Chapter 6 - Amelia
I barely remember the Amelia who existed before Derek. The one who laughed without checking first to see if it was allowed. The one who wore bright colors and spoke her mind and believed in happy endings.
But standing here in this dimly lit hallway, watching Tank's awkward discomfort at being caught in an act of kindness, I feel a flicker of her stirring somewhere deep inside me. A tiny spark of the person I used to be.
"Do you want some tea or something?" I ask, suddenly desperate to prolong this moment.
To stay in this strange bubble where monsters can be defeated by bears, where scary men use their intimidation to protect rather than harm.
Tank looks momentarily surprised by the offer, then nods. "Sure. Tea would be good."
We move to the kitchen, slowly and quietly not to disturb Beast, who sits vigilant by the front window.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, aware of Tank's massive presence behind me.
He takes up so much space. Not just physically, but somehow energetically, yet unlike with Derek, I don't feel crowded or threatened.
If anything, the solid wall of him at my back feels reassuring.
"You're good with her," I say, reaching for mugs in the cabinet. "With Anna. I wouldn't have expected that."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "Kids are usually terrified of me."
"Not Anna." I smile, thinking of my daughter's fascination with this man who resembles a grizzly bear yet spins bedtime stories about brave rabbits. "She sees right through the scary exterior."
"Smart kid."
"She is." Pride swells in my chest. "Too smart, sometimes. She notices everything. Processes it all." My smile fades. "That's part of what scares me about...all this. She understands more than she should at her age."
The kettle begins to whistle, and I quickly remove it from the heat, pouring hot water over tea bags in two mugs. The familiar ritual soothes me, gives my hands something to do besides twist anxiously in my lap.
"Chamomile okay?" I ask, sliding his mug across the counter.
He wraps his large hands around it, nodding. "Fine, thanks."
We stand in silence for a moment, steam rising between us, the quiet of the cabin broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden structure settling.
I study him over the rim of my mug. This imposing man who just told my five-year-old daughter a bedtime story about brave rabbits and protective bears.
There's more to him than the hardened biker exterior suggests.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally venture, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Shoot."
I hesitate, not sure how to phrase the question that's been nagging at me since we arrived.
"Why are you really helping us? I know Jenny is your sister, but you hadn't spoken in years. You're in the middle of some conflict with another club. You barely know us." I swallow hard before adding, "You don't owe us anything."
Tank stares into his tea for a long moment, the steam rising between us like ghosts of all the words unsaid. When he finally looks up, there's something in his eyes I didn't expect to see: vulnerability.
"When I left home," he begins slowly, "I told myself it was to protect Jenny. That I could send money back, check in by phone, make sure she was okay from a distance." He shakes his head. "Truth is, I was running. From my father. From responsibilities. From emotions I didn't know how to handle."
I understand that impulse all too well. The desperate need to escape, to run until the pain can't follow. I'd wanted to run from Derek for years before I finally found the courage to actually do it.
"By the time I realized what a mistake I'd made," Tank continues, "it seemed too late to fix it. Jenny was grown. Had her own life. And I'd become..." He gestures to himself, to the leather cut with the Savage Riders insignia. "This. Someone she probably wouldn't even recognize anymore."
"But she did," I point out. "She knew exactly who to turn to when we needed help."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Yeah. Guess she did."
I wait, sensing there's more he wants to say.
"When Beast called me tonight, told me my sister was at the clubhouse..." He pauses, searching for words. "It felt like a second chance. A chance to be the brother I should have been years ago before I left our town."
"Why did you leave?" I ask him, "What happened while you were a cop? I understand if you don't feel comfortable telling me."
"There was this domestic call," He starts, "Wife beaten so badly she could barely see through the swelling. Husband was a city councilman's brother. My partner told me to write it up as a household accident. Said the wife was hysterical, imagining things."
"What did you do?" I ask, hands trembling.
"Wrote it up honestly. Pushed for charges." His expression darkens. "Three days later, the wife recanted. Said she'd made it all up during a mental health episode. Case closed."
Tank sets his mug down, as if afraid he might crush it in his grip. "Six months later, she was dead. 'Accidental' overdose. Everyone knew what really happened, but no one did a damn thing. Including me."
The raw pain in his voice makes my chest ache. This isn't just a story to him. It's a wound that never properly healed.
"That's why you left the force?"
"One of the reasons." He shrugs, but the casual gesture can't disguise the tension in his shoulders. "A week after her funeral, Internal Affairs was investigating me for excessive force in an unrelated arrest. Body cam footage mysteriously damaged. Witness statements contradicting each other."
"They set you up," I whisper.
"Tried to," he corrects. "I quit before they could finish the job. Enlisted. Figured the military would be more straightforward. Clear enemies, clear objectives." A bitter smile crosses his face. "Was wrong about that too."
I watch him struggle to find the right words, this man who seems more comfortable with actions than explanations.
"I couldn't save her," he finally says, his voice dropping so low I have to strain to hear it. "That woman. I followed the rules, did everything by the book, and she still ended up dead because the system is rigged to protect men like her husband. Men like your ex."
"You're not responsible for what happened to that woman," I say gently.
"Maybe not." He shrugs again. "But I am responsible for what happens to you and Anna now. For what happens to Jenny. And I won't fail this time. But forget about all that now. Tell me more about him," Tank says after a moment. "Mitchell. How did you two meet?"
The question isn't entirely unexpected, but it still makes my stomach clench. I take a breath, steadying myself. If this man is going to help protect us, he deserves to know what he's up against.
"I was a nursing student," I begin, the memories rising like ghosts. "Working at a coffee shop to pay tuition. Derek came in every morning before his shift. He wasn't a detective yet, just a patrol officer. Always ordered the same thing. Always left a good tip."
I stare into my tea, seeing reflections of a past that now seems like it happened to someone else.
"He was charming. Attentive. Made me feel special. No one had made me feel that way since my dad died." I shake my head at my own naivety. "After we started dating, he'd pick me up from late classes, worry about my safety walking to my car alone. I thought it was sweet, him being protective."
"When did it change?"
"So gradually I almost didn't notice," I admit. "A comment about my clothes being too revealing. A joke about how I was flirting with a classmate when I wasn't. Getting upset if I didn't answer his calls right away."
My throat tightens as the memories flood back, sharper and more painful than I expected. "By the time I realized what was happening, we were already married, and I was pregnant with Anna."
"And you stayed for her."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway, tears welling in my eyes. "I thought a bad father was better than no father at all. I thought I could protect her, shield her from the worst of it." My voice breaks. "I was wrong."
"You got out," Tank reminds me. "That takes courage. More than most people have."
"It took him hurting Anna." The admission tears through me, laden with shame and regret so heavy I can barely breathe around them.
"I should have left the first time he hit me.
Should have left when he shoved me down the stairs and I miscarried our second child.
Should have left a hundred times before he ever laid a hand on my daughter. "
The mug in Tank's hand creaks dangerously, and I realize he's gripping it so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He sets it down with care, as if afraid he might shatter it.
"He did what?" His voice is deadly quiet.
Too late, I realize I've said more than I intended. Revealed a horror I've never spoken aloud to anyone, not even Jenny.
"It was three years ago," I say, unable to meet his eyes. "He came home drunk, furious about something at work. I said the wrong thing. I can't even remember what now. He pushed me. I fell down the stairs. Lost the baby. At the hospital, he told everyone I'd tripped."
"And they believed him."
"He was a cop. I was a 'clumsy' wife with a history of 'accidents.'" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "The doctor knew. I could see it in his eyes. But he didn't say anything. No one ever does."
I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the wetness on my cheeks. Silent tears tracking down my face, carrying years of pain and fear and rage that I've never allowed myself to fully express.
Tank doesn't offer empty platitudes or awkward comfort. He simply stands there, bearing witness to my grief, his presence somehow making it safe for me to finally feel the full weight of what I've endured.