Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shadow
Grace finally slept.
Four, maybe five hours of restless sleep at the clubhouse, but it's more than she got the night before.
More than I got—I didn't sleep at all.
I couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her in that cage.
It's eight in the morning now, and we're getting ready to leave.
Sakura's doing a final check on Grace's injuries in one of the back rooms.
I'm standing outside the door because I physically cannot be more than ten feet away from her right now.
Pathetic? Maybe.
Do I care? No.
The door opens, and Sakura steps out. "She's good to travel. Concussion is mild—no vision problems, no vomiting, pupils are fine. Wrists are healing. The bruising will fade. She needs rest, but she can handle the drive."
"Thank you," I say. "For everything."
Sakura touches my arm. "She's stronger than you think, Shadow. She'll be okay."
I nod, but I'm not sure I believe it yet.
Grace emerges, wearing borrowed clothes—jeans, a plain t-shirt, my hoodie over it because she's been cold since the rescue.
Her face is still bruised, her wrists bandaged, but she's standing.
"Ready to go home?" I ask.
She takes my hand. "More than ready."
We say goodbye to the Reapers Rejects brothers in the compound parking lot.
The morning sun is already heating up the desert, promising another scorching day.
Pope shakes my hand, then pulls me into a brief hug—that MC brotherhood grip. "You need anything, you call."
"We're not done yet," I say. "Venom's still out there."
"Then finish it." Pope's expression is serious. "And if you need backup, we're a phone call away."
"Appreciate it, brother."
Pope turns to Grace, his expression softening. "You take care of yourself. And if this one—" he jerks his thumb at me "—gives you any trouble, you let me know."
Grace actually smiles. "I will."
We load up—Grace and me in my truck, Banshee sliding into the driver's seat because I want to be able to sit with Grace in the back seat, touch her, confirm she's real for the next however many hours.
Charlie's riding shotgun, still wearing that damn cone, but her tail starts wagging the second she sees Grace.
"Hi, baby girl," Grace murmurs, reaching back to pet her. "We're going home."
Charlie whines happily, settling down with her head on the console next to the driver’s seat.
Phantom and the other Shotgun Saints brothers mount their bikes.
Damon, Dixon, Shiver, and a handful of Reapers Rejects brothers are coming with us in case we need it.
The convoy forms, and we pull out of the compound.
Heading home.
To Texas.
The first hour passes in relative silence.
Banshee's driving, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road.
Grace has her hand in mine, her head resting against my shoulder.
Charlie's snoring softly in the front seat.
The desert flies by outside the windows.
Nevada giving way to Arizona, endless stretches of sand and scrub brush and sky.
"You know," Banshee finally says, breaking the silence, "when I signed up to be Shadow's wingman, I didn't realize it included cross-country road trips and shootouts with rival MCs."
Grace laughs harder than I’ve heard her in days.
The sound makes my chest tight.
"You complaining?" I ask.
"Nah. Just saying—my job description was vague." Banshee grins in the rearview mirror. "Road Captain duties: organize runs, manage routes, occasionally rescue my brother’s wife from cages. You know, the usual shit."
"You weren't officially Road Captain when we left," I point out.
"True. But I'm pretty sure Phantom didn't actually strip me. He was pissed at you, not me. I just happened to be loyal to your dumb ass." Banshee's tone is light, but there's something underneath. Pride. Purpose.
Grace squeezes my hand. "I'm glad you were. Loyal, I mean. Shadow needed someone."
"Yeah, well." Banshee clears his throat. "Someone's gotta keep him alive. Lord knows he's not doing it himself."
We drive on.
Around the two-hour mark, Banshee's phone buzzes.
Once, twice, then three times back to back.
He glances at it, and I watch his jaw tighten.
He puts the phone face down on the center console without answering.
"You gonna get that?" I ask.
"Nope."
The phone buzzes again.
A longer vibration—someone calling.
Banshee ignores it.
Grace is watching him, curious but not pushing.
The phone buzzes twice more in the next ten minutes.
Text messages, probably.
Finally, Banshee picks it up, glances at the screen, and powers it off completely.
"There. Problem solved."
I catch his eye in the rearview mirror.
There's something there—pain, maybe.
Not my business unless he makes it my business.
"Everything okay?" Grace asks gently.
"Fine. Just someone I don't want to talk to right now."
"Family?" she presses, and I squeeze her hand in warning.
Banshee's quiet for a long moment. "Something like that."
Grace seems to sense she's hit a boundary. "Sorry. Didn't mean to pry."
"You're not. It's just..." Banshee trails off, then shrugs. "Ancient history. Not worth discussing."
But I see the way his left hand tightens on the wheel.
See the gold band on his ring finger catching the sunlight streaming through the windshield.
He still wears it.
Five, almost six years, and he still wears it.
Grace sees it too.
I watch her gaze linger on that ring, see the understanding dawn on her face.
She doesn't ask. Doesn't push.
Just settles back against my shoulder and lets it go.
Good. Banshee doesn't need questions right now.
He needs what he's been giving me—loyalty, presence, silence when words would only make it worse.
We stop for gas and food somewhere near the New Mexico state line.
While Banshee's filling the tank, I take Grace inside the convenience store.
I won't let her go alone. Can't.
She doesn't complain.
Just lets me hover, lets me stay close, lets me be the paranoid, overprotective husband I've become.
We grab snacks, water, and coffee that tastes like battery acid but will keep us awake.
At the counter, Grace picks up a bag of Charlie's favorite treats. "For the road."
The cashier rings us up, and we head back outside.
Banshee's leaning against the truck, and I notice he's watching a family at the next pump.
Young couple, maybe late twenties.
A toddler in the backseat, laughing at something.
The look on Banshee's face guts me.
Longing. Pain. Grief so raw it's almost physical.
Then he sees me watching, and the mask slams back into place.
"You get me anything?" he asks, voice too bright, too casual.
"Yeah." I toss him a bag of chips and an energy drink. "Your usual garbage."
"Perfect."
But I saw it, the crack in his armor.
And I know Grace saw it too, because her hand finds mine and squeezes tight.
Back on the road, Grace asks, "So Banshee, when are you going to settle down? Find yourself an ol’ lady?"
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy.
I shoot her a warning look, but it's too late.
Banshee's jaw works. "Not in the cards for me."
"Why not? You're loyal, protective—"
"Grace." My voice is gentle but firm. "Leave it."
She realizes she's stepped on a landmine. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." Banshee's tone says it's not fine. "Just not interested in that life anymore. Once was enough."
Once.
Grace goes still beside me. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.
Banshee meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. Me too."
The silence stretches for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then Banshee clears his throat. "But you know what? You two are disgustingly happy. It's actually kind of annoying."
There's affection in his voice. Not bitterness.
Grace relaxes slightly. "Jealous?"
"Nah. Just observant." Banshee's quiet for a beat. "You're good for each other. Don't fuck it up."
"Not planning on it," I say.
"Good. Because some people don't get second chances at this." His voice roughens. "You got lucky. Both of you. Don't take it for granted."
Grace reaches forward, squeezes his shoulder. "We won't. I promise."
Banshee covers her hand briefly with his—and I see that gold band again, stark against his tanned skin.
Then he pulls away, turns to look out the window.
Hiding whatever's on his face.
When we stop for a bathroom break at a rest area, Grace and I walk Charlie while Banshee stretches his legs by the truck.
"He lost someone when I was away at vet school, didn't he?" Grace asks quietly, watching Charlie sniff around in the grass.
My hands go into my pockets. "Yeah."
"His wife?"
"Yeah."
"How did I not know?"
"When she died, he didn’t want us talking about her. It was too much pain for him, I think, so we respected his wishes."
Grace's face crumples with sympathy. "And he still wears the ring."
"Yeah."
"What happened to her?"
I shake my head. "Not my story to tell, Grace. But it broke him. He's been barely holding it together since."
"And the phone calls?"
"Someone from that life. Trying to stay connected. But it just reminds him of what he lost, so he avoids it."
"That's so sad."
"Yeah. It is." I watch Banshee lean against the truck, arms crossed, staring out at the highway. "But he's been there for me through everything. My exile, your kidnapping, all of it. So we're there for him. Even if he doesn't talk about it."
Grace nods. "Of course."
We walk back to the truck, and Banshee straightens. "Ready?"
"Yeah," I say. "Let's get home."
Hours blur together.
Soon we’re in New Mexico, and then we’re driving into our home state.
"Welcome to Texas" appears on a road sign, and Grace sits up straighter.
"Home," she says.
"Yeah. Home."
But we both know—this isn't over yet.
Venom's still out there, somewhere in Houston, waiting to make his move.
We can't relax, can't let our guard down.
Not yet.
Grace must be thinking the same thing because her hand tightens in mine.
"We'll end it," I say quietly. "I promise."
"I know."
We pull into the Shotgun Saints compound around six in the evening.
The sun's starting to sink toward the horizon, painting everything gold and orange.