Chapter 6 - Emma
"Right now, for instance, I'm second-guessing every decision that led me to this moment."
"Which moment is that, exactly?" I ask, finally sitting beside him on the bench.
"This one." He gestures at us. "Being stuck on babysitting duty while my brothers go to war. Sitting here with you, not knowing what to say."
"You don't strike me as someone who's often at a loss for words."
"I'm usually not." He looks at me then, his gaze direct in a way that makes my heart beat a little faster. "You have that effect on me."
I should shut this down. Whatever this is—this strange tension, this pull between us—it can only lead to complications I don't need. I came here under duress, forced back into my father's world against my will. The last thing I should be doing is developing feelings for one of his soldiers.
And yet.
"I barely know you," I say, which isn't a rejection.
"That can change." He shifts slightly on the bench, closing some of the distance between us. "Ask me anything."
I consider this offer, weighing my curiosity against my better judgment. Curiosity wins. "Why does someone like you end up in a motorcycle club? The truth, not the sanitized version."
He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to weigh his words.
"After my parents left, I was angry. The kind of anger that eats at you from the inside. I had to be the responsible one for Maya's sake, but there was this rage I couldn't control. Jack, my best friend, tried to help me, but I needed more."
"So you channeled it into stunts."
"And fights." He nods. "Lots of fights. It was the only time I felt... anything. The adrenaline was the only thing that cut through the numbness."
I understand that more than I care to admit. The rush of doing something reckless, something that makes you feel alive when everything else feels muted.
"What changed?" I ask.
"Maya got accepted to college. Full scholarship." A genuine smile lights his face when he speaks about his sister. "Once I knew she was set, that she had a future, I stopped caring about my own. Took more risks. Bigger ones."
"Until my father found you."
"Until your father saw something in me worth saving." He looks down at his hands. "The club gave me purpose. Brothers who had my back. Rules to live by when I was spiraling without any."
It's the most honest thing anyone in my father's world has ever said to me. No glorification of the outlaw life, no romanticizing the violence. Just the raw truth of a man who needed something to hold onto.
"My father isn't usually in the saving business," I say, thinking of the cold, distant man who let my mother take me away.
"You'd be surprised." Wilder's voice is quiet. "The man I know lives by a code. Protects the innocent. Stands up for those who can't stand up for themselves."
"Sounds like a fairy tale."
"It's not. He's no saint, none of us are, but he tries to do right in a world gone wrong.
" He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"The trafficking ring... he didn't have to get involved.
Could have looked the other way like everyone else.
But once he knew what was happening, he couldn't let it stand. "
I try to reconcile this image with the father I've known, or thought I knew. The pieces don't quite fit.
"Your turn," Wilder says, interrupting my thoughts. "Fair exchange. Tell me something true about Emma Kane that I wouldn't guess."
The question catches me off guard. "Like what?"
"Like why criminal forensics? Why chase a career that puts you directly at odds with your father's world?"
It's a perceptive question, cutting closer to the bone than I expected. I consider deflecting, but something about the honesty of this strange night makes me want to offer truth in return.
"When I was nearly seventeen, my friend Lily disappeared," I say, the memory still sharp despite the years. "Just vanished on her way home from school. The police didn't do much. She was a troubled kid, they assumed she ran away."
Wilder watches me intently, giving me his full attention.
"Three weeks later, they found her body in the woods outside town." My voice remains steady through years of practice. "She'd been murdered, left there like garbage. The case was never solved."
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
"I couldn't stop thinking about how she was just..
. forgotten. How the system failed her because she wasn't the right kind of victim.
" I wrap my arms around myself against the evening chill.
"I decided then that I would be the one who fought for people like Lily.
Who made sure the evidence told their stories when they couldn't."
"So you became the justice your friend never got."
"I'm trying to." I look up at the stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky. "Maybe it's not so different from what my father does. Different methods, same goal. Justice for those who can't get it through proper channels."
"Your father would be proud if he knew."
"He does know. I told him when I declared my major." I smile ruefully. "He sent me a card. 'Congratulations on choosing a career that might get me arrested someday.' His idea of a joke, I guess."
Wilder laughs softly. "That sounds like him."
In the distance, I can hear the sounds of the club preparing for tonight's mission: voices calling, engines revving, the metallic click of weapons being checked.
"Are you scared?" I ask suddenly. "About staying behind? About what might happen if they fail?"
"Not scared," he says after a moment. "Concerned. Prepared. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Fear paralyzes. Concern motivates."
"That sounds like something my father would say."
"He's a wise man." Wilder shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his injured arm. "But to answer your question honestly. Yes, I'm worried about my brothers. And I'm worried about keeping you and Evelyn safe if things go wrong."
"Do you think they will? Go wrong, I mean."
He considers this, his expression grave.
"Your father is the best tactician I know.
Ghost is a ruthless fighter. Blade has military training.
Ace and Viper are incredible as well. They have the advantage of surprise.
" He pauses. "But Charles has numbers and resources.
So yeah, there's a real chance this ends badly. "
I appreciate the honesty, even as it sends a chill through me. "And if it does?"
"If it comes to that, we run." His eyes meet mine, serious and intent. "Far and fast. Somewhere Charles and his men can't find us."
"Just like that? Leave everything behind?"
"Just like that." He says it with such certainty. "Alive and hidden is better than dead and avenged."
The reality of our situation hits me anew. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in my dorm room studying for finals. Now I'm discussing escape plans with a man I barely know, while my estranged father prepares for what amounts to a military strike against other criminals.
"This is insane," I murmur, more to myself than to him. "How is this my life?"
"Not what you planned for your weekend?" There's a hint of gallows humor in his voice.
"Not exactly." I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "I was supposed to be finishing a paper on blood spatter analysis."
"Well, if it's any consolation, you might get some hands-on experience before this is over."
"That's not funny."
"No," he agrees, "it's not. But sometimes you have to laugh at the darkness, or it swallows you whole."
Another piece of outlaw philosophy that makes more sense than I want to admit. I've used similar coping mechanisms during the darkest periods of my life—finding the absurd humor in tragedy to keep from drowning in it.
The clubhouse door opens behind us, spilling light into the courtyard. Ghost stands in the doorway, his scarred face impassive.
"Wilder, need you inside," he calls. "Final briefing before we roll out."
Wilder nods, standing. "Be right there."
Ghost disappears back inside, leaving us alone again in the gathering darkness.
"Duty calls," Wilder says, offering me his hand. "Come on. You should be inside too."
I hesitate before taking his hand, surprised by the warmth of his skin against mine.
He pulls me gently to my feet, and for a moment we stand too close, neither of us moving away.
In the dim light, I can see the details of his face—the faint scar through one eyebrow, the intensity in his eyes, the firm set of his mouth.
"Emma," he says, his voice lower now. "Whatever happens tonight, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
Can I? Trust is not something I give easily, especially not to someone in my father's world. And yet Wilder has already proven himself once today, taking a knife for me without hesitation.
"I'll try," I offer, the most honest answer I can give.
He nods, accepting this. "Good enough for now."
He releases my hand and leads the way back into the clubhouse. Evelyn sits on a couch nearby, her face drawn with an anxiety she's trying hard to mask.
Unlike me, this is all new to her. Not just my father's world, but this particular ritual of men preparing for violence.
I remember Wilder saying they'd only been together a few days, thrust into a relationship by trauma and danger.
She's just beginning to understand what it means to care for a man like my father, to watch him walk into harm's way.
I find myself sitting beside her, drawn by a strange solidarity. Whatever my complicated feelings about her relationship with my father, right now we're united by a common fear.
"First time watching them go out like this?" I ask quietly.
She nods, eyes never leaving my father across the room. "The Vultures MC attacked the clubhouse a few days ago, but that was different. We were all here, together." She twists her hands in her lap. "This is..."
"Worse," I finish for her. "Because you're not there to see what happens."
"Yes." Her dark eyes meet mine, grateful for the understanding. "How do you handle it?"
I almost laugh. "I don't. I ran away from all this years ago, remember?"
"But you grew up with it," she points out. "With him being who he is."
"True." I watch my father check his weapon. "I guess you get used to the fear. You learn to push it down, lock it away where it can't paralyze you."
"Is that healthy?"
"Probably not," I admit. "But it's survival."