isn't a normal life, Grace. These men don't love like regular guys. They love hard, they claim hard, they protect hard. It's intense. Sometimes scary. But also..." She smiles, something soft in her expression. "...kind of amazing."
"Scary how?"
"Like, Shiver once broke a guy's jaw for looking at me too long at a bar. Spent two weeks in county for it. Didn't regret it for a second." She shrugs like it's nothing. "That's MC love. Possessive, violent, all-consuming. You either accept it or you run."
"I'm not running."
"Good. Because Shadow would chase you. And honestly? That man catching you would be..." Siren's grin turns wicked. "...intense."
I think about Shadow's hands on me.
His voice in my ear. Mine.
The way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"Yeah," I whisper. "It would be."
We work in silence for a while, the smell of bacon filling the kitchen.
Other ol’ ladies drift in—Sakura with her warm smile, a woman named Raven who doesn't say much but helps with the toast.
Making breakfast for dozens of men who are about to ride into one hell of a fight later today.
This is my life now, and I proudly chose it.
We're plating bacon when I hear them.
Motorcycles.
The distinctive rumble of Harleys, a sound I'd know anywhere.
My heart stops.
"That's—" I can't finish the sentence.
Siren looks out the window, grins. "Your dad's here."
I run.
Out of the kitchen, through the clubhouse, out the front door into the morning sun.
Five motorcycles pulling into the Reapers Rejects compound.
Shotgun Saints cuts.
Dad. Thunder. Blaze. Blight. Rogue.
My father's here.
Dad gets off his bike first, pulls off his helmet, and his eyes find me immediately.
I freeze.
Is he still angry? Will he even look at me after what I did?
Then he opens his arms. "Come here, baby girl."
I run.
Full sprint across the parking lot, and I crash into my father's chest so hard it probably hurts both of us, but I don't care.
He catches me, holds me tight, and I'm crying.
"I'm sorry," I sob into his cut. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. For everything. For lying. For running. For Shadow. For all of it."
"Shh." Phantom's voice is rough, thick with emotion I can hear even if his face stays stoic. "You got nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. You hear me?"
"I thought you hated me. Thought you'd never forgive me."
Phantom pulls back enough to look at me, and I can see it in his eyes—the hurt, the worry, the relief. All of it fighting for space on a face that's trying to stay composed.
His jaw is tight, his expression controlled, but his eyes are wet.
My stoic father, on the verge of tears.
"Grace, you're my daughter. I could never hate you." His hands frame my face, and I feel them trembling slightly. "Pissed? Yeah. Hurt that you didn't tell me about Shadow? Absolutely. But hate you? Never. Not possible."
I can see it now—the toll my leaving took on him.
The lines around his eyes are deeper.
The gray in his beard is more pronounced.
He looks older, more worn.
"When you left," he says quietly, and his voice cracks just slightly, "I thought I'd lost you. Thought you'd never come back. Thought I'd driven you away for good."
"Dad—"
"I'm your father. I'm supposed to protect you.
And I failed. I arranged that marriage to Bronco.
I handed you to that monster." His eyes are definitely wet now.
"I've carried that guilt for years. And then when you chose Shadow, when you left because I was too stubborn to see what he meant to you—I thought I'd lost you for good.
Thought I'd never get to tell you I was sorry. "
"It wasn't your fault," I whisper.
"It was." His voice is firm despite the emotion. "But if you can forgive me, if you can give me another chance—"
"There's nothing to forgive, Daddy. I love you."
He pulls me back into his arms, and I feel his chest hitch.
My father, the Prez of Shotgun Saints MC, the man who never shows weakness—crying into my hair where no one else can see.
"I love you, too, baby girl," he says roughly. "So damn much."
We stand there for a long moment, and when he finally pulls back, his eyes are dry again.