Chapter 8 - Emma
"Above everything," Wilder repeats, his voice carrying a weight of promise that hangs in the air long after my father and his men have gone.
The sudden silence in the clubhouse is deafening. One moment, the space was filled with the energy of men preparing for battle; now there's just... emptiness. The hollow aftermath of their departure.
I can't stand still. My body seems to have developed a mind of its own, carrying me back and forth across the main room in restless strides.
"They'll be fine," Evelyn says from where she sits on the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Your father knows what he's doing."
"Does he?" I can't keep the edge from my voice. "Because launching an assault on another motorcycle club seems pretty reckless to me."
Wilder, who's been checking the clubhouse's security system, glances over at me. "It's calculated, not reckless. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like suicide."
The words come out harsher than I intended. I resume pacing, five steps one way, turn, five steps back, as if the movement itself can somehow burn off the anxiety building inside me.
I shouldn't care this much. That's what I keep telling myself. Jackson Kane hasn't been a real father to me in years. He let me walk away. Chose this life.
This dangerous, violent, outlaw existence, over a normal family life with me and my mother. I've spent years building walls against him, convincing myself that his choices meant nothing to me.
So why does my chest feel tight with fear now? Why can't I stop imagining him bleeding out in some warehouse, surrounded by enemies?
"Emma." Wilder's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor."
I stop mid-stride, suddenly aware of how my behavior must look to them. "Sorry. I just... I can't sit still."
"I get it." He moves closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "But you're scaring Evelyn more than she already is."
I glance at the dark-haired woman on the couch. She's trying to appear calm, but I recognize the tight line of her mouth, the slight tremor in her hands... The same signs of fear I'm trying to hide.
"Right." I take a deep breath. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Evelyn offers a strained smile. "I feel the same way. Like I'm crawling out of my skin."
I force myself to sit in an armchair across from her, though my leg immediately starts bouncing with nervous energy.
"Has he always been like this?" I ask her. "Rushing into danger?"
“From the little I've seen, yes. He doesn't hesitate when he believes something is right." Evelyn replies before Wilder.
"Even if it gets him killed." I shake my head. "That's not bravery. That's recklessness."
"Maybe," Wilder says, joining our conversation as he checks the locks on the windows. "Or maybe it's knowing exactly what you stand for and being willing to die for it."
"Very poetic," I mutter. "But dead is still dead."
"Your father isn't easy to kill." There's absolute certainty in his voice. "I've seen him walk through situations that should have put him in the ground. He always comes back."
"Until the time he doesn't." I can't help voicing the fear that's gnawing at me. "That's how it works, right? You're invincible until suddenly you're not."
Neither of them has an answer for that. Evelyn looks down at her clasped hands. Wilder continues his security check, moving to the front door to verify the heavy deadbolt is engaged.
"I thought I didn't care anymore," I admit quietly after several minutes. "About him. About what happens to him. I've spent years telling myself that he made his choice when he let me go, and I made mine when I stopped trying to be part of his life."
Evelyn looks up, her dark eyes meeting mine. "But now you're afraid you might lose him before you have a chance to know him again."
"Yes."
"He talks a lot about you," she says softly. "Did you know that? Your accomplishments, how smart you are, how proud he is of your strength."
I blink in surprise. "He does?"
"All the time." She smiles slightly. "He keeps a newspaper clipping about the academic award you won last year in his wallet. It's worn around the edges from how often he takes it out. He showed it to me yesterday."
I remember that award. Third place in a forensic essay competition. Nothing major, just a small write-up in the local paper. I never imagined he'd even seen it, let alone carried it with him.
"Reaper isn't good at showing what he feels," Wilder adds, returning to stand near us. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it."
"Wilder says he's different now," I say to Evelyn. "Since you. That you've changed him."
She considers this. "I don't know if I've changed him so much as given him permission to be the man he always was beneath the armor. Your father carries so much weight… The club, the territory, the responsibilities. With me, he can set some of that down."
I try to picture it—my father without the hardness, without the mask of the MC president. It's difficult to imagine, like trying to envision a mountain without its stone face.
"If he's really different," I say slowly, "if there's more to him than the cold, distant man I remember... I want to know that person. Before it's too late."
The admission costs me something: a piece of the wall I've built around my heart where my father is concerned. But once the words are out, I feel lighter somehow, as if I've set down a burden I didn't realize I was carrying.
"It's not too late," Evelyn assures me. "He wants that too, Emma. More than you know."
"If he survives tonight," I can't help adding.
"He will." Wilder's confidence doesn't waver. "And when he gets back, you'll have your chance."
The radio at his hip finally crackles. Ghost's voice comes through, terse and businesslike, confirming they've reached the staging area outside Charles's compound. Wilder acknowledges with a brief response, his expression revealing nothing.
"How long?" I ask him.
"From now? Maybe an hour until it's over, one way or another." He checks his watch. "They'll move in at midnight, exactly."
Another hour of this waiting, this helpless anxiety. I stand again, unable to contain my nervous energy. "I need to do something. Anything."
"Kitchen's stocked," Wilder suggests. "Could make coffee. It's going to be a long night."
The mundane task is exactly what I need. Something to occupy my hands, to focus my mind on something other than imagining my father in a gunfight. I nod and head toward the kitchen area at the back of the clubhouse.
The kitchen surprises me. It's clean and well-equipped, not at all what I expected from an outlaw clubhouse.
I find coffee beans and a grinder, allowing myself to be absorbed in the simple ritual of measuring, grinding, brewing.
The process soothes my jangled nerves, giving me something concrete to control when everything else feels so desperately out of my hands.
As the coffee begins to brew, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma, I hear footsteps behind me. Wilder leans against the doorframe, watching me with those intense eyes.
"You're good at that," he observes. "Making yourself useful when you're worried."
"Productive anxiety," I say with a half-smile. "My therapist would be proud."
"You have a therapist?"
"Had. In high school, after everything fell apart with my parents." I pull mugs from a cabinet. "She taught me to channel anxiety into action. When you can't control the big things, control the small ones."
"Smart woman." He steps into the kitchen, reaching past me to get the sugar. "Most people in our world just drink until they can't feel anything."
"Like my father?"
Wilder shakes his head, leaning against the counter. "Your father's never been a big drinker, actually. His addictions run more toward riding and fighting."
"That sounds about right." I pour coffee into the mugs, adding three heaping spoons of sugar to mine.
Wilder raises an eyebrow at my sugar consumption.
"What?" I challenge. "I need to stay awake all night if necessary."
"No judgment." He reaches for his mug, stepping closer to me. Too close. "Just noted."
I suddenly find it hard to breathe with him standing so near. He's dangerously attractive in a way that has nothing to do with his leather cut or his road name.
It's something more primal. The confident way he moves, the intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, the quiet strength in his hands.
This is the man who saved me today. Who took a knife protecting me. Who could have died because I'm Jackson Kane's daughter.
But I barely know him. Beyond the fragments he's shared— his sister, his parents' abandonment, his reasons for joining the MC—who is Rex Torres, really?
Is the kindness, the concern, the protectiveness all genuine, or is it a facade?
A mask worn to earn my trust because my father ordered him to keep me safe?
My head throbs with unanswered questions, doubts spiraling through my mind like smoke.
"You're overthinking again," Wilder whispers, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "You don't need to. Everything's going to be fine."
I blink, caught off guard by his accuracy. "I'm not thinking about it."
"No?" He takes a sip of his coffee. "Then what are you thinking about?"
I'm not sure I should answer honestly. It's not the right moment. He's probably worried sick about his brothers, focused on protecting me and Evelyn. How can I hijack the situation and make it about myself? About these confusing feelings I can't seem to control?
"Nothing," I lie, staring into my coffee. "It's nothing."
He steps even closer, now just inches away from me. "You can be honest with me, Emma. Whatever it is, it stays between us."
His proximity is overwhelming. I can smell his scent—leather, pine and something manly, musky. I need space, air, distance to think clearly. I shove past him abruptly, walking to the nearest wall and staring at it like an idiot.