Chapter 27
Tori
I feel the babies moving now, they’re not strong enough to be called kicks, not yet.
Just flutters. Tiny brushstrokes from the inside, like butterfly wings.
I can’t believe it’s already been four months.
My body has changed in ways I never imagined.
My stomach curves outward proudly now, round and firm, undeniably pregnant.
Those who don’t know assume I’m heavily pregnant.
There’s no hiding it anymore. Not that I would.
The war hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s intensified.
The Ghost Riders are winning, that much is obvious.
The Raging Bulls have tried three separate hits on the clubhouse in the last month.
None were successful. One ambush on a supply run that ended with two of their men disarmed and sent crawling back with their tails between their legs.
There was another failed attempt at sabotaging bikes that Smoke caught before anyone rode out.
And yet, the tension coils tighter every day.
Rumors have been drifting through back channels, whispers of dissent inside the Raging Bulls.
My father’s men are questioning why the war continues when his own daughter is wearing another club’s patch, when she’s been openly claimed by three of their rivals, and is visibly pregnant.
People are wondering why he hasn’t hit back against us with full force, ending it swiftly, unless he can’t.
They’re wondering if he’s lost his touch, if he’s too weak to go after us because of me.
They say he’s furious and humiliated. Good.
I’m sitting upstairs in one of the back rooms when I hear the engines.
Not the familiar rhythm of Ghost Rider bikes.
This sound is sharper, louder, more aggressive, and familiar.
My spine stiffens instantly. Cyrus is at the window before I even stand.
Hunter appears in the doorway seconds later, jaw already tight. Flint doesn’t speak. He just moves.
“They’re here,” Hunter mutters.
My heart starts pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. I’ve grown used to the constant hum of fear in the background. But this feels different. Flint turns to me. His eyes are calm. Too calm, like the black surface of the ocean before a storm.
“Stay upstairs,” he growls.
I shake my head immediately. “No.”
“Tori—”
“No.” My voice is steady, even though my palms are damp. “If he’s here, I’m not hiding. He’s come to see for himself if the rumors are true.”
A muscle jumps in Flint’s jaw, but he doesn’t argue again.
We move down the stairs together. The clubhouse feels electrified.
Every brother is on his feet. Hands resting casually near weapons.
Smoke is by the side door, standing sentry.
Red is near the bar, a mean look on his face, ready to fight.
Screw leans heavily on his good leg, his eyes dark despite the usual smirk.
Through the front windows, I see them, the Raging Bulls.
There are at least a dozen bikes lined up outside, engines cutting one by one. And then I see my father. He’s finally come for me. Much, much too late.
He swings off his bike like he owns the ground beneath him, casual and unafraid. He looks the same, he has the same broad shoulders, the same severe posture, the same cruel smirk. His hair is grayer than I remember, his face harder, more lined.
The last time I saw him was the day I left, the day the guys kidnapped me, hoping to ransom me back. The day he told us I wasn’t worth paying to get back.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until Cyrus’s hand settles on my lower back. His solid presence is comforting, giving me the strength I need to face the man who once was my world. Flint and Hunter go first, followed by the others. Cyrus and I follow, stepping outside.
The air is thick with heat and tension. The late afternoon sun beats down hard enough to make everything shimmer. Gravel crunches under boots. Both clubs face each other in a loose semicircle. The hostility between us is palpable; one wrong move and this explodes.
My father’s eyes find me instantly. They drop to my stomach. His face changes, contorting in a mask of shocked disbelief, as if he’d been convinced the rumors were false until now, then into furious outrage.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice booming across the lot.
Flint steps slightly in front of me but doesn’t block me. I appreciate that. “This is my clubhouse. You are not welcome here,” Flint says evenly. “State your business and leave.”
He doesn’t look at him. He’s staring at me like I’m shit he stepped in. “You,” he spits. “You fucking whore.”
A ripple moves through the Ghost Riders, but no one breaks formation. They’re allowing me to decide, giving me a choice, a voice, something my father never did. I lift my chin.
“Nice to see you too, Dad.” The word tastes strange.
His eyes narrow. “You look even fatter than I remember.”
Hunter stiffens beside me. One nod from me and he’d gladly tear out my father’s eyes for that comment.
“I’m four months pregnant,” I say calmly, placing my hand on my stomach.
He laughs sharply. “Four months? You’d have to have spread your legs for half the state to get that size.”
My cheeks burn, but I refuse to flinch.
“Careful,” Cyrus warns quietly.
My father finally glances at the three of them. “So it’s true,” he sneers. “You’re letting them pass you around.”
“I’m not letting them do anything to me,” I reply before any of them can. “I choose them.”
Whispers ripple through his men. I see it, the doubt, the curiosity. He hears it too. His jaw tightens, his fists clench.
“You think this is funny?” he snaps at his own men.
“You think this is something to gossip about? She disrespects me, she disrespects us all.” No one answers.
He looks to Flint, seizing on a perceived weakness.
“Are you sure the bastard in her belly is yours? With a bump that big, I’d say she’s more than six months pregnant, trying to pass off some other man’s kid as yours.
Heck, it’s probably Spike’s. You know she was his first. Once a whore always a whore.
” His eyes gleam triumphantly as he sees he’s riled my men, but not for the reasons he thinks.
“Insult her again, and I’ll rip your fucking tongue out,” Hunter says with a casual confidence that suggests he would follow through.
I place my hand over my stomach deliberately. “There are three,” I say clearly.
Silence falls. Even some of the Ghost Riders glance at me, even though they already know.
My father blinks once. “Three what?”
“Babies,” I say. “We’re having triplets. Three fathers to three babies, a miracle.”
The word lands like a grenade. It’s like the air gets sucked out of the lot. His face drains of color before flushing deep red. “Bullshit.”
“Trichorionic-triamniotic,” I say, because I want to hurt him with knowledge he doesn’t understand. “Three separate placentas. Three separate sacs.”
More whispers. One of his men mutters, “Jesus. Three heirs?”
He whirls on them. “Shut up!” He looks back at me, something ugly twisting in his expression. “You expect anyone to believe that’s theirs?” he demands, jerking his chin toward Flint, Hunter, and Cyrus. “You probably crawled into someone else’s bed to trap them.”
Flint steps forward then, slow and deadly. “Choose your next words carefully, or I’m gonna let my friend here fulfill his promise.”
Hunter waggles his tongue, holding up a knife, somehow threatening and mocking my father at the same time.
My father laughs again, but it’s strained now. “She was never loyal,” he says loudly, projecting to both clubs. “You think she’s fucking you for any other reason than to get back at her old man? She doesn’t care about you. She’s just a stupid young girl acting out against her father.”
The insult stings—not because I believe it, but because I used to. Because part of me once did use them to hurt him. But that’s not what our relationship is anymore, and my men know the truth.
“You don’t get to talk about loyalty,” I say, voice shaking with anger now. “You told my men I wasn’t worth paying to get back.”
Surprise flickers across his men’s faces.
They may not have respected me while I was there, but they understand the importance of family.
He may have been shitty to me, but to refuse to rescue me when I was taken, claiming I’m worthless, was a bad move.
It shows weakness, a lack of strength. They’ll assume he didn’t rescue me because he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t care.
They’re thinking of their own children, of what they’d do to save them.
They’re judging him for not doing the right thing.
Whatever lie he told them, the truth is out now.
I’m here because of him—the war is because of him.
His eyes flash with anger as he realizes this, but he can’t admit he’s wrong now. He won’t.
“You weren’t.”
The old wound splits open, raw and familiar. But I’m not the same girl who left that day. “I’m worth more than you ever deserved,” I say quietly.
Flint’s hand brushes mine briefly.
His gaze drops to my stomach again. “Those are my heirs,” he says suddenly.
“My blood.” A chill runs through me. My biggest fear is manifesting before my eyes.
“You give her back now,” he tells Flint.
“End this war. She and those bastard babies belong with the Raging Bulls.” He discusses this as if we’re nothing more than property; to him, we are.
“No,” Flint says simply.
Hunter’s expression is feral. Cyrus looks ready to kill.
His face darkens. “You’d choose them over your own blood?” he demands of me.
I reply without hesitation. “Yes.” The word feels like freedom. “They are my blood now.”
“You ungrateful little—”
“You made your choice,” I cut in. “The day you decided I wasn’t worth it, and all the days before that when you made me feel worthless. You were never a real father to me. Mom would be ashamed.”
Silence. Wind kicks dust across the lot. I swear I see a flicker of remorse in his eyes at the mention of my mother. My father looks around at his men again. They’re watching him. Not me. Him. They’re looking at him like they finally see him for the weak, selfish man he is, and he knows it.
His nostrils flare. “You think this is over?” he roars. “You think carrying a few brats makes you untouchable?”
Flint steps fully in front of me now. “Try us,” he says softly. The threat hangs heavy.
For a heartbeat, I think this is it. I think that guns will fire and blood will spill because of me.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The babies shift inside me—maybe reacting to my tension.
Maybe I’m imagining it, acutely aware of the precious lives I carry. I suddenly feel very, very vulnerable.
His hand twitches near his belt. Several Ghost Riders shift in unison. Something changes in the air. One spark is all it would take to become an inferno. My father laughs, harsh and unhinged.
“I’ll kill you all,” he promises. “Every last one of you.”
Flint doesn’t blink. “You’re welcome to try.” The challenge is unmistakable.
The air is so tight it feels like it might shatter. And then he turns sharply.
“Mount up!” he barks at his men. They hesitate, just slightly. He sees that too. “Now!” Engines roar to life one by one. He swings onto his bike, glaring at me one last time. “You’ll regret this,” he says.
I don’t answer. I just stand there, one hand on my stomach, flanked by the men I chose.
He revs hard before peeling out, gravel spraying. The rest follow. The noise fades slowly, but the tension doesn’t. For several long seconds, no one moves.
“Inside,” Shelly says firmly, appearing at my side. I hadn’t even seen her step forward. “You need to get inside. Now.” My legs feel weak suddenly.
Flint turns to me, his face no longer calm; it’s furious, protective. “Go,” he says. “This could be a trap to make us lower our defenses; they might be circling back.”
Cyrus kisses my temple quickly. Hunter squeezes my hand. Shelly wraps an arm around me and guides me back into the clubhouse. The noise outside resumes immediately. I can hear Flint shouting orders, our men repositioning, tightening our defenses.
The safe room door shuts behind us with a heavy metallic thud.
I’ve never been in here before, never needed to.
The room is reinforced with concrete walls and no windows.
Emergency supplies are neatly stacked along shelves, and bunk beds fill the rest of the space. I sink into one of the few chairs.
My hands are shaking now as the adrenaline crashes hard, and I realize just how dangerous the situation was.
Shelly kneels in front of me. “Breathe.”
I try. My stomach feels tight. I press both palms against it instinctively.
“They’re okay,” she says gently, following my movement. “Stress won’t hurt them.”
I feel exposed, cursing myself for insisting I face my father.
I showed them how valuable these babies are.
He called my babies his heirs. Now to him they’re currency, leverage.
If I’d stayed inside, if I’d kept my mouth shut, he’d have assumed it was just one, and not one of the Ghost Riders’ children.
He’d have written them off as he did me.
The silence is frustrating. I wish I knew what was happening outside. Have they truly left, or was it a trick? I imagine guns raised. I imagine my father changing his mind and charging back in.
Tears sting my eyes. I hate that I’m scared. I hate that he can still make me feel small.
Shelly squeezes my hands. “They won’t let anything happen to you, or the babies,” she says.
I know that, I trust that, but trust doesn’t erase fear. These babies make me feel powerful, but they also make me vulnerable, make us vulnerable. I close my eyes and pray.
Please let them be safe.
Please don’t let this be the day everything burns.