Chapter Thirty-One
I WALKED BACK into the clubhouse still breathing like I hadn’t caught up to myself. My lips burned with the ghost of Zeke’s kiss, but the air inside smothered it.
The place had swelled while I was gone. Music pulsed through the walls, bass heavy enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter split the air piercing, the crack of a pool cue followed by another roar. Smoke and perfume clung together until it was hard to breathe.
The women moved like they owned the place. Tight skirts, painted lips, their hands on men like it was second nature. One tugged a biker toward the back with a look that said he wouldn’t get the chance to say no. Another straddled a lap and threw her head back, laughing like sin was a reward.
My stomach knotted.
This wasn’t freedom. This was worship. A different altar, but the same sacrifice.
I remembered the women at the compound, their dresses thin, their bare feet pressed to the stone as they circled Gabrial, dancing for the flame and for him.
He’d watch me while they moved, waiting for the jealousy to break through.
That was proof that I was his, even while others coveted him.
That my jealousy was proof of devotion. I had learned to fake the emotion because Gabrial always got what he wanted.
But Zeke…
I truly wanted him, and I didn’t have to fake anything.
“Hey, Sable!” Brenda called from her table, waving me over with a cigarette balanced between her fingers. Lucy sat beside her, Zeynep gave me a soft smile, and a younger girl with lavender hair tipped her drink toward me.
I forced myself across the room.
“Thunder kiss you so hard you forgot how doors work?” Lucy teased.
Heat crept up my throat. “He… didn’t get the chance to finish.”
Brenda barked a laugh. “Men never do, honey. That’s why you keep a drawer full of toys.”
Zeynep groaned into her hands. “Brenda.”
Amy, the lavender-haired girl, smirked. “I’m Amy.”
“Sable,” I said, barely above a whisper.
Lucy leaned in. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen again. Thunder’s gone on you.”
The words burned. I swallowed. “I’m not used to this.”
Brenda cocked her head. “Used to what? Teasin’? Drinkin’? Livin’?”
“All of it.”
Her expression softened just a touch. “None of us were. Not at first. You just get tired of lettin’ people write your story for you.”
The table went quiet. Zeynep’s gaze found mine. “It took me months after The Devil’s House pulled me out to believe I was free. I was scared of my own thoughts.”
Amy’s voice was small but certain. “I still get scared. But I don’t run anymore.”
Their words loosened something in me. My shoulders dropped just a little, enough to sip the tea Zeynep slid my way.
Then the door opened.
Zeke walked in.
And the ache in my chest burned. He looked harder here, like the clubhouse was his kingdom, and every step he took reminded me this was where he belonged. Not with me. Not with children clinging to my skirts.
And then she touched him.
Blonde. Painted lips. She slid up to him like she’d done it a hundred times, fingertips brushing his chest like she owned the right. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t smile. Just said something quiet, pushed her hand away. She pouted, turned, walked off.
Didn’t matter.
She’d touched him like it was normal. Like I wasn’t even a question.
The floor dropped out from under me, and the jealousy I had been thinking about earlier reared its ugly head.
I saw Leena again, straddling him in that office, her lips brushing his jaw while his hands sat on her hips. He’d told me it was nothing, that I’d walked in before he could push her off. But seeing this now, seeing her fingers trail over him like it was familiar, made the doubt coil up tight again.
His eyes found mine across the room.
The room tilted. My throat closed.
I turned fast, back to my tea. My hands trembled as I lifted it, the warmth gone even though steam still rose.
I mumbled something that could’ve been goodnight, pushed back from the table, and slipped down the hall before anyone could stop me. The noise followed me, laughter and music pressing against my back until I shut the bedroom door and leaned against it, fists balled at my sides.
In the small room, I checked on the kids. Zara was curled tight in sleep, Malik hunched over his game with his headphones in, pretending not to wait for me. I backed out and sat on the edge of my bed, my chest aching so deep it felt carved.
Zeke’s kiss still lingered on my mouth. His promise—We’ll finish this later.
But later, for him, might come with red lips and practiced hands.
And maybe I was a fool to think I could ever be anything different.
I brushed my fingers over my lips, my voice a cracked whisper. “I shouldn’t have let him kiss me.”
The tear that followed wasn’t for Gabrial. It wasn’t even for fear.
It was for the first man I wanted… and the truth that maybe I was never meant to be wanted back.
Maybe this was just who men were. Whether in the prophet’s fire or a biker’s clubhouse, the dance was the same. Flesh for power. Touch without meaning. Women offering, men taking.