The silence after that night felt unbearable. You didn’t hear anything from Nestor about any of it. You knew better than to bring it up to your father. There was no way for you to tell him that you had it on good authority that Miguel shot one of his men without somehow ending up getting into the discussion of you and Nestor. You weren’t ready for that talk. You didn’t know when you would be, if you ever would be. So you didn’t bring it up. You just waited to see if he ever had anything to say about Miguel. Which he never did, at least not to you.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that your father most likely downplayed his real feelings about Miguel, good or bad, in front you just for the sake of avoiding an argument. But you had to think that if he knew about Paco, or had any suspicions about it all, he would say something to you. That felt like something that would be worth the argument resulting from the conversation.

The couple of meetings that you’d had with your father and Miguel after Nestor showing up at your house felt like business as usual on the surface. Miguel still seemed off, and now that you knew some more of the behind-the-scenes of it all, you were thinking that he should seem a lot more fucked up than he did. You wished he’d lose it in front of your father, cause enough of an issue so that he would actually have to do something about it. You were still holding out hope for that while you tried to think of a better, more concrete plan.

In the midst of all of that, you were very aware of the fact that it was always Miguel and Marcus showing up together. You knew that he had other men on his security team besides Nestor, even with Paco being gone. But the fact that he hadn’t been bringing any of them including Nestor was interesting to you. The circle grew ever-smaller. Your curiosity about all of that was far outweighed by your concern over Nestor’s absence. Maybe you were placing too much importance on yourself and your relationship with him, but him being back off the radar after coming to see you felt like a bit too much to just be a coincidence. It was another thing that you couldn’t ask about.

You were tossing your bag into the back seat of your car at your father’s house when the folder you were holding slipped from between your fingers and fell to the ground. The papers immediately started to scatter. Cursing under your breath, you started to gather them back up as quickly as you could.

You were reaching underneath your car for a stray paper when a very distinctive pair of boots materialized right beside you. It was hard to tell from the feeling in the pit of your stomach whether or not Marcus stepping over to help you gave you a sense of relief or one of dread.

“Here,” he said as crouched down and picked up the few that you hadn’t collected up yet.

You pulled the papers from underneath your car and stood up, stuffing them haphazardly back into the folder in your hands before reaching out to take the ones that Marcus was holding for you.

“Thank you.” You tucked those papers away too, unable to ignore the heaviness in Marcus’s stare. Looking back up at him, you tentatively asked, “How is…everything?”

His eyes narrowed slightly for a moment as he processed what you said versus what you meant. You knew he was smart enough to know what you were asking. You just were trying to figure out if he was going to be bold enough to give you the answer.

“We’re figuring it out.”

That gave you less than nothing to go off of. “Anything I can do?”

The frown on his face seemed like a pensive one, but you didn’t know him well enough to say that it was that for sure. He shook his head slightly. “No. Just,” he reached out and rested his hand on your shoulder, “stay safe.”

The knot of dread that his words and gesture put in your stomach made you want to throw up right on the spot. It wasn’t just a nicety, although in the world you all ran in it very well could be. If it had been Miguel saying it to you instead of Marcus, you would’ve said that it was a threat. But it didn’t quite feel like that. It felt like a warning, sure, but not a threat. Like he was trying to intervene because he knew a threat was coming from somewhere else. You had a good idea of where that might be.

You nodded. “Will do.”

If he was going to say anything more, he didn’t get the chance to. Miguel’s voice piped up as he stood by his car. “Ready, Marcus?”

Marcus’s face gave nothing away, as per usual. He turned around without another word to you and made his way back towards their SUV. Your nails were almost digging into your palm despite the fact that you were holding onto the folder. Your jaw was clenched so tight you were worried that you were about to crack a tooth as you watched them roll past you and out of the driveway.

It wasn’t until they were gone and out of sight that you forced your body to start moving again. You tucked your folder underneath your bag before walking around to the driver’s side of the car. You sat down in the driver’s seat, letting out a shaky exhale as you tried to get your mind to slow down. It was the first time that you ever wished that you had Marcus’s number. That way you could reach out to him to try to get some more answers out of him.

If you had to be safe, did that mean that Nestor wasn’t? Was he okay? Was he even still alive? Part of you thought that maybe that was a bit of a reach, but after what had happened with Paco you figured that survival was no longer a guarantee for anyone. The only thing that was giving you any semblance of comfort, and it wasn’t much, was that you would like to think that if something really had happened to Nestor, Marcus would’ve found a way to tell you. Or maybe even Miguel would say something, wanting to put more salt into a wound he loved to keep picking at.

You finally got your hands and fingers to steady and cooperate enough to put the key into the ignition of your car. Thoughts were racing through your head so fast that you couldn’t even make sense of them. All you knew was that they were making your heartrate skyrocket.

Despite knowing it wasn’t going to do anything to calm your nerves, you dug your phone out and dialed Nestor as you drove. You hardly even got a full ring before the automated voice came through the speakers of your car. “Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. At the tone—”

You hung up, feeling your bottom lip starting to tremble. The likelihood of being able to get in touch with him now when you couldn’t before was slim to none, but you still had to try. It shouldn’t have caused such a visceral reaction inside you, but you suddenly felt like it was all about to fall apart, like the ground was going to crumble right beneath the tires of your car as you sped down the road.

The next couple of days went by accompanied by nothing besides radio silence. You didn’t see Nestor, didn’t hear anything from or about him. There was nothing from Miguel, Marcus, or your father either. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, per se, but your heightened anxiety made the lack of communication feel like a much larger problem than it was. Typically, no news was good news. But that wasn’t what it felt like now.

You threw yourself into your work as much as you could to try and combat it. Owning and managing kept you plenty busy, but you’d started covering a few shifts here and there if anyone ever called out just to have one extra thing to think about other than the mess that was happening behind the scenes. It also had the added benefit of surprising the other bartenders who worked for you. You’d mentioned to them a time or two that you had been a bartender up until you were in the position you had now, but it was the first time that any of them really saw you in action. It crossed your mind that Jade would’ve gotten a kick out of it. That thought alone soothed some of the nerves that you’d been feeling.

You were crawling towards the end of another shift. When one of the bartenders had to step out because of a family emergency, you gladly filled in and took his place. You left your blazer in your office, standing behind the bar in your sleeveless blouse and slacks. You were thankful that you’d learned how to stand and walk around for long periods of time in heels, because there wouldn’t be any sitting down until the place shut down for the night. You were thankful for the distraction, but you were also exhausted. You knew the other woman working with had to be just as tired, which was why you had told her to head out a little early once everyone left after last call.

“I’ll clean up,” you reassured her. “Go home, get some rest.”

“You’re sure?”

You nodded. “Positive. I’ll see you next time you’re in, alright?”

The relieved smile that spread across her face made the extra time you were going to spend there that night worth it. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Once she was gone you put your own music on as you wiped down the bar and loaded the dishwasher. With the exception of the clothes that you were wearing, you felt like you were right back at the bar with Jade. The urge to call her had rolled through you more often than you expected it to. There was a comfort and stability that she exuded that was hard to find in other people. You were certain that a good, long talk with her would help immeasurably.

But the warning from Marcus still rang loudly in your mind. If something was afoot and you were at risk in some way, the last thing you wanted to do was drag in someone who was innocent in it all. Jade had nothing to do with your business with your father. She made sure to keep it that way. You weren’t going to be the person who got her hurt simply because she was close with you. Distance for now was the best solution that you had, even if it sucked. Even though you knew it wouldn’t happen, part of you wished that she would just turn up one night looking for a drink.

And, if she wouldn’t randomly decide to turn up, you were hoping that Nestor might.

Neither of them did, though. You shouldn’t have been surprised or upset by that. There was no reason that either of them would randomly find their way into your bar. But as you collapsed at the freshly-cleaned counter, setting up your laptop and notebooks to get ahead on some of your paperwork, you wished that the universe would grant you that distraction.

You’d completely lost track of time as you got the next few deliveries and supply runs in order. Your books were meticulously kept, which was helpful, but it was incredibly time-consuming. So you had no idea how late it really was when you reached for your phone and called your father.

A middle of the night call after days of silence wasn’t exactly something that would give anyone confidence. Your father somehow managed to sound simultaneously exhausted and frantic as he answered the phone.

“Mija? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied easily despite the fact that it was a bit of a lie. You were alright in the way that he was asking—you weren’t bleeding out in the desert somewhere.

He hummed and you could picture the way he was probably pulling his hands down his face in an effort to try and wake up a little more. “Do you,” he fought back a yawn and was almost successful, “do you need something?”

“Do you have Marcus’s number?” The question came tumbling out of you before you could stop it.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah, Alvarez,” you clarified.

He chuckled tiredly. “I know who you mean, Y/N.” He paused. “I have his number, yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“What do you need his number for this late at night?” His answer wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. How you answered the question that he’d just asked was going to determine if he was going to give you that information or not.

“In my defense, I didn’t realize how late it was,” you said with a tired laugh. “I just had a couple things that I wanted to ask him about, that’s all. Stuff I’d really rather not bother Miguel with.”

“You mean stuff you don’t want to talk to Miguel about?” he countered, humor in his tone.

You had to laugh at that. “That too.” There was a long pause, and when he didn’t give you the number or tell you that you were going to have to actually buck up and ask Miguel for it, you said, “So…can I please have a way to not talk to Miguel?”

“You can’t just keep finding ways to avoid him, you know.”

“Watch me,” you joked. “C’mon, it’s late and I’m sure you wanna get back to sleep. Just text me his number and you can go back to dreaming about having your own whiskey distillery or whatever it is that you dream about these days.”

It was too easy for you to picture the look on his face even though you couldn’t see him. The tired but still amused look even though he wouldn’t want to look amused. “Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”

“Because you always think I’m up to something when it comes to Miguel.”

“And I’m almost always right, aren’t I?”

“We’re both still alive and in one piece, aren’t we? Things haven’t gone too wrong yet.” You paused before saying, “Papí, por favor. Para su hija favorita.”

He let out a sigh that turned into a laugh. “Por díos.”

You laughed, knowing that you had him. “Muchas gracias.”

“Basta,” he said with a laugh. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Te quiero.”

You could hear him smiling through his exasperation with you. “Te quiero mucho.”

When you hung up the phone with him, it was less than a minute before you received a text message from him. You quickly opened it, adding Marcus’s number to your contacts. You weren’t going to call him now—it was far too late for that. But at some point in the next twenty-four hours you were going to reach out. Maybe a text would be a better start, since it was a pretty safe bet that if you called him he would be around Miguel. You didn’t even want any incriminating information, really. You just wanted to know that Nestor was okay.

You spent a few seconds too long staring at his name. Clicking on it, you typed out a text message, thinking that it wouldn’t be enough to disturb him from sleep, but it would be one of the first things that he saw when he woke up in the morning. And that would mean he was away from Miguel.

“It’s Y/N. My dad gave me your number. Call me when you get this, please” You didn’t allow yourself to hesitate before hitting send.

Once the message said delivered underneath it, you felt like the last of your energy had been sucked right out of you. It was a text message but you may as well have run a marathon with the way you sank deeper onto the stool, elbows landing against the bar. You pressed your fingers against your temples, rubbing small circles there for a few moments before deciding to pack up your things and starting to head home.

Even as you were going through your nightly routine at home, you were still periodically checking your phone to see if Marcus had texted you back. There was no way that he was going to answer, but you still had to check. Even as your head hit the pillow and you threw your phone on the charger, you gave it one last glance before finally allowing your eyes to close.

You were woken up the next morning way before your alarm. You groaned, not opening your eyes as you groped around, feeling for your nightstand and by extension your phone. When your fingers wrapped around it, you unplugged it, only opening one eye a sliver of the way. You hit the accept call button, not even bothering to try and focus enough to read the name.

“Hello?” You barely sounded human but it was too late to try and mediate.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” Marcus’s voice came in from the other end of the line, soft, smooth. “Figured the late text needed a fast reply.”

Your eyes popped open as it registered with you who it was. You lifted your head off the pillow, clearing your throat as you propped yourself on one elbow. “Marcus. Sorry. Yeah. Thanks—uh, thank you for calling.”

“Never thought your dad was one for playing telephone.”

“He’s not. I, uh, I might’ve pestered him a little bit.”

“What happened?”

“What?”

“Never took you for a pest.”

You chuckled as you rubbed at your eyes, trying to wipe the sleep out of them. “Glad to know Miguel hasn’t swayed your opinion of me.”

“Y/N.”

He didn’t sound angry and yet you still felt like you were on the phone with the school principal. You cleared your throat again. “Yeah?”

“What’s going on?”

“If I ask you something, are you gonna tell Miguel?”

“Depends.” He paused. “I’m not planning on tellin’ him anything about you if you don’t give me a reason to.”

You sucked in a deep breath before finally asking, “Did something happen to Nestor?”

There was a long pause. You were afraid that he was just going to hang up on you. You were mentally scrambling, trying to come up with a good excuse to be asking that question. It was hard to think of one that would be good enough, especially considering you were asking a man who you had hardly ever had a full conversation with before. Quick exchanges in the driveway of your father’s house didn’t quite count.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

Marcus cut you off. “He’s okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “You mean it?”

There was another long pause. “He’s okay, meaning he’s not in the same position his last partner was in.” Marcus let you stammer for a few seconds before saying, “You know about Paco.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. “I—”

“Wasn’t a question.”

“Nestor told you?”

“No. But if he was going to tell anyone…”

You sighed as you felt your chest get heavy. You hadn’t even been awake for ten minutes and you already felt like you were on the brink of tears. “That obvious, huh?” you tried to joke to force your emotions down.

He avoided your question, keeping his tone neutral as he asked, “What do you want from me?”

“He won’t leave him.”

You heard Marcus sigh on the other end of the line. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Can you promise me that you at least won’t let Miguel do to him what he did to Paco?”

The silence on the other end of the line didn’t instill any confidence in you. “It’s out of your control, Y/N.”

“So that’s a no?”

“You said it yourself, huh? He’s not leaving.”

You didn’t expect his words to hit you as hard as they did. You took a deep breath, hoping it would make you feel steadier, but it didn’t. You were just thankful that he couldn’t see the look on your face. “Right.”

When another silence followed, you thought that Marcus was going to try and find a way to hurry you off the phone. But, much to your surprise, he just stayed on the line. It was the longest conversation you’d ever had with him, and most of it was filled with disjointed silences.

“You’ve thought about it a lot,” he said, a brief pause before he elaborated, “What the picture would look like without him.” It was a statement, not a question.

Clearing your throat to stuff down the emotions, you found yourself nodding before remembering that he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I mean…in a violently daydreaming kind of way, yeah.” You couldn’t help the brief, proud smile on your face when you heard the way Marcus chuckled at that.

Despite the moment of shared humor, when he spoke up again his tone was serious. “I can’t promise you what you’re asking. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

You sighed, dropping your forehead to the heel of your palm. “Right.”

“’S like I told you, huh? Just keep yourself safe.”

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but there was only so much you could ask of him. He was risking a lot just by talking to you at all. “What happens if Miguel finds out you called me?”

 “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him—and there are plenty of things he doesn’t know.”

There was an ease that he spoke with that made you believe him. While it didn’t alleviate the concerns you had before, it at least didn’t any anything new to the list. You knew that you weren’t going to get anything more out of him now, so you cut him loose and ended the call. Tossing your phone to the side, you laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you were supposed to do next.

The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of pages as I sat down on the plush sofa, legs tucked underneath me, the comforting weight of the journal in my lap. My hair was up in a messy bun—nothing glamorous, just the way I preferred to wind down after a long day. The oversized t-shirt I wore, one of Angel’s, hung off me like a reminder of his presence, even in his absence.

I opened the worn journal, the familiar scent of aged paper and ink filling the air, each page a little more worn than the last. It was strange, flipping through the pages written in my father’s unmistakable hand. Galen O'Shay’s words, his thoughts, stories from his past—my past—felt so distant now, yet intimate all the same. I traced the ink with my fingers, feeling the weight of each stroke, as though the words themselves carried his essence, long gone but never fully absent.

I stopped at a passage that caught my eye, a scrawl that brought with it a rush of unwanted memories. He’d written about her—my mother. The Irish-American woman who had walked into his life like a storm and left just as quickly. I knew the story well; I’d heard it enough times growing up, but reading it in his own words felt different. Rawer, perhaps.

The description was affectionate, almost nostalgic, as if he was reliving their first meeting. I didn’t know whether to be angry or sad that he still held her memory in such high regard, given everything that had happened. Her absence, her choice to leave us both behind, never seemed to lessen in importance. But there it was, written plainly on the page, my mother’s name alongside his, the past woven into the present.

I snapped the journal closed before I could read more, pressing it to my chest. The emotions it stirred were too complex, too tangled. I didn’t want to deal with them now, not when everything else was already so heavy.

I leaned back against the cushions, my thoughts drifting back to the meeting, to the Kings and the power dynamics I had yet to fully understand. The weight of my family’s legacy pressed down on me, and as much as I hated it, I knew I couldn’t escape it. Not anymore.

It wasn’t long before the sound of the door opening broke the silence. My body stiffened instinctively, but I relaxed when I saw Angel’s silhouette in the doorway.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice low, the concern evident in his eyes.

I nodded, putting the journal aside. "Just... processing. Trying to figure out what to do next."

He moved toward me, sitting beside me on the couch, close but not quite touching. "You don't have to do it all alone."

I didn’t respond immediately. His words, though comforting, didn’t quite ease the pressure on my chest. But I appreciated them. "I’m just trying to make sense of it all. The past... my father, my mother. It’s like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing."

Angel’s hand found mine, warm and steady. "We’ll figure it out."

The sincerity in his voice cut through the fog of uncertainty, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I didn’t have all the answers, and I wasn’t sure where this journey was going, but for now, I could lean on him. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The quiet in the room stretched on, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Angel’s fingers had slipped into mine, but he didn’t speak at first. Sometimes, words weren’t needed. Sometimes, his presence alone was enough to make the weight of everything feel a little lighter.

I sat there, my knees pulled up to my chest, leaning into the soft cushions of the sofa. The journal sat beside me, forgotten for the moment. I couldn’t focus on it anymore. My mind kept drifting back to the past—my father’s legacy, my mother’s absence—and what was left of it now. Everything felt like it was falling apart, but in ways I couldn’t control. I never expected to be here, surrounded by the Kings, tangled up in their web of power and betrayal. Never expected to feel the way I did now—half broken, half whole, a person caught between two worlds.

I let out a long breath, trying to release some of the tension that coiled in my chest. It didn’t work. The pressure was still there, a constant ache that wouldn’t go away.

Angel’s thumb stroked over my knuckles, a quiet gesture, but one that spoke volumes. He was waiting. Waiting for me to talk. Waiting for me to let the walls come down.

But I didn’t know where to start.

"I’m scared," I said, the words escaping before I could stop them. I didn’t look at him when I said it. Instead, I stared at my lap, at the way my fingers curled into his.

Angel didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t need to. But when he did speak, his voice was softer than I expected, a thread of concern woven through the rough edges.

"What are you scared of?"

I let out a shaky breath, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Everything. That I’m not enough. That I’m going to fail all of us, you included." I turned my gaze toward him, finally meeting his eyes. "I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to balance everything, to live up to... this. To the legacy my father left behind, or the weight of my family name. I’m just... I’m not sure I can handle it."

His eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his hand shifting so his fingers could brush against my cheek. "You don’t have to be everything, Nova. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your own." His voice dropped, and I could hear the quiet intensity in it, the way he meant every word. "I’m here, always. Whatever this is, whatever you need—I'm not going anywhere."

I blinked, surprised by the depth of emotion in his voice. He’d always been the strong one, the one who kept things together, the one who always had an answer. I never thought I’d see him so... vulnerable. But there it was, in the way his eyes locked onto mine, the sincerity there so clear I could almost taste it.

"You really think I’m strong enough for this?" I whispered, the doubt in my voice thick.

He didn’t hesitate. "I know you are. And I know you don’t need to do it alone."

There was something in the way he said that—something deeper than just words. I could hear the unsaid promise in it. The trust. The belief in me. And it made my chest tighten, this feeling of being seen, really seen, for the first time in a long while.

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat threatening to choke me. But I wasn’t going to break. Not in front of him. Not now. Not when I was starting to understand how much I needed him.

"I’m scared of losing myself in all of this," I admitted quietly. "I don’t want to lose who I am, who I was before all this started."

He nodded, as though he understood exactly what I meant. "You won’t lose yourself. Not as long as you remember who you are."

I exhaled slowly, a tear slipping down my cheek before I could stop it. But it wasn’t a sad tear. It was a tear of release, of finally letting the pressure, the fear, go. Just for a moment.

Angel reached out, wiping the tear away with his thumb, his touch gentle. "I got you, princesa," he said, his voice rough with something deeper, something I couldn’t quite define. "Always. Whatever happens next, we face it together."

I nodded, feeling the weight in my chest lift just slightly. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel quite so alone in the storm.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

The room felt smaller now, like the walls were listening. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything I hadn’t said yet pressing in on me. Angel’s arm slipped around my shoulders and I instinctively leaned in, resting my head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath my cheek — grounding, constant.

“I used to think I could outrun it,” I murmured.

“Outrun what?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“All of it. My name. My past. What happened to my dad. What it did to my mom. What it left behind.” I swallowed hard. “I used to think if I just worked hard enough, stayed sharp enough, controlled everything… I could stay one step ahead of the pain.”

Angel’s hand stroked slowly up and down my arm. “Did it work?”

“No.” I laughed bitterly. “It just made me cold. Tired. Alone. Pushed me into a marriage with a man who wanted to take it all from me.” I lifted my head and looked up at him. “And then you came in like a storm I didn’t know how to survive.”

His brow furrowed, and for a second I thought I’d said too much. But then he reached for me, both hands cradling my face. “You think you’re hard to survive?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only place I’ve ever felt peace.”

That undid me.

The walls I’d spent years reinforcing cracked in that moment. And for once, I didn’t rush to rebuild them. I let the emotion swell, let it sit heavy in my throat as tears burned in my eyes.

I looked down, my voice thick. “I’m so scared I’ll lose everything.”

He leaned his forehead against mine. “So am I.”

The quiet admission between us cracked something open. Not just in me — I felt it in him too. We weren’t bulletproof. We weren’t untouchable. We were two people with battle scars and bleeding hearts, doing the best we could to hold each other up in a world that never made space for softness.

“I don’t want to be my father,” I said after a long silence. “He gave everything to the cause. To the legacy. And it killed him. And left me with nothing but questions and enemies.”

Angel’s hand slid down to rest over my heart. “Then don’t be him. Be better. Start something new. Something that doesn’t cost you everything.”

I stared at him. “What if I don’t know how?”

“Then we figure it out together.”

There was nothing flashy about that moment. No dramatic declarations or sweeping promises. Just two people clinging to each other in the dark, whispering truth into the cracks.

And somehow… it felt like everything.

I leaned in, brushing my lips lightly against his. Tentative at first, hesitant, as if even now, after everything, I wasn’t sure I deserved this. But with Angel, I could never go slow. My fingers curled into the soft material of his shirt, clinging to him as though he were my lifeline. Everything that kept me from drifting off into the sea that was my family and my legacy.

All I needed was him.

I moaned against his lips as his tongue tangled with mine, the sound low and desperate, like a plea caught in my throat. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me into his lap without breaking the kiss. It was desperate—not just lust but something deeper. Like we were trying to hold each other together with skin and breath. Like if we stopped, we’d fall apart.

Angel’s lips moved from my mouth to my jaw, down the column of my throat. His teeth grazed my skin, sending shivers down my spine. “You don’t have to carry all this alone,” he murmured against my skin, his voice rough, aching. “Let me help.”

I didn’t answer with words. I couldn’t. I just nodded, threading my fingers into his hair and tilting my head back to give him more of me. His breath was hot against my neck, his lips trailing lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. My body arched into his, seeking more, always more.

“Nova,” he said, voice raw, grounding me again with just my name. It wasn’t just a word—it was a lifeline, a reminder of who I was when I was with him.

“I know,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I know.”

We didn’t rush. We didn’t need to. Every movement was slow and deliberate—like we were relearning each other in this quiet space, away from the weight of names and bloodlines. Away from the Kings, the club, the expectations that waited like wolves just outside the door.

His hands slid up my back, fingers tracing the curve of my spine, and I shivered again, my breath catching in my throat. His touch was so familiar, yet it felt like the first time. Like we were starting over, peeling back the layers of who we thought we were and finding each other again beneath it all.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. His voice was soft, almost reverent, and it made my chest ache. Beautiful. The word felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to me. But when he said it, I believed him.

I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hands cupping his face. His eyes were dark, filled with something I couldn’t quite name—need, yes, but also something else. Something deeper. Something that made my heart race.

“Angel,” I whispered, his name a prayer on my lips.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all. He leaned in, capturing my lips again, and this time the kiss was deeper, hungrier. His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer, and I could feel the heat of him, the way his body responded to mine.

I shifted in his lap, my thighs straddling him, and his hands slid under the fabric of my shirt, his fingers skimming my skin. I gasped into his mouth, my hands tightening on his shoulders. Every touch was electric, sending sparks through my body, igniting something deep inside me.

His hands moved higher, cupping my breasts, thumbs slowly circling my nipples, and I moaned, my head falling back. His lips found my neck again, his teeth grazing my skin, and I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“Angel,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he stood, lifting me with him, and carried me to the bed. He laid me down gently, his eyes never leaving mine, and I could see the intensity in his gaze. The need. The love.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine, and I could feel the weight of everything unsaid between us. The pain, the longing, the hope. It was all there, in that one kiss.

His hands pulled my shirt up over my head and tossed it aside, his eyes drinking in the sight of me, and I felt a flush spread across my skin.

“So perfect,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my collarbone before moving lower.

I arched into his touch as his mouth closed over one nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. My fingers tightened in his hair as he sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and I moaned, my hips lifting off the bed.

His hands slid down my sides, fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties. He paused, looking up at me, his eyes dark with desire.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice low, aching.

I shook my head, my breath catching in my throat. “I want you,” I whispered. “Inside me.”

Angel’s fingers hooked into my panties and pulled them down my legs, tossing them aside. His eyes roamed over my body, and I felt exposed, vulnerable, but in the best way. Like he was seeing all of me—not just the woman I tried so hard to be for everyone else—but the real me.

He kissed his way down my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel, and I shivered, my hands gripping the sheets. When he reached the junction of my thighs, he paused, his breath warm against my core.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

His tongue dragged through my folds, and I cried out, my hips jerking off the bed. He circled my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, his tongue teasing me until I was writhing beneath him.

“Angel!” I gasped, my hands fisting in his hair. “Please, I need more.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against me, and then his tongue dipped inside me, finding that spot that made me see stars. I moaned, my back arching, as he fucked me with his tongue, his fingers joining in, sliding inside me with ease.

I was close, so close, but he pulled away abruptly, leaving me gasping for air. He stood, quickly shedding his clothes, and I couldn’t help but stare at him. His body was perfection—lean muscle and smooth skin, every inch of him taut with desire.

He knelt between my legs, his cock hard and heavy in his hand. He stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on mine.  

He leaned over me, his lips brushing against mine as he positioned himself at my entrance. With one slow push, he filled me completely, and I moaned, my nails digging into his back.

He stilled for a moment, letting me adjust to him, and then he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate. Each stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through me, and I clung to him, moaning his name.

“Angel,” I whispered, my voice breaking as he hit that spot deep inside me. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned, burying his face in my neck as his hips snapped harder, faster. I could feel myself tightening around him, my orgasm building with every thrust.

“Cum for me, Nova,” he growled, his voice raw with need. His words were all it took to send me over the edge. I cried out as my orgasm crashed over me, my body trembling with pleasure. He followed me moments later, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside me.

We lay there for a moment, breathing heavily, our bodies still connected. He kissed my forehead softly before pulling out and collapsing beside me. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close.

After, we lay tangled in the sheets, the air still thick with our shared heartbeat.

Angel pressed a kiss to my temple. “You’re not your father’s ghost,” he murmured. “You’re your own legacy.”

I blinked up at the ceiling, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Then I hope to God I don’t waste it.”

He laced his fingers with mine and gave a soft squeeze. “You won’t. Not with me by your side.”

I turned my head to meet his gaze. His eyes were tired, but full of fire. Of belief.

And for the first time in days, maybe longer, I let myself believe it too.

🏍️

“Rowan must’ve really rocked your world,” I said, lifting my coffee to my lips as I watched Guero stroll into the dining room, still wearing that cocky, lopsided grin like it was part of his wardrobe.

He tilted his head, playing dumb. “Who?”

“The maid you snuck into your room last night,” I said, arching a brow. “Her name was Rowan.”

Guero blinked, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “Didn’t catch her name. She probably didn’t catch mine either—she was too busy calling out to a higher power.”

I snorted into my coffee. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned wider, settling into the chair across from me and stealing a piece of toast off my plate. “And yet, here you are, enjoying breakfast with me like we’re best friends.”

“More like I’m just too tired to throw you out,” I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched despite myself.

“You’re welcome for the late-night entertainment,” he said, biting into the toast. “It’s not easy being the people’s champion.”

“I’m sure Rowan feels very… enlightened this morning.”

“Divinely inspired,” he corrected with a wink.

“See I make sure my woman knows my name,” Angel sat down draping his arm over the back of my chair, “So she knows exactly who’s making her cum.” 

“It also makes them want to talk to you after,” Guero responded, “I don’t do pillow talk.” 

“You do know we’ll be here for another week or two,” I reminded him, “she’s the maid assigned to this wing. You’ll run into her again.” 

“Fuck,” Guero muttered under his breath when his one-night stand entered the dining room, balancing a silver tray loaded with scones and eggs from the kitchen.

Rowan didn’t glance at him. Not directly. She moved with quiet confidence, posture impeccable, red hair catching the morning light as she set the tray down. Composed. Unbothered. Her bright blue eyes flicked over the table, lingering maybe half a second too long on me—but not on Guero.

Angel leaned back in his chair, watching her with mild curiosity. Then his gaze shifted to me. Then back to her. Then back to me again.

“She works here?” he asked quietly, though his eyes never left her.

“Yeah,” I murmured, sipping my coffee. “Rowan. Her family’s worked on the estate for generations.”

Angel’s brow furrowed slightly. “She looks like you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The hair, the eyes… Even the way she carries herself. If I didn’t know better—”

“Careful,” I warned with a smirk, but there was a flicker of something deeper in my tone.

“I’m just saying,” Angel muttered, eyes narrowing as Rowan exited the room. “You sure you two aren’t related?”

“She’s not blood,” I said, setting down my mug. “We grew up around each other, though. Same hallways. Same expectations.”

Guero groaned. “Great. Now I’ve officially fucked Nova Lite. Someone just bury me alive.”

Angel snorted, but he was still watching the door Rowan had walked through. Thoughtful. Almost unsettled.

“She ever copy you?” he asked. “Try to be like you?”

“She tried once,” I said quietly. “Didn’t like how it felt.”

Angel’s gaze snapped back to me. There was more he wanted to ask, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

Guero glanced between us and sighed. “Whatever this is, I’m out. I’m not emotionally equipped for doppelgänger drama before eggs.”

“Maybe we should unpack what made you pick her out of all the people that work here,” I said, raising a brow as I sipped my coffee.

Guero glanced up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“She’s hot,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s why. And not sixty like the cook that works in the kitchen.”

Angel huffed a quiet laugh, but he was watching me again, not Guero. Watching the way my expression didn’t quite match the light tone I used.

“Right,” I said slowly, setting my cup down with a gentle clink. “So it had nothing to do with the fact that she looks like me?”

Guero froze for a second. Just a beat too long. Then—“What? No. Don’t be weird. That’d be… weird.”

Angel didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said plenty.

“I mean,” Guero added quickly, “if she does look like you, that’s coincidental. Total accident. She was there, I was drunk, and it’s not like I’m emotionally attached. She could’ve looked like Angel and I probably still would’ve—”

“Okay,” Angel cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s not go there.”

I smirked, but something twisted in my stomach. I wasn’t mad. Not really. But I wasn’t unaffected either.

Guero shoved a bite of eggs into his mouth and mumbled, “Don’t psychoanalyze my sex life before breakfast. It’s rude.”

“Then stop making it interesting,” I said, leaning back.

Angel’s hand slid beneath the table, brushing mine. Just a touch. Quiet reassurance. 

“Just remember I’ve got the real thing,” Angel said, his voice low as he gave my hand a deliberate squeeze beneath the table. “I don’t need the knockoff version.”

His words landed like a shot of warmth straight to my chest. I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. Not without giving away too much. But I let my fingers curl tighter around his.

Guero raised both eyebrows, mouth full of toast. “Damn. You two always this intense before breakfast?”

“Only when you make it weird,” I muttered, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself.

Angel leaned back, still watching me. And that look—that quiet, steady certainty in his eyes—said more than the words ever could.

The dishes clinked behind us as we slipped down the hall, Angel’s hand still wrapped around mine. He didn’t say a word until the door to our room clicked shut behind us.

Then, silence.

Not the heavy kind. The kind that settles around you like a blanket when you know you’re safe.

I turned to face him, but before I could speak, his arms slid around my waist and pulled me against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of my head like he needed that one second to just be.

“She really did look like you,” he murmured, voice hushed. “Caught me off guard.”

I didn’t respond right away. I just pressed my cheek against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.

“I’m not her,” I finally said, quieter than I meant to. “I know that’s obvious, but… sometimes I don’t feel real in this place. Like I’m just a shadow of what they want me to be.”

Angel leaned back enough to tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You’re more real than anyone in that house. You’re the only thing that makes sense here.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I can live up to what my father left behind.”

“You don’t have to.” He ran his thumb across my cheekbone. “You don’t have to be him. Or your mother. Or anyone but Nova.”

I blinked, trying to hold back the burn in my eyes. “And if Nova’s a mess?”

He smiled, that soft, crooked smile that wrecked me every time. “Then she’s my mess.”

I let out a shaky breath and leaned into him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. And for a little while, we just stood there, wrapped in silence and each other.

The air between us was thick—charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Angel’s fingers slid up the back of my shirt, warm and steady, like he wasn’t in any rush. Like he was grounding himself in me—just as I was doing in him. I tilted my face up, brushing my lips against his jaw, and he let out a low breath, his hands tightening on my waist.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice husky against my skin.

I curled my fingers into his shirt and pulled him toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I let myself fall back, tugging him down with me. His body settled between mine, his weight familiar and welcome.

Angel’s hands roamed under my shirt again, calloused palms dragging up my sides, coaxing goosebumps across my skin. He pushed the fabric up, then paused, waiting for my eyes. When I nodded, he pulled it over my head, tossing it aside without looking away from me.

“You always do that,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of our breathing.

“What?” he asked, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Look at me like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

His brow furrowed like the truth of that hurt him somehow. “Because you are.”

His words were soft but carried a weight that made my chest tighten. I surged up to kiss him, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently until he groaned into my mouth. His hips pressed against mine, slow and insistent, and I could feel the heat building between us—familiar and overwhelming all at once.

Angel pulled back just long enough to strip off his shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and shoulders. My hands traced the lines of his body, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palms. He bent to press kisses down my neck, across my chest, lower still. His hands followed, patient and reverent, like worship. Every touch made me feel wanted. Real. Loved.

I arched into him, needing more—not just of his body but of the way he made me feel like I wasn’t just my father’s daughter, or a legacy to uphold. With him, I could just be me. His lips brushed across my stomach, then back up to my throat, his breath heavy.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

“It’s not enough,” I breathed, pulling him down to me again.

His mouth found mine, and this time there was no hesitation. The kiss was demanding, all-consuming. I matched his intensity, fingers roaming across the broad planes of his back, feeling every shift and flex of muscle beneath my touch. His hands fumbled with the clasp of my bra, and I reached behind to help him. The fabric slipped away and was tossed aside without a second thought.

Angel’s gaze darkened as it swept over me, reverent and hungry all at once. His head dipped, lips closing around one nipple, tongue flicking in slow, teasing circles. I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair, body arching into him as heat surged through me.

“Angel,” I breathed, voice trembling on the edge of a moan.

He hummed against my skin, the vibration sending another jolt straight through my core. His hand moved to my other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive peak while his mouth continued its assault. I writhed beneath him, hips lifting in search of friction, aching for more.

A low growl rumbled from his chest. His hand slid between us, making quick work of the button on my jeans before tugging them down, along with my panties. He paused just long enough to trace his hands along my thighs, parting them slowly, eyes meeting mine in a silent question.

I nodded, breath catching. That was all the permission he needed.

Angel leaned in, his breath hot against my skin just before his tongue met me—slow and deliberate, a flick that made my back arch and a cry escape my lips. His hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he worked me with maddening precision. Each stroke sent shudders through me, tension winding tighter with every passing second.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, urging him closer, deeper. My voice was a breathless chant of his name, my body trembling on the edge.

“Angel, I—”

He looked up, his lips slick with evidence of his devotion. “Let go, princesa,” he said, voice rough with need.

And I did.

The release hit like a wave, stealing the breath from my lungs. I shattered, crying out as the world narrowed to him—his mouth, his hands, the way he held me through it.

He kissed me again, fiercer this time, as if the fire between us had fully caught flame. There was no hesitation left, only hunger. I wrapped myself around him, my legs locking around his hips, drawing him in.

“I need you,” he murmured against my mouth. “Now.”

His fingers found me again, slick and ready, guiding himself to my entrance. He pushed in slowly, filling me inch by inch until I could feel nothing but him. The stretch was exquisite, the ache delicious.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead resting against mine as he held still, letting me adjust.

I clung to him, nails digging into his back. “Move,” I whispered. “Please.”

He began to move—slow, deep thrusts that had me gasping, my body arching to meet every one. His name spilled from my lips again and again, a whispered mantra of need and praise. His hands gripped my hips, tilting me just right as he drove into me with purpose.

“Right there,” I moaned. “Don’t stop—please—right there.”

Angel cursed under his breath, his control fraying as his pace quickened, chasing the edge with me. His name was a cry on my lips, breathless and broken, as the pressure inside me built to an unbearable peak.

The orgasm tore through me, white-hot and all-consuming. My body clamped around him, and I cried out, falling apart in his arms. Angel followed with a deep, raw groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came, his grip tightening as he trembled above me.

We stayed like that, tangled together, hearts pounding and breath shallow. His weight was a comfort, his body still humming with heat. Slowly, he lowered his lips to my neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses there like a silent promise.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him close.

The room was quiet but far from still. Our breaths were the only sound for a long while, mingling in the hush like a fragile truce. Angel's weight settled beside me, one arm still draped across my waist, grounding me even as my mind tried to catch up with what had just happened.

Eventually, he rolled onto his back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, as if the gravity of it had just landed for him too.

I turned my head to look at him. “Regrets?”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp and sure. “Not a fucking one.”

The silence stretched again—this time heavier. I could hear faint voices downstairs, the TV playing some old rerun, the occasional clang of a dish from the kitchen. Real life hadn’t stopped just because we did.

I sat up slowly, the cool air brushing over bare skin. “We should head back before Guero says something stupid again.”

Angel groaned, covering his face with his forearm. “That guy’s a walking liability.”

A knock sounded on the door—one quick tap, then silence.

Angel sighed and reached for the handle. “Bet you it’s Guero.”

“You handling it?”

“Oh, I’m handling it,” he said, mouth curving into something dangerous.

I watched Angel slip into a pair of sweatpants as I grabbed my robe from the ottoman. He glanced back, making sure I was covered before opening the door.

“Dude,” Guero said, “you can’t leave me out there with all of them.”

“All of who?” I asked.

“Those big burly Irish guys,” he responded.

“Old or young?” I asked, tugging him into the room and closing the door behind him.

“The young ones,” he answered, his eyes shifting uneasily.

I stopped mid-motion, frowning. “The Sons of the Kings?”

Guero nodded. “Yeah, man. The ones who came in last night.”

“Shit,” I muttered, “didn’t think they’d show up so early.” I gathered my clothes from the floor and hurriedly got dressed.

“Yeah, just pretend I’m not here,” Guero commented, his eyes lingering a little longer than necessary as I rushed around.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen my tits before,” I shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Cause I know you looked.”

He grinned. “I was making sure Bottles wasn’t looking,” he chuckled. “It’s not my fault if I got a good view.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk that followed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Guero shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”

Angel shook his head and got dressed. Then we headed back out to the dining room. 

Cormac sat at the head of the table, his button-up pulled tight across his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ink snaked down his forearms—sharp lines and interwoven patterns. To his right, Bran wore a t-shirt, and just below the hem of his sleeve, I spotted it: the same Celtic knot inked on the inside of his arm.

My gaze swept the rest of the table.

Aedon. Miles. They all had it.

The same tattoo.

A knot with no beginning and no end—older than any border, any flag. A symbol of eternity, loyalty, blood.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

But now I couldn’t unsee it.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be here this early,” I said, fingers combing through my hair.

Cormac looked up from his tea, lips twitching. “Aye, we figured you were otherwise engaged. Hard not to notice your guard dogs flanking you.”

Angel tensed beside me. Guero just smirked.

“Right,” I replied, tone dry.

“No judgment,” Aedon said around a bite of scone, crumbs dotting his stubble. “Not from us, anyway.”

Bran leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Though our da’s might not love you showing up to dinner later lookin’ freshly defiled.”

I smiled sweetly. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not here to impress your fathers.”

That shut them up for a second. Just long enough for me to let it sit, and then—

“Besides,” I added, cocking my head, “I notice you all came marked with matching tattoos. Cute. Didn’t realize the Sons of the Kings did friendship bracelets now.”

Aedon barked out a laugh. Bran muttered something under his breath. Cormac’s eyes narrowed—not with anger, but interest.

Angel chuckled low beside me, and I didn’t miss the way Cormac clocked the sound, or the way his fingers tightened slightly on his teacup.

Game on.

“Yer Mexicans sport matching ink too,” Cormac said, nodding toward the Mayans tattoos inked across Angel’s arm and the side of Guero’s neck. “It’s about brotherhood.”

I tilted my head, arching a brow. “So, what—you pointing out that I don’t belong to the brotherhood?”

Cormac shrugged, not denying it.

“You will,” Bran cut in, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Soon as you take the seat that’s been waiting for you.”

I let the words settle, then smiled—slow and pointed. “Funny. You talk like I’m the one asking for a seat.”

That got a few glances around the table. Aedon leaned back in his chair, watching me with new interest. Cormac didn’t flinch, but the edge of his mouth twitched.

“You think we’re the ones doing the asking?” Cormac asked, voice calm but laced with amusement.

I stepped closer, folding my arms. “I think you came all this way because your fathers are losing grip—and they’re hoping I’ll help tighten it.”

Silence dropped like a stone. Even the scrape of silverware paused.

Angel shifted slightly beside me, but I didn’t need backup.

“I’m not here to audition,” I added. “So if you want something from me, say it plain.”

Bran let out a low whistle, eyes flicking toward Cormac. “She’s got more bite than half the table.”

“Yeah?” I shot back, arching a brow. “Then maybe the rest of you should chew with your mouths closed.”

Aedon laughed into his coffee. “Fuck, I almost forgot how much like her.”

Cormac didn’t smile, but his eyes gleamed with something close to respect—or maybe calculation. “Careful, lass,” he said. “That kind of fire’ll either earn you a crown… or burn the whole table down.”

“Guess we’ll see who gets singed first,” I replied.

Cormac leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he steepled his fingers. “Then let’s stop dancing around it.”

The room quieted.

“You’ve proven useful, resourceful… and entertaining,” he said, glancing at Angel and Guero as if daring them to object. “Our fathers sent us here to watch, to assess. But we’ve seen enough.”

Bran straightened in his seat. Aedon set down his mug.

Cormac’s gaze landed on me, steady and unflinching. “We’re offering you a seat. Not just as a favor. As a vote. A voice. A share.”

I blinked. “Of what exactly?”

“Of the Kings' pipeline stateside,” Bran said. “A foothold in what’s coming. You keep your shop, your contacts, your crew. But you answer to us. With us.”

“And if I say no?” I asked, my voice low.

“Then you stay what you are—outside the brotherhood. Useful… until you’re not.” Cormac’s tone was flat, but the threat curled beneath it, unmistakable.

Angel stepped forward, tense. “Careful.”

But I raised a hand, stopping him. My eyes stayed on Cormac’s. “What if I want more than just a seat?”

Cormac’s smile was slow. Calculated. “Then we’ll see what you’re willing to burn to get it.”

“If I agree—and that’s a big if—I’m not answering to you,” I said, eyes locked on Cormac. “We work together. I might be the only one here without a dick, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit back and take orders like some pretty little mascot.”

Aedon let out a low whistle. Bran leaned forward, grin creeping across his face.

Cormac didn’t flinch. “No one said anything about you sitting back, love.”

“Good,” I said, voice steel. “Because I don’t play lieutenant. If I do this, it’s as an equal. You bring me to the table, I bring something worth dealing with.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Cormac’s smile returned—slow, approving, and dangerous. “Now that’s the woman we were told to watch.”

Aedon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the exchange. “Alright, then. Since you’re so keen on proving yourself... how about a little test?”

I narrowed my eyes, instinctively sensing the shift in the air. Bran leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a smirk.

“I’m listening,” I replied, my voice calm but the undercurrent of challenge unmistakable.

“Let’s see how well you handle pressure,” Aedon continued, tossing a glance to Cormac. “We’ve got a shipment coming in tonight. Nothing big, but we need someone to oversee it—make sure it goes smooth. Show us how you manage the logistics, keep everything in line without dropping the ball.”

I felt Angel tense beside me, but I didn’t glance at him. “And if I pull this off?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Cormac’s gaze was sharp, calculating. “If you pull it off, then we’ll talk about that seat at the table.”

A subtle challenge in his voice, like he was daring me to take it.

I straightened my back. “Where and when?”

Bran chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying this. “She’s got fire. I like it.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “You know,” I said, bumping his arm with mine, “it was kinda hot, seeing you stand up for me like that.”

“Oh yeah?” His brow arched, that cocky grin making a comeback as he reached for my helmet and handed it to me.

“Yeah,” I murmured, slipping it on and locking eyes with him through the visor, “nothing gets me going like a territorial biker boy with a hero complex.”

Angel laughed, deep and warm, and stepped in close. His fingers brushed my chin as he tilted my helmet up just enough to steal a kiss. “Good,” he murmured against my lips. “Because I’ve got enough of a complex to last us both a lifetime.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my grin. God help me—I wouldn’t trade this madness for anything.

My arms slipped around his waist as we pulled out of the clubhouse parking lot, the low rumble of the bike vibrating through my body in a way that felt more comforting than jarring. It felt natural riding with him—like I belonged there, pressed against his back, sheltered in the wake of his presence. I let my face rest against the cool leather of his kutte, breathing him in, grounding myself in the moment.

Angel’s hand left the throttle just long enough to find mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. A silent reassurance. A quiet I’m here.

My thoughts drifted to the Broken Saints. They’d offered to teach me to ride—seriously ride. Not just around a parking lot, but long stretches of highway, the kind of rides that clear your head and make you feel alive again. I wanted that freedom. That control. But I wasn’t exactly sure how to bring it up. The Mayans barely accepted the Saints as legitimate in the first place. Showing up on my own bike, one they helped me learn on, might stir something I wasn’t ready to deal with.

Would they see it as betrayal? As stepping out of line? Or worse—would they see it as me not knowing my place?

I tightened my hold on Angel, like somehow he could feel the war going on in my head. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he’d understand. Or maybe this would be one of those things I had to do anyway—consequences be damned.

Maverick was sitting in his booster seat at the table, swinging his legs and happily shoveling spoonfuls of mac and cheese into his mouth when we walked through the door. His face lit up the moment he saw Angel, and his little voice rang out—“Daddy!”—before he went back to eating, clearly content and well cared for.

“Thanks for taking such good care of my little man, Theresa,” I said as I slipped off my jacket and reached for my wallet.

“You’re welcome, Ms. O’Shay,” she replied with a warm smile. “He’s such a good boy. So sweet. But honestly? He’s lucky to have a mother like you.”

I paused mid-reach, caught off guard. My hand froze around my wallet for just a second before I smiled politely and said, “Thanks… but I’m not his mother.”

Theresa’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, offering a small, reassuring laugh to ease her discomfort. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

Angel walked over to ruffle Maverick’s hair, his eyes flicking to mine for a beat longer than necessary. There was something unreadable there—something tender and complicated. I wasn’t his mother… but sometimes, in quiet little moments like this, it almost felt like I was.

I closed the door behind Theresa and leaned against it for a moment, just watching. Angel was crouched beside Maverick’s chair, helping him wipe mac and cheese off his chin, gently coaxing him into a few more bites. The little boy giggled, his whole face lighting up like Angel had just handed him the moon.

Something inside me ached in the best and worst way.

I never really considered being a mother. I didn’t know what that looked like, not really. Mine had died when I was too young to remember her face, let alone learn anything from her. The idea of motherhood always felt abstract—like a language I’d never been taught.

Not until my ex-husband… not until that day I saw two pink lines, and something in me shifted. I hadn’t planned it, but in that small window of time, I’d let myself imagine what it might be like. A little hand in mine. A future not just mine alone.

Then he made sure that future didn’t happen.

I blinked the memory away, pressing my lips together as I walked further into the room. Angel glanced up at me, a soft smile on his face. There was so much I hadn’t told him yet. So many things he didn’t know. But for now, I just held onto the feeling—watching the two of them, my chest full of something that might’ve been grief once, but was starting to feel a lot like hope.

“Hey, Maverick,” I said, kneeling beside his booster seat with a playful grin. “Think we can talk Daddy into letting us watch Encanto again?”

His face lit up instantly as he clapped his little hands together. “Yes!”

Angel raised a brow as he helped him down from the chair, smirking. “I’m starting to think you like that movie just as much as he does.”

“You caught onto my master plan,” I said with a mock gasp, scooping Maverick into my arms. He let out a giggle as I spun him around once before settling him on my hip. “I only fell in love with a single dad so I’d have an excuse to watch Disney movies on repeat.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is,” Angel teased, following us to the couch. “You were never after me—you were after my Disney+ password.”

“Exactly,” I said, settling onto the cushions with Maverick cuddled into my side. “You should’ve seen it coming when I started singing along to ‘We Don’t Talk About Bruno’ after only one watch.”

“Please,” Angel rolled his eyes, “you sang it after half a watch. Maverick was still trying to figure out who Bruno even was.”

Maverick looked up at us with a big grin. “Bruno’s the best!”

I ruffled his hair. “Damn right he is.” Then I looked up at Angel. “You grabbing the remote or what, Daddy?”

Angel shook his head with a low laugh, but the smile in his eyes was soft and full of something warm—something that felt like home.

“We need snacks too,” I said as I adjusted Maverick’s blanket. “Can’t watch a movie without snacks—it’s a crime.”

Angel chuckled and got up, heading for the kitchen. A few minutes later, he came back balancing a big bowl of popcorn, a beer for himself, a Diet Coke for me, and a juice box for Maverick. He handed everything out like it was part of a sacred ritual, then dropped onto the couch beside us with a content sigh.

The opening chords of Encanto started, and like clockwork, Maverick and I both launched into the songs, singing along word for word. Halfway through, Maverick’s voice got softer and softer until he was completely still, his cheek pressed against my thigh, sound asleep.

I smoothed his hair gently as the final scene played—the family standing together in front of their rebuilt home, stronger than ever. My throat tightened, tears stinging my eyes even though I’d seen it a dozen times. Maybe more.

Angel glanced over and caught me mid-sniffle. “You’re such a sap,” he said, nudging me lightly with his elbow. “You cry every time. Thank God his favorite movie isn’t Coco. You blubbered during that one.”

I wiped my cheek, unbothered. “I’m in touch with my emotions, babe. Nothing wrong with that.”

He smirked, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in. “I’m ready for you to get in touch with something else.”

I gave him a look, half amused, half warning. “Angel.”

“What?” he said, raising his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying. Movie’s almost over. Kid’s asleep. Couch is comfy.”

I shook my head with a soft laugh, brushing Maverick’s hair off his forehead. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I shifted Maverick carefully in my arms and stood up, cradling his sleepy little body against my chest. His head flopped gently onto my shoulder, and he murmured something incoherent, still half-lost in his dreams.

“Why don’t you pick out a movie for us to watch while I tuck him in?” I said softly, turning toward the hallway.

“Anything you want to watch?” Angel asked, already reaching for the remote.

“I’m good with whatever,” I called back over my shoulder, keeping my voice low so I didn’t wake Maverick. “Just not Fast and the Furious again. I swear, if I have to hear about family one more time—”

“I like family,” he shouted back with a laugh.

I paused, glancing down at Maverick, who was already breathing deeper in my arms. “We’ve got the real thing right here,” I said under my breath, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before disappearing down the hall.

I tucked Maverick in gently, brushing his hair away from his forehead and pulling the blankets up to his chin. He mumbled something in his sleep, and I leaned in to whisper, “Sweet dreams, baby boy.” I clicked on the soft glow of his lamp—he hated the dark—then eased the door almost closed behind me.

As I walked back down the hall, I could already hear the faint sound of the TV menu flicking through options. I dropped down onto the couch beside Angel with a soft sigh.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked, tucking my feet under me and leaning into his side.

He tossed an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in a little closer. “You wanna keep watching the Marvel movies?”

We’d been working our way through the entire saga, a little ritual that had grown between us. I tilted my head with a grin. “Have we made it to Thor yet?”

Angel smirked, giving me a side-eye. “You just wanna drool over Hemsworth.”

“Absolutely,” I replied without shame. “Have you seen his arms?”

He laughed, shaking his head as he hit play. “You know what? I’ll allow it—only because I get to watch you nerd out like it’s the first time every time.”

“Well,” I murmured, resting my head on his shoulder, “maybe I’ve got a thing for gods with big hammers.”

“Careful,” he said low in my ear, “you’re gonna wake the kid and start something you can’t finish.”

I laughed quietly, nestling in closer as the Marvel logo lit up the screen. “Maybe I’m just getting ready for after credits.”  My hand rested lightly on Angel’s thigh, my fingertips tracing lazy, featherlight circles over the worn denim. The heat of his skin bled through the fabric, grounding me in the moment. I let my touch drift higher, just a little—teasing, testing.

Angel’s low chuckle sent a shiver up my spine. He covered my hand with his, warm and solid, and slowly guided it up—right where he wanted me. I felt him, hard and growing harder under my palm, the tension in his body unmistakable. My breath caught, and for a beat, the rest of the world slipped away.

With his free hand, he gripped my waist and tugged me closer, until there was nothing between us but heat and want. The movie kept playing in the background, forgotten noise. My lips found the curve of his neck, and I brushed a kiss against the spot just below his jaw—feeling his pulse quicken beneath my lips.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp that made my stomach tighten.

I pressed my palm more firmly against him, stroking slow and deliberate. He was already straining against the seams of his jeans. His grip on my waist tightened again, and his mouth crashed into mine—hungry, possessive. His tongue swept against mine and I moaned into the kiss, my body already humming with anticipation.

“Keep it quiet,” he murmured, voice dark and delicious against my mouth. The warning only made the fire in me burn hotter.

I nodded, biting my lip to stifle the whimper rising in my throat as he slid his hands beneath my shirt. His fingers were rough with callouses, warm against my skin as they traveled up the small of my back and then around to cup my breasts.

My hips moved on instinct, grinding down into him as he pulled me fully onto his lap. The pressure was almost too much—and not enough all at once.

“Angel…” I breathed, his name a gasp on my lips.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark and full of heat, a crooked smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You started this,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “so now let’s see if you can finish it.”

My body moved before my mind could catch up—rocking gently against him, my hands braced on his chest. I could feel his heart pounding beneath my palms, matching the rhythm of my own. Angel’s hands slid down to my thighs, anchoring me to him like I was something precious he wasn’t willing to let go of.

I leaned down, kissing him again, slower this time—deeper. His hands tightened on me, then slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans, fingers dragging against bare skin. I gasped against his mouth, breaking the kiss as my forehead dropped to his. My breath came in shallow bursts.

“We should go to the bedroom,” I whispered.

Angel’s lips brushed my jaw, then the shell of my ear. “Can’t wait that long.”

I barely had time to respond before he lifted me with ease, wrapping my legs around his waist. I held on, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he carried me down the hallway with quiet urgency, the kind that only came from knowing each other’s rhythm too well.

When he kicked open the bedroom door, the soft creak of the hinges seemed louder than it should’ve been. We both paused for a second, listening to make sure Maverick stayed asleep.

Still quiet.

Angel laid me down on the bed gently, his hands never leaving my body. He stripped off his shirt, then leaned over me, kissing a trail from my lips to my collarbone, down the center of my chest. My back arched under his touch, seeking more. Always more.

I reached for the hem of my shirt, but he stopped me with a look.

“Let me,” he said, his voice rough.

He took his time peeling the fabric away from my skin, like he needed to memorize every inch of me all over again. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from the hallway, but I could see the way his eyes drank me in.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the space between my breasts. “Don’t think you even know what you do to me.”

“I’m starting to get the idea,” I said with a breathless laugh, threading my fingers into his hair.

Angel’s fingers slipped under the waistband of my pants, teasing the sensitive skin of my lower stomach as he began to unbutton them. His touch was feather-light, sending shivers rippling through me. I leaned into him, my breath hitching as his lips brushed against the shell of my ear.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, the words sending a surge of heat straight to my core. His breath was hot against my skin, and for a moment, I was lost in the sensation—the way his fingers danced just above the edge of my panties, the way his lips moved against my neck, the way his body pressed into mine.

I arched into his touch, a quiet gasp escaping my lips as his thumbs brushed over my nipples. He leaned in, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck, his tongue flicking against my skin as he moved lower.

Angel moved with deliberate care, every touch reverent—like he wasn’t just undressing me, but learning me all over again. He kissed down the line of my stomach as he slid my pants down my hips, slow and torturous. My body trembled beneath him, every nerve ending lit like fire.

When he looked up at me from where he knelt at the edge of the bed, his eyes were dark, hungry—but patient. Like he wanted to savor this. Savor me.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, breathless. “Yeah… just don’t stop.”

That smirk of his made my heart stutter. He leaned in again, his mouth brushing against the inside of my thigh, just enough to make me ache.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, laced with that gravelly heat that never failed to make me ache.

I swallowed hard, my body already reacting, drawn to the promise in his tone. “Yeah?” I whispered.

His mouth curved into a faint smile—more of a warning than anything. “Yeah. The way you looked at me when we were watching the movie… like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Then you knew what that would do to me,” he growled softly, “You wore that little smile and looked at me like I wouldn’t follow you right into hell.”

“You wouldn’t have to follow. I’d drag you there myself.”

My legs parted instinctively, inviting him in closer. He dropped lower, his hands rough on my thighs as he kissed his way down my stomach. 

My hands fisted in his hair, anchoring myself as my hips bucked against his mouth. Angel groaned, the sound low and guttural, and it sent a shockwave through me. The vibration of it against my clit made me cry out, my head falling back as pleasure overtook every rational thought.

“Feel good?” he rasped, his voice muffled against my slick skin, tongue teasing as he kissed my inner thigh before dragging it back up.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” I gasped, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t. He locked his arms around my thighs, holding me open, keeping me exactly where he wanted me as his mouth went to work. His tongue moved with expert precision—circling, flicking, pressing just right—and I was helpless against it, a trembling mess beneath him.

“Tell me how it feels,” he growled between strokes, the sharp edge in his voice making my pulse stutter. “I want to hear it.”

“It’s perfect—fuck, Angel—your mouth, your tongue… I can’t take it,” I whimpered, thighs squeezing around his head as he doubled down, devouring me like he needed it to breathe.

He slipped a finger inside me, slow and deliberate, curling it just enough to make my vision blur. My back arched off the bed, a desperate cry tearing from my throat as the coil inside me snapped. I came hard, hips jerking, thighs trembling, voice breaking on his name as the orgasm crashed through me.

Angel didn’t stop—didn’t give me a second to recover. He kissed his way up my body, dragging his tongue along my skin, his mouth possessive as it found mine. I moaned into the kiss, tasting myself on his lips, and it only made me hungrier for more.

“I need you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and pleading as my hands fumbled with his belt, yanking it open with shaky fingers. “Now.”

He shed the rest of his clothes in seconds, his body lean and hard and ready for me. I reached for him, curling my fingers around the thick length of him, stroking slowly, watching his jaw clench as his hips flexed into my grip.

“Shit,” he growled, his eyes dark with need. “You keep that up, and I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t wait,” I whispered, guiding him to me.

He thrust into me in one smooth stroke, burying himself deep. I gasped at the fullness, the stretch of him making me ache in the most perfect way. He filled me like he belonged there—like we were made for this exact moment.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to mine as he started to move, slow and deep.

Each thrust sent shockwaves through me, the friction just enough to build the pleasure back to a simmer, then a boil. His hands slid under me, gripping my ass, lifting me to meet his hips as he slammed into me harder, faster.

Our bodies moved in perfect rhythm—desperate, primal, connected in every possible way. His mouth found my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and I welcomed the sting, the burn of it pushing me higher.

My nails raked down his back as he hit that spot inside me again and again, and I broke, screaming his name as my second orgasm hit me like a tidal wave.

Angel followed with a raw groan, his rhythm stuttering as he buried himself deep and came, his release pulsing inside me.

He collapsed against me, breathing hard, his weight grounding me as we lay tangled in the aftermath. For a moment, the world fell away—nothing but sweat-slick skin, racing hearts, and the feel of him still inside me.

Then he kissed me again, slower this time, his fingers brushing my cheek.

“Still feel good?” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

I smiled against his mouth. “Better than good.”

“Still thinking about Hemsworth’s arms?” he chuckled against my lips. 

“Who?” 

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow at me, his smirk lazy and knowing. “Don’t play innocent. You practically drooled during the trailer.”

I grinned, biting my bottom lip as I ran my fingers through his hair. “I don’t recall that.”

“Oh, you recall,” he murmured, his mouth brushing mine again. “You tilted your head, gave that little hum—right when he was gripping that hammer.”

I laughed, the sound caught somewhere between flirty and breathless. “Jealous?”

He dipped his head, kissing along my jaw, down my neck, each press of his lips more possessive than the last.

“I don’t get jealous,” he muttered, “I get even.”

I arched into him, teasing, breath hitching. “Yeah? And what’s that look like?”

He slid his hand between my legs, slow and deliberate, his voice low and wicked at my ear.

“Let me show you,” he said again, his voice all dark promise, but his grin betrayed him—mischievous and cocky.

Before I could sass him back, he dipped his head lower and blew a warm breath across my inner thigh. I squeaked—squeaked—and he looked up at me with a mock-serious expression.

“That wasn’t very Hemsworth of you,” I teased, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

He nipped the inside of my thigh lightly. “No, but I don’t see Hemsworth between your legs right now, do I?”

“Touché,” I breathed, my laughter turning into a soft gasp as he finally kissed me properly—slow at first, maddeningly slow. He was dragging it out on purpose, taking his time just to hear me squirm.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered, hips shifting restlessly.

His chuckle was pure sin. “Maybe. But you make the best sounds when I take my time.”

I opened my mouth to argue—but then his tongue flicked, his fingers joined in, and just like that, I forgot who Hemsworth even was.

I was still catching my breath when he crawled back up, smug as hell, lips glistening and eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Still think Thor’s hammer could compete with me?” he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth.

I laughed, chest still rising and falling. “You’re seriously not letting that go?”

“Not until you admit I win.”

He caught my lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before kissing me full. I could taste myself on him, could feel him already hard again against my thigh. My fingers slid between us, wrapping around him with a slow stroke that made him groan into my mouth.

“Fine,” I whispered, brushing my thumb over the head just to hear him curse. “You win.”

He grinned, eyes half-lidded, cocky and gorgeous. “Damn right I do.”

Then he rolled me onto my stomach with a quick, fluid motion, pulling my hips up toward him. I gasped, laughing breathlessly into the pillow. “Bossy.”

“Just focused,” he said, guiding himself back inside me. “Still got a point to prove.”

I whimpered as he filled me, slow and deep. He leaned over, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades. “Gotta make sure you don’t forget.”

“As if I could,” I mumbled, writhing under him, grinning even as he started to move—steady, teasing again, letting the tension build like a slow burn.

He slid a hand under me, fingers brushing where we were joined. “Bet Hemsworth doesn’t make you blush like this.”

I giggled, the sound dissolving into a moan. “You’re obsessed.”

“With you?” he said, thrusting just a little harder, voice warm against my skin. “Completely.”

His hips moved with delicious control, not rushed, not hurried—just enough to keep me right on the edge of begging. His hand slipped lower, fingers circling slow and lazy, making my breath hitch.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I murmured, gripping the sheets.

He chuckled low in his throat, deep and cocky. “Doing what?”

“Driving me insane.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” he dragged his hips back, then snapped them forward just hard enough to make me cry out, “…I haven’t even started.”

I cursed under my breath, pushing back against him, chasing every thrust now, desperate and aching.

“Look at you,” he breathed, leaning down, his chest pressed to my back, voice rasping against my ear. “All worked up over me when you were drooling over another man an hour ago.”

“I was not drooling,” I gasped.

“You made a sound,” he said, picking up the pace, his hips slapping against me now, fingers rubbing tighter circles. “Right when he took his shirt off.”

“I make that sound for you all the time,” I shot back, half-laughing, half-moan.

He grinned against my shoulder. “Damn right you do.”

The words dissolved as his rhythm turned relentless, deeper, harder, each thrust dragging a louder sound from me. My whole body tensed, the pressure mounting like a wave just waiting to crash.

“I’m close,” I whimpered, and I felt him twitch inside me at the sound.

“Then let go,” he groaned, hand working faster. “Wanna feel you come for me again.”

And I did—my body tightening, shattering around him with a cry I didn’t even try to muffle this time. My muscles clenched, drawing him deeper as I came hard, stars bursting behind my eyes.

He cursed, hands gripping my hips as he slammed into me once, twice more before he stilled, spilling deep inside me with a ragged moan.

For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but our panting breath and the occasional aftershock twitch of our bodies pressed together. Then he collapsed beside me, dragging me with him, one arm curled tight around my waist.

“So,” he murmured against my hair, “do I finally outrank Hemsworth?”

I didn’t even open my eyes. “He’s not even in the same realm.”

He grinned, satisfied. “Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m bringing props.”

I cracked an eye open. “If you show up in a cape, I’m walking out.”

He laughed, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “No capes. Just me. Always.”

We lay tangled together, the only sound the quiet rhythm of our breathing. My fingers traced absent patterns across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the warmth of his skin. I couldn’t stop the lazy smile that tugged at my lips as I nestled closer into his side, letting the weight of everything else fall away.

Angel’s arm was draped lazily over me, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles on my hip as he hummed low in his throat. “You okay?” he asked, voice rough and lazy, like he hadn’t quite shaken the haze of what just happened.

“Mmm, more than okay,” I murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “I’m perfect.”

“Good,” he chuckled, the sound low and satisfied. “But I’m gonna need you to say it next time. You know, so Hemsworth doesn’t get any funny ideas.”

I snorted, raising my head just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t worry, you’re definitely the only one who gets to hear me say it.”

“Damn straight,” he replied with a smirk, pulling me even closer. His hand slid under the sheets, finding my hand and lacing our fingers together. “You sure you’re not still thinking about him, though?”

I laughed softly, the sound warm and content. “Not a chance. All I’m thinking about is you.”

His smile softened, turning real—no teasing, no bravado—just him. “Good,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Good.”

We lay there for a while, the minutes slipping by as we slowly came back down from the high, the weight of the night settling into a comfortable silence. Angel’s fingertips brushed the back of my neck, gentle and absent as he let his thumb sweep over the sensitive skin.

“Can’t believe you’re still teasing me about that,” I murmured sleepily, my eyelids growing heavy.

He chuckled again, the sound warm and deep in his chest. “Teasing? Babe, I’m keeping my edge.”

I grinned, the warmth of him curling around me like a blanket. “I think you’ve won.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, the words soft but full of pride.

I sighed contentedly, my head tucked into the crook of his arm. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Lucky?” He raised an eyebrow, a hint of mischief still in his voice. “Princesa, I’m blessed.”

I laughed, the sound sleepy, before my body melted into his, my eyes fluttering closed as I let the exhaustion take over. The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was Angel’s quiet, satisfied murmur against my hair.

“Yeah. I know.”

The static from the baby monitor pulled me from my bliss. Maverick was waking up. I started to roll out of bed. 

“Stay there, princesa,” Angel said softly, “I’ll take care of him.”

I blinked against the dim light filtering in from the hallway, the warmth of Angel’s body still clinging to the sheets as he slipped out of bed. His voice was hushed, rough from sleep, but full of something deeper—something that curled around my heart and held tight.

“You sure?” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He leaned over to press a kiss to my forehead, his hand brushing my hair back gently. “I got him.”

I watched as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, his movements slow, unhurried. The baby monitor crackled again, a soft whimper rising from it, and Angel was already moving toward the door before I could sit up.

The sound of Maverick’s cries faded as Angel’s voice reached him down the hall—low, soothing, with that natural rhythm only a father could find. I lay back against the pillows, heart fluttering, listening to the way Angel spoke to his son, murmuring comforts in Spanish and soft hums of reassurance.

The house fell quiet again. A minute passed. Then another.

And when Angel returned, Maverick was tucked snug against his chest, one tiny hand clinging to the fabric of his shirt. Angel climbed back into bed carefully, cradling his son between us like it was second nature.

“He just needed a little love,” he whispered, eyes soft as he looked down at Maverick, then up at me. “Like you.”

I smiled sleepily, brushing my fingers over Maverick’s soft hair as he blinked up at us, wide-eyed and already drifting again.

There had been a handful of opportunities since Franky left her house for Evangeline to confront her brother about what she'd found out. EZ had stopped by their father's shop a few times over the two weeks that had passed. He and Angel had kicked her door in as well, but whenever she would take a breath and lock eyes with him and get ready to lead with whatever first question came to mind, she could never follow through on it.  

She could tell that EZ was bracing himself for something from her, too. He didn’t know about Franky stopping by, but he knew that the last time the two of them tried to talk about anything of substance, it didn’t go the way that she wanted it too. All three of the Reyes children had a habit of being too stubborn for their own good, so he was just waiting for it all to circle back around again. 

It was just about to start becoming too late to say it was the afternoon when Evangeline saw her two brothers again. They were leaving the carnicería while she was helping a woman carry a few dresses out to hang them in her car. She'd nearly backed her car up onto the sidewalk, but it did the trick and Evangeline wasn’t going to give her a hard time about it. She caught Angel out of the corner of her eye and she could see that he was gearing up to make a smart comment until he saw the woman that Evangeline was helping. 

She was an older woman, small. She almost always had her long gray hair in a neat bun on top of her head, and even when she held her arms up, it wasn't always enough to keep the dress bags from dragging along the ground. That was the main reason Evangeline always offered to help her bring her things out. That, and she figured it was the least that she could do for the woman who, for the last two years, had gone almost exclusively to Evangeline anytime she, her children, or her grandchildren needed to have their clothes altered for any reason. 

Evangeline carefully hung all the hangers on the small hooks built into the back of the woman's car. She hung the ones she'd been carrying, and then relieved the woman of hers as well. It was impossible not to smile at the little sigh of relief she let out. 

Once she closed the car door, Evangeline turned back around to the woman, who was currently digging through her seemingly bottomless purse for her keys. “You make those girls help you carry their dresses in when you get home, Señora Rojas.” 

She smiled, looking up when she'd found her keys. “Oh, they always do.” 

Evangeline opened the driver's door for her. “As they should.” 

Señora Rojas carefully set her purse on top of the console as she got ready to climb in the car. “Thank you again, Evangeline.” 

Evangeline hummed in amusement as she held her hand out for the elderly woman to take so she could more easily sit down in the driver's seat. “I should be thanking you. Not often I get to have a whole legacy line of customers.” 

She was laughing as she turned the key in the ignition. “Well, we have another graduation this year so I'm sure I'll be calling you again in a couple of months.” 

She nodded and smiled. “I'll make sure to keep my phone on me.” She closed the driver's door and patted the hood of the car. “Stay well, Señora.” 

The woman was waving as she pulled away from the curb. “You too!” 

Her car hadn’t even made it to the end of the block when Evangeline felt an arm drape across her shoulders. Even before he started to laugh, she knew that it was Angel. She leaned into him for a moment, letting it pass for a hug even though it wasn’t really one.  

“Couple more feet and she would’a turned your store into a drive-thru.” 

Evangeline laughed, pushing him away as she did. “Basta.” 

They were both still laughing when Evangeline leaned to look past Angel for their other brother. She had been expecting to see him standing there just on the other side of Angel, at least taking in all of the mild, day-to-day antics if not also getting a good laugh out of them like they were. Instead, he was already sitting on his bike and clipping his helmet on. His sunglasses were firmly in place hiding his eyes but even so Evangeline knew exactly what look was on the other side of the tinted lenses. 

Angel only noticed anything was amiss because she’d stopped laughing. He turned to look in the same direction that she was and saw EZ getting ready to take off without a goodbye for either of them.  

Angel frowned in thought. “What’s his—” His sentence was cut short by the roar of EZ’s bike coming to life. Angel scoffed even though Evangeline wouldn’t be able to hear it, let alone the person he actually wanted to have heard it. He watched as EZ cruised on down the street in the same direction as Señora Rojas without so much as a sideways or backwards glance. When it was quiet enough for him to be heard again, Angel tried one more time to ask his question. “What’s his problem?” 

Evangeline shrugged and leaned against her brother’s side. “If you don’t know, ‘manito, I don’t know.” 

“Pfft,” Angel sputtered. “Yeah right.” He followed her back inside her store, continuing their conversation as the chimes welcomed them through the doorway. “Some shit goin’ on between you two now?” 

She rolled her eyes as she went back behind the counter where the register was. She updated her records with everything she’d just sent her latest customer on home with. “I don’t know. I keep meaning to ask but,” she shook her head as she clicked away on her keyboard, “I’m not sure if I even really want the answers.” 

He made no effort to hide the confusion on his face. “I need you to be straight with me about somethin’ if you want my help, Eva.” 

She laughed. “I never said I wanted your help!” 

He tried to look annoyed as he rolled his eyes but he was still smiling, sarcasm and humor dripping from his voice as he said, “Nah, yeah, ‘course not. Didn’t ask for help—just looked at me all mopey to get me to try and offer anyway.” He plopped down in his usual seat in her shopping area. “That’s the game you always run. Can’t believe I still let that shit work on me.” 

She was chuckling behind her computer screen. “It’s because I'm your favorite sister.” 

“Shut up,” he said with a laugh. “I better be your favorite fuckin’ brother then.” Evangeline let a few seconds of silence hang between them on purpose just to get Angel throw his hands up and say, “Unbelievable!” 

Evangeline laughed, finally getting her spreadsheet up to date the way that she wanted it to be. Walking back around to the customer’s side of the counter, she found herself sitting down in the chair that was angled to face the one that Angel was sitting in. She was fairly certain that she and her brothers made more use of these chairs than anyone who came through the shop as a customer. She wasn’t upset about it. 

“You know I love you.” 

He waved her off. “Yeah, whatever.” They both chuckled quietly, but when the only sound in the shop was the music playing from Evangeline’s speakers, Angel revisited their initial topic of conversation. “So? What’s goin’ on with you and Boy Scout?” 

She wondered how much Angel already knew about any of it. She wasn’t even sure how much she knew, so how was she supposed to stack it up against whatever knowledge he did or didn’t have? She also wondered what kind of good it would do her, really, to tell him about everything that Franky had shown her. There was no way that any of it could end well. Nothing ever did. Still, she didn’t want to add to the ever-growing web of lies that seemed to span across their family tree. She settled for sharing as much of the truth as she could without feeling like she was putting herself into a deepening hole. 

The chair she was sitting in had a tall back to it, the ornate kind that they didn’t make anymore. She’d grabbed both chairs from antique shops over the years, and it always amused her that Angel always sat in the shorter one, one that he could really melt back into. She liked the tall one she was in—it allowed her to press her head back the way that she was now as she tried to put a sentence together. 

“He was trying to rope Franky into shit with the club and I told him not to.” 

Angel laughed. “Jesus, Eva.” 

“I know,” she said as she closed her eyes, giving him a flippant wave of her hand, “I know.” 

“Thought you didn’t stick your nose into club shit?” 

“I don’t. I just don’t think that you guys should be dragging Franky into it either.” 

He chuckled as he looked over at her, waiting for her to open her eyes and look at him. “He’s not a little kid anymore, you know. He doesn’t need you stepping in to try and save him.” 

“I’m not—” 

“Hell, he’s a fuckin’ cop he should be the one tryna save you.” He smiled at the way Evangeline laughed at that. “What’d EZ say?” 

“What do you think? He basically told me to mind my goddamn business.” 

Angel sucked his teeth—not surprised in the slightest. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve been in agreement with EZ, but it was Evangeline and it was impossible to not get annoyed at EZ the same way she was. “Sounds right.” 

“I know better than to try and get involved,” she said. 

There was that tiny bit of remorse in her tone that let Angel know that she was going to try and come up with a way to give EZ a little grace in all of it, try to find a way to cut him a little slack. Angel hated it when she did it for EZ, feeling like everyone all the time for their entire lives had been cutting his brother those kinds of breaks. The only thing stopping him from getting on her case about it was because she was one of the few people in the world that was doing the same for Angel when he wasn’t around, even if she never told him as such. 

Evangeline had been like that for as long as Angel could remember. She wouldn’t hesitate to give them a hard time when she was standing face-to-face with them. She’d have it out with them in the middle of Felipe’s kitchen or her own, it didn’t matter. But she gave them her worst only when they were around to hear it. She’d have their backs more than most when they were turned. Angel meant to start being good like that at some point but he hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet. 

He tried to offer her a helping hand in getting to a less thorny topic of conversation. “You only stuck your nose in that shit because it was your knight in beige fuckin’ armor.” 

It worked—she laughed. She reached with one leg and pressed the toe of her boot against his knee, knocking it into the other. “Stop it with that.” 

A cocky smirk crossed his face. “Tell me I'm wrong, then.” When he was met with silence, he said, “That’s what I thought.” He paused, looking around the shop for a moment as he continued on with, “You know that dude’s, like, in love with you, right?” 

“Angel Ignacio.” 

He matched her dramatics, humor all over his face as he did. “Evangeline Isabel.” 

“Enough.” She tried to sound serious, but it was hard to sell it when her mouth was begging to break into a grin. 

“I don’t get why you don’t let that man just take you out on a date. Get a free dinner and shit, you know?” 

She laughed in earnest at that. “I’m not going to treat Franky like a meal ticket.” 

“Just gonna keep treating him like he’s still a fuckin’ middle schooler instead?” 

Leaning back, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Since when are you so invested in my love life? And,” she laughed, “since when do you want me to go on a date with Franky Rogan?” 

“I don’t,” he said as he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one over the other, “but that guy is gonna die thinkin’ he’s got a fuckin’ shot with you if you don’t put him out of his misery soon. And clearly you’re not doin’ that shit, so, get the free dinner. Least he could do with all the bail money he gets from the club is take you out somewhere nice.” 

She smiled. “You know that bail doesn’t go directly into his paycheck, right?” 

“I don’t know that it doesn’t.” 

Evangeline knew that Angel would’ve been willing to let the topic die out right then and there. It was far from the first or last time that he gave her a hard time about Franky. There was a comfortable, almost routine nature to it at this point. Angel had been after Franky about it ever since they were all teenagers, much to Franky’s dismay. Angel had laid off it for a while because of a myriad of reasons, but in the last couple of years he had apparently rediscovered his love for the hobby, and now he was getting after Evangeline about it too. At least he was being fair, or fairer than he had been. 

“You know he’s never actually asked me out?” she broke the silence. 

Angel wore his disbelief all over his face. “Fuck outta here.” 

She laughed as she nodded. “I’m serious. He’s never asked me out on a date.” 

“You sure?”  

She barked out a laugh. “I think I’d know.” 

“The fuck’s he been doin’, then?”  

There was a fond smile on her face as she shrugged. “Just being nice, I guess. I can see now that that’s very disappointing to you,” she added on with a chuckle. 

“Neither of you make any fuckin’ sense, I swear to god.” He shook his head as he replayed everything over in his head that Evangeline had just told him. “Not even for a drink?” 

She shook her head. “Nope.”  

“Would you even say yes if he did?” 

“Ang—” 

“I’m serious.” 

“Why? If I tell you I’d say yes are you gonna go lurk outside the station and make sure he doesn’t drive by here?” 

“Give me a little credit.” He paused. “I’d lurk outside his fuckin’ house.” 

“Angel!” 

They were both laughing as he matched her tone. “You’re still not answering my fuckin’ question! It’s not like you haven’t had any time to think about it. ‘S not exactly breaking fuckin’ news.” 

She smiled, knowing that he was right. “It’s not that simple, though. I just...” Her tone shifted, taking on a slightly more serious weight as she continued. “Do you know hard I worked to make a boring life for myself? After, after everything with Mom? And Ezekiel?” She crossed her legs so that she was mirroring Angel’s position. “And then everything with Carmen, too? I needed a break. That’s why I never really got involved with, you know...” she trailed off, eyes zeroing in on Angel’s freshly albeit shoddily stitched Secretario patch. 

He hadn’t ever thought about it like that. He remembered what those years had been like for himself, purposely diving deeper in the club and trying to pull as far away from everything that had happened as possible. Evangeline didn’t get to do that, though—she was left to take care of everything when EZ was behind bars and Angel was at the clubhouse. Throughout the years he’d always chalked up her distance from the club to her not liking all the illegal shit that they got into, which he loved to jokingly blame Franky for. He knew that she didn’t have much love for the club, but he never really gave any deep thought to the reasons why. 

The distance between the two of them had fluctuated over the years, but in the back of his mind, Angel had always known that it was his own doing when they would fall out of touch. Evangeline did a better job than their father at making sure that her distance from the club didn’t automatically equate to distance from Angel altogether. Her door was always open, always had been. Throughout the years Angel just didn’t always make the time to walk through it. 

He also never really considered Franky to be an extension of the club.  But, from where Evangeline was standing, he supposed it wasn’t that much of a stretch. None of the cops in Santo Padre really had any love for the MC, even if a number of them turned a blind eye to what the club got up to. That had to do more with the money being passed off than anything else. Franky had never been like that, which was infuriating at times. But apparently EZ was calling in favors regardless. 

“Too real?” Evangeline said after silence that went on for longer than Angel had realized. 

He laughed and shook his head, feeling bad that he hadn’t said anything for so long. “Nah, not that. Sorry. Just thinking, you know?” 

She held her hands up in surrender. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to that. Need me to grab the fire extinguisher too, or?” 

“Fuck you,” he said as he laughed. 

The two of them were sitting there laughing when a young couple walked into the shop. Evangeline smiled and waved to them as she stood up. “Bienvenidos! Let me know if I can help you find anything.” She watched them for a moment as they went deeper into the store. Looking back at Angel, she said, “You can stay if you want—I don’t mind.” 

Angel shook his head as he stood up and stretched his arms up over his head. “Nah, I gotta head out.” He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. “Gotta go see about a cop, you know?” 

She rolled her eyes. “I swear if you—” 

He didn’t let her finish the sentence as he pulled her into a hug. “I’m not gonna do anything. Santo Padre’s finest will be as good as he ever was for when he finally sacks up and asks you out.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “Let me know if you want me to smack EZ around for you, though. I’ll do that shit free of charge.” 

She laughed as he pulled away from her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Cuidate, hm? It’ll be really embarrassing if Franky has to call me about you after all this.” 

Angel put his sunglasses on for dramatic effect as he walked backwards towards the door. “I’d never let that guy catch me.” 

Evangeline had the urge to remind Angel that his lengthy rap sheet said differently, but she wasn’t going to talk like that with customers in the store that she wasn’t familiar with. Instead she just waved him off with a smile and a shake of her head as he finally turned back around and headed out of her shop.  

(divider by @saradika-graphics 💞)

Mayans MC Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added!): @garbinge @withmyteeth @darqchilddaydreamz @justreblogginfics @cositapreciosa

Not because it was easy or because he wanted to string me along, but because something in him couldn’t let me go. Because in the middle of all his chaos and heartbreak, he still wanted me.

It wasn’t fair.

But as I sat there, holding that stupid note like it was something fragile, I knew the truth.

I shoved the note deep into the bottom of my purse like burying it could keep the emotions that came with it at bay. Then, I did what I always did when things got too heavy—I got to work.

The shop was quiet, just the way I wanted it. Stocking day meant I didn’t have to play dress-up, no designer clothes or carefully crafted persona. Just me, a playlist full of guilty pleasures, and a long list of inventory to check in.

Music blasted from the speakers, filling the empty space as I climbed onto the display case, belting out the soundtrack to Coyote Ugly like I was performing for a sold-out crowd. I moved with abandon, the weight of the last twenty-four hours melting away with each note.

At least, until I heard the slow clap of an unexpected audience.

I froze mid-move, my stomach dropping.

James T. Kirk—smartass, business partner, and certified pain in my ass—leaned casually against the doorway, amusement written all over his face.

“I didn’t think you’d be here until much later,” I said, hopping down from the counter, heat rushing to my face. “I was just… Fuck.”

He smirked, arms crossed as he took a step closer. “If this whole empire crumbles, at least you’ve got a solid backup plan.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, trying to regain my composure, pulling that familiar wall back up around me. But it was too late. It’s hard to pretend you’re a hard ass when you’ve just shaken your ass for someone like James T. Kirk, even if it was completely unintentional.

I cleared my throat and forced myself to act like nothing had happened. “You bring the new inventory?”

He leaned against the doorframe, still smirking like he knew exactly what I was trying to do—deflect, distract, pretend like I wasn’t dying a little inside. “The boys are already unloading it upstairs,” he said with a chuckle. “They’ll be disappointed they didn’t get to see your performance. But you’ll find everything’s in order.”

“Good,” I breathed out, trying to focus on something else, anything else. “If you could eliminate that from your talks with your board of directors, I’d appreciate it.”

James raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “I’ll keep this secret for you, Ms. O’Shay.” He paused, his expression shifting slightly. “Though, there’s been some talk about a biker war up and down California. One that might interfere with business.”

I felt my stomach tighten. I knew this had to do with the payback that was happening because of Coco. Not for the kind of business I ran, at least. “What kind of interference are we talking about?” I asked, my voice steady, but my mind already racing.

“Could slow down supply,” he responded, “it’s being mitigated but customers can become nervous when things don’t arrive as planned. I understand your deal with Gilendo has dissolved.”

 “He’s missing,” I replied, “presumed dead. But I’m sure you already knew that.” 

“Gilendo isn’t dead,” he said, “he’ll be another piece to the puzzle soon enough.” 

I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of what he was implying. “What the hell does that mean?”

James didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a step closer, his posture casual but the underlying tension in the air thick. “What I mean is, Gilendo’s not gone for good. He’s just... missing in action for now. But don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. And when we do, he’ll be a very important piece to a much bigger picture.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications I wasn’t ready to unpack. Missing or presumed dead, Gilendo was still a wild card I hadn’t fully written off. But if James was right—and he usually was—this situation had more moving parts than I realized. More dangers I hadn’t anticipated.

“Are you planning on playing puppet master with him when he shows up?” I asked, trying to stay calm, but the tension in my neck betrayed me.

“I don’t need to play anything,” he replied smoothly. “Gilendo’s just one cog in a much larger machine. But you can trust me, Ms. O’Shay—I have everything under control.”

“I hope so.” I wasn’t entirely sure I believed him, but it was hard to argue with his confidence.

He looked at me for a long moment, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by something colder, more calculating. “You might not have noticed it yet, but this... game you’re playing with me—it’s not just about business anymore. There’s more at stake than you realize.”

I crossed my arms, resisting the urge to take a step back. “I’m not playing games with you, James. I’m running a business. And I don’t plan on losing control of it.”

His gaze softened, but there was still that edge. “Good. Because if you lose control, it’s not just your business you’ll be losing.”

I didn't need to ask what that meant. The threat was clear enough.

I forced myself to stand tall, no matter how much my stomach churned. “If there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”

He gave me a long, assessing look before nodding, his smile returning in full force. “Just remember, Ms. O’Shay... you’re always one step away from being out of your depth. Don’t forget who has your back when that time comes.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned, walking away from him without looking back. But his words lingered in my mind, and the unease they stirred up was harder to shake off than I wanted to admit.

—---

I rolled through the scrapyard gates. I don’t know why I still came. I suppose it was to be with the guys. They had a big win today. I hoped that meant the war was at a standstill. If not completely over. And things would settle down again. 

 Bishop stood from his seat when I walked in, pulling out a chair for me to sit down. He looked at me, like I was there. Like he could really see me again. 

“Glad you came, querida,” he pressed his lips to temple and I took a seat at the table.  

“Everything go ok?” I asked. I knew better than to press further than that. 

“It went ok, took ‘em all out,” he said, “Lost Canche but no one else.” 

I nodded, I knew the strain that Bishop had with Canche, at least now some of that would settle. At the end of the day they were still brothers.  

I watched as Bishop sat back down, the weight of what he'd just said hanging in the air. His eyes had that familiar weariness, the kind that spoke of too many battles fought and too many losses carried. Even in the moments when everything seemed to settle, there was always something gnawing at the edges of it all.

“Canche was a good man,” I said quietly, not needing to elaborate. We both knew what kind of life he’d lived, the kind that came with an early end or a life forever marked by violence.

Bishop’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything for a while. I could tell there was a storm behind his eyes, something unresolved he wasn’t ready to talk about. He probably never would be, and that was fine.

“Thanks for coming, though,” he said, breaking the silence. “It’s good to see you here.” His voice was softer, almost hesitant. A tone I wasn’t used to from him, and it made me pause.

“I needed to,” I replied, not bothering to hide the truth. “If you’re going to carry all this weight, the least I can do is be here for you.”

“Don’t think it’s like that,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“I know it’s not. But it doesn’t hurt to remind you that you don’t have to do everything alone,” I said. I leaned back in my chair, watching him carefully, waiting for the walls he was so skilled at putting up to shift, even just a little.

He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as he took a deep drink from his bottle. His eyes flicked to mine, softer than before, but still full of the same pain that had been there for so long.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this, Nova,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt like they were escaping from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been locked away for far too long.

I didn’t have an answer for that. I couldn’t. But I could be here, in this moment, sharing the silence and the weight of it all. Because, maybe for him, that was enough.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said simply, my hand resting over his on the table, a quiet gesture of support.

He nodded slowly, his hand giving mine a gentle squeeze before he pulled away, but the gesture spoke volumes.

We didn’t need to speak more. Not right now. Not when everything was so fragile. But we knew. We always had.

The silence was interrupted by Creeper leading his new girl into the clubhouse. 

Bishop draped his arm over the back of my chair as he looked up at her, “Who do we have the pleasure?”

“This is Kody,” Creeper said.

“Hello, Miss Kody,” Bishop said to her.

“Damn, ‘Miss Kody’? What am I a kindergarten teacher?” she laughed. “Fuck.”

The table laughed with her.

“Have a seat, sweetheart,” Bishop said. Dondo and Hank introduced themselves. 

“This here is Bishop’s ole lady,” Creeper looked at me then corrected himself, “his lady, Nova.”

“I train them well. Before I got here they were still beating their chests and throwing shit at the wall,” I offered her a smile, “Nice to meet you.” 

“I wondered why we stopped doing that,” Dondo chuckled. 

Kody grinned, her eyes flicking between the group as she took a seat. She had an energy about her, one that matched the rough-and-tumble vibe of the clubhouse but with a sharp edge. I could tell she didn’t take any shit, which, in a room like this, could either make you a target or an ally. I couldn’t tell which one she was just yet, but the fact that she wasn’t intimidated by the men around her spoke volumes.

“Training them well, huh?” she said, her voice low and laced with amusement. “Guess I’ll have to take notes.”

“You’re gonna need them,” I replied with a smirk, “These boys don’t exactly come with an instruction manual.”

Dondo and Hank chuckled, obviously enjoying the banter. Creeper, who was standing behind Kody, just grinned, clearly proud of the girl he’d brought in.

“Don’t listen to her,” Creeper said, walking around the table to join us. “She’s got ‘em trained like lapdogs. I had to fight for my piece of the pie when I came in.”

“You should’ve seen the looks I got when I walked in,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Bishop was ready to throw down with half the club just to claim me.”

Bishop’s arm shifted on the back of my chair, his fingers grazing lightly against my neck as he shot me a half-smile. “Not wrong. Still might.”

The others laughed, and Kody leaned back in her chair, clearly taking in the dynamic of the room. “Well, looks like you’ve all got your shit sorted out.”

I caught the look on her face—a little guarded, a little curious. She wasn’t exactly eager to dive into the group’s dynamic just yet, but I could tell she wasn’t the type to be easily fooled by appearances.

“So, Kody,” I asked, trying to ease into the conversation. “What brings you to our lovely little corner of chaos?”

She cocked an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Same thing that brings everyone, right? A little trouble, a little excitement. Maybe I’ll stick around. Maybe I won’t.”

I liked her already. She wasn’t looking to make friends, but she wasn’t here to make enemies either. That made her dangerous in a way.

“Well,” I said, standing up and clinking my glass, “If you’re sticking around, you might as well know you’re in for one hell of a ride.”

Kody laughed again, her eyes glinting with something like challenge. “I can handle whatever you throw my way, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the tension in the room shifted. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd. She was someone who would make her own place here—whether we liked it or not.

—-----

"Hello?" I answered the unknown number. If I weren’t in the business I was in, it would’ve gone straight to voicemail.

"It’s good to hear your voice again, Ms. O’Shay," came the smooth, familiar voice of Miguel Galindo.

I leaned back, my grip on the phone tightening. "I suppose I should say the same, Mr. Galindo. I must’ve been misinformed about your untimely demise."

"I’ve been away," he admitted, "but very much alive. I’m bringing the Mayans back into the fold, and I have a new partner. I’d like you to join us for a discussion—see how we can move forward in a way that’s profitable for all of us."

There was no hesitation in my response. "Text me the time and place. I’ll be there."

Patrick cut the engine as we rolled up to the warehouse. He glanced at me, jaw tight. "Ya sure about this, lass?"

I exhaled slowly, straightening my shirt. "As sure as I can be."

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. "Couldn’t let my favorite cousin get murdered in a place like this."

"I’m your only cousin," I reminded him.

"All the more reason." He flexed his fingers, subtly adjusting the weight of his sidearm under his jacket.

I took one last breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside like I belonged there.

Miguel was already waiting, standing with his usual quiet authority. Beside him stood a woman—small in stature but radiating a sharp, undeniable presence.

"Thank you for coming," Miguel said smoothly. "This is my new partner, Soledad. You might know her as the leader of the LNG."

I arched a brow. "Your business rival?"

Miguel’s lips curled into something between amusement and calculation. "That’s changing today."

"They’re here," one of Miguel’s guards announced.

I walked beside Soledad and Gilendo into the warehouse, Patrick just behind me. Their guards flanked him, a silent show of force, each step a calculated display. Across the table stood Marcus Alvarez and EZ Reyes—the Mayans, as expected.

"The fuck," EZ muttered, his eyes flicking between me, Miguel, and Soledad.

"Señora," Marcus greeted Soledad first, offering his hand with the respect of an old player in the game.

Miguel slid a chair out for her, then for me, ever the picture of composed authority.

"I wasn’t aware Mr. Alvarez would be bringing a guest," Soledad noted, her sharp gaze landing on EZ.

"Neither was I," Miguel responded smoothly, though the tension in his posture suggested otherwise.

Marcus remained steady. "Let me introduce my Vice President, Ezekiel Reyes. And Nova—good to see you again."

I inclined my head slightly, acknowledging him, though the air between us was thick with unspoken history.

Soledad leaned back, studying EZ. "Ezekiel’s vision led his people out of destruction and back to the glory of Jerusalem."

"I believe he was also martyred," EZ replied, his voice level, "Bound to wild horses and ripped to pieces."

Her lips twitched at the sharpness of his response. But her real focus was elsewhere. She noticed it—the underlying, unspoken war bubbling between EZ and Miguel, the tension crackling like a live wire.

"Are you two familiar with each other?" she asked, tilting her head.

Male fucking testosterone. The room practically reeked of it as they stared each other down.

Miguel barely glanced at EZ. "Vaguely."

EZ’s jaw tensed. "We share someone in common."

Miguel’s eyes flicked to him then, something colder lurking beneath his usual mask. "Have you spoken with her?"

"I was gonna ask you the same," EZ countered.

The weight of that hung in the air for a beat too long before Soledad cut through it. "I hope there won’t be an issue with the business arrangement."

Marcus, ever the pragmatist, settled into his chair. "With all due respect, I’m not exactly clear on what this business relationship is."

Soledad leaned forward, threading her fingers together, her voice smooth but firm. "I’m aware the roots of your partnership with my brother have grown rotten. That has caused issues for us both—supply stalling, demand heightening. We are here, with the help of Mr. Galindo and Ms. O’Shay, to build a bridge between our two seemingly disparate islands."

Miguel took the cue effortlessly. "This deal won’t just benefit you and the Mayans—it will completely reshape how business is conducted. We’re challenging the belief that brutality and profit must coexist. I’ve seen the cost of needless violence, the losses it creates. But now, I believe I’ve found the right partners to lead us toward a more sustainable future."

A beat of silence. Then Soledad continued, her tone shifting. "There’s just one thing—due to temporary liquidity issues, I’m going to need you to take three times the original agreement my brother arranged. Effective immediately."

Marcus’s brow lifted slightly. "Do you even have that quantity?"

With a flick of her wrist, her men stepped forward, yanking tarps away to reveal pallets upon pallets of heroin bricks. A fucking fortune laid bare.

"Product isn’t an issue," Soledad said simply.

Miguel smirked. "I’ve assured Soledad the Mayans will be able to handle the load. Ms. O’Shay will provide the necessary equipment to ensure everything moves smoothly."

Soledad’s gaze locked onto EZ’s. "Miguel will serve as my appointed liaison north of the border. I trust you two can work together to facilitate this arrangement."

Miguel, ever measured, added, "Yet the deal itself is between Marcus and me. We have a long working history."

Marcus exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment settling in. "I owe you, carnal. I came here today out of respect for you—and for our gracious host. But this isn’t a decision I can make lightly."

Soledad’s expression remained unreadable, but there was steel in her voice. "The clock is ticking, Mr. Alvarez. If you can’t see your way to doing business with me, someone else will. And if that someone happens to be your enemy, then you will become mine."

Marcus studied her carefully, then asked, "And your brother? Where does he stand on all of this?"

Soledad’s eyes darkened just a fraction.

"My brother will be handled."

—---

"Hey," I answered Bishop’s call, surprised to see his name flash across my screen. It had been a long time since he called without it meaning some kind of catastrophe with the club.

"Hey, querida," he said, his voice rougher than usual, like he’d been carrying the weight of too many long nights. "Fuck… shit’s been so fucking complicated lately. I’m sorry. I just—"

I sank into the couch, already knowing where his mind was at. "I know, baby." My voice was soft, reassuring. "What do you want to do?"

He hesitated for a beat, then sighed. "Do you wanna go out? Have a drink or something?" A pause. "Away from the club. None of that bullshit."

That made me smile. "Are you asking me on a date, Bishop?"

I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Yeah. I guess I am."

I let the moment stretch, teasing him just a little. "You know, I don’t think we’ve ever actually been on a real date."

"What?" He scoffed. "Of course we have."

"No, Bishop," I laughed. "Everything has just been one thing after another since I met you. We’ve never done the whole ‘dinner and drinks, no impending doom’ thing."

He exhaled, like he was realizing it at the same time I said it. "Shit. You’re right." Then, after a beat, softer, more certain—"Let’s change that."

I bit my lip, enjoying this rare moment of ease between us. "Pick me up at the shop after Templo."

There was a pause. Then, "How’d you know there was a meeting tonight?"

I smirked. "Baby, there’s always a meeting."

"I'll see you then," he said, his voice laced with something softer, something certain.

As I ended the call, a feeling settled in my chest—lighter, hopeful. Like maybe, after everything, we could find our way back to each other. Maybe I was just grasping at something that wasn’t really there, but for the first time in a long time, I wanted to believe it could be.

I busied myself closing up the shop, the anticipation building with every minute that passed. And then, there it was—the low, familiar rumble of his bike outside.

My heart kicked up a notch.

I took a quick breath, smoothing my hands down my jeans before raking my fingers through my hair. It was pointless—I’d be wearing a helmet soon enough—but I still wanted to look good for him.

Stepping outside, I caught the way his gaze moved over me from behind his glasses, slow and appreciative. That look alone sent a warmth through me, one I hadn’t felt in far too long.

I climbed on behind him, hands resting on his sides. “You’re gonna have to hold on tighter than that, querida,” I heard the smirk in Bishop’s voice as he pulled away from the curb. My hands slipped tighter around his waist. 

"Better," he murmured, barely audible over the roar of the bike, but I could hear the satisfaction in his tone.

The vibration of the engine beneath us sent a hum through my body as Bishop eased onto the road, the cool night air whipping past. I smiled against his shoulder, tightening my hold just a little more.

There was something about riding with him that was different. I’d been on the back of a bike plenty of times—EZ, Angel—but it never felt like this. With them, it was just a ride. A means to an end. But with Bishop, it was something else entirely. The way he moved, the way I could just hold on and feel every shift, every turn—like we were in sync, part of the same rhythm.

I let my eyes close for a moment, breathing it in. The scent of leather, the distant burn of gasoline, the unmistakable feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be.

We rode together through town like we were the only two people on the road. We pulled to a stop at an out-of-the-way place. One without lines of bikes outside. The sound of classic rock echoed from inside. 

I let him take my hand and lead me inside to a booth close enough where we could still enjoy the band but far enough away that we wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. 

“I’ve missed you,” I said after the waitress set a couple of bottles in front of us.

“Look shit is just so fucking crazy,” he told me. “I got wrapped up in all the beef with the other charters. Now this shit with the Sons. Coco…”

I nodded, I’d been dealing with so much. But I couldn’t tell him all of it. My stuff didn’t just impact me. Confessing wouldn’t do anything but hurt Angel and the club. I cared about him too much to do that to him. Especially with all he’d lost already. 

I pushed the thoughts away, I shouldn’t be thinking about Angel now. Not when things with Bishop were about to get to a better place. 

I take a long drink from my beer, tilting my head to listen to the music. I caught Bishop’s eyes, studying me like he was trying to figure me out all over again.

“You’re quiet, querida.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, swirling the bottle in my hands. “I just wasn’t expecting this tonight. You surprised me.”

I wanted to say more—how he pushed me away, made me feel small, like I was something he could set aside whenever things got too complicated. But now wasn’t the time.

Bishop exhaled, leaning back against the booth. “You always do that. Deflect when something’s on your mind.”

“I—”

“Well, look who it is.”

The voice cut through whatever I was about to say, making my stomach tighten. I looked up, and there he was—blocking my view of the stage. A client. One that always made my skin crawl.

I forced a polite smile. “Mr. Smith. Nice to see you again.” We both knew that wasn’t his real name. “Business or pleasure?”

His smirk widened. “Pleasure, I suppose. Though I thought you kept more... exclusive company.”

“I do.” My voice was steady, dismissive. “Enjoy your night.”

I turned back to Bishop, ending the conversation before it could drag out any longer. But as Smith walked away, I caught the smirk on his face—like he knew something Bishop didn’t.

Bishop’s jaw clenched. “Who the fuck was that?” His eyes stayed locked on me, sharp and unreadable.

I took a slow breath. The last thing I needed was to light a match near the fire Bishop was already carrying.

“A client from the store.” I shrugged, forcing a casualness I didn’t feel. “No one, really. Don’t wor—”

“No one, my ass.”

And just like that, the night shifted.

I watched as Bishop downed his beer, then waved the bartender over for a round of tequila. Then another. And another.

By the time last call rang out, Bishop took it as a challenge, ordering five more shots like he had something to prove—to himself, to me, maybe even to the ghosts that wouldn’t let him rest.

I didn’t stop him. I should have, but I didn’t.

He winced when the bar lights flickered on, too bright, too harsh after the haze of alcohol and dim neon glow. Without a word, he tossed some cash onto the table and pushed off his seat, a little unsteady.

I walked beside him as we headed for the door, the cool night air hitting us like a reminder that the world outside still existed.

I pulled out my phone to call for an Uber. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bishop glared at me.

“I don’t think you should be driving, baby,” I told him. 

“I’m fucking fine,” he muttered. 

“I really think we should take an Uber,” I responded, “my SUV is at the shop so I can take you home and we can come back in the morning to get your bike.”

“That fucking shop again?” he shot back at me, “Always fucking throwing that shit in my face.” 

I exhaled slowly, my grip tightening around my phone. Here we go again.

"Bishop, that's not what I—"

"Always the shop, always your business." His voice was rough, words slurring just enough to tell me he was drunker than he thought. "I get it. You don’t need me."

"That’s not fair," I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m just trying to make sure you don’t wreck your goddamn bike and kill yourself tonight."

His jaw tensed, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight. But I wasn’t giving him one. Not this time.

I took a step back, lowering my phone. "Fine. You wanna ride? Go ahead, Bishop. But I’m not getting on the back of that bike with you like this.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, breathing hard. Then he ran a hand down his face, frustration bleeding into exhaustion.

"Fuck," he muttered, looking away.

"Come on," I said, softer this time. "Let me take care of you tonight."

“You know what, fuck that,” he said, his stumbled.

“You can be fucking pissed at me as long as you fucking want to, but I don’t want to lose you because you are being fucking stupid,” I told him, “if you don’t want to come home with me, at least call Hank or Taza to pick you up.” 

“Fuck Taza, that gay motherfucker,” he muttered. 

I looked at him, the way he threw ‘gay’ as a slur. I’d had a feeling about Taza but his choice to live his life stealth was his business. It wasn’t my place to force him out of the closet. 

My stomach twisted at the venom in Bishop’s voice. I stared at him, the alcohol amplifying all the worst parts of him—anger, resentment, the weight of everything he refused to deal with.

"You’re drunk," I said evenly, pushing down the urge to lash out. "And you’re saying shit you’re gonna regret in the morning."

"Yeah?" He scoffed, swaying slightly on his feet. "What, you gonna tell me how to fucking think now too?"

I clenched my jaw. Not the time. Not the place.

"You know what, Bishop? Do whatever the fuck you want." I shook my head and turned away, pulling up my Uber app. "But I’m not standing here while you act like this."

"Don’t fucking walk away from me."

I stopped but didn’t turn around. "Then give me a reason to stay."

Silence.

When I finally looked back, he was staring at the ground, jaw tight, fists clenched.

For a moment, I thought he’d say something. But he just shook his head and turned toward his bike.

Stupid, stubborn, reckless motherfucker.

“Oakland was hit last night,” he said quietly, the words hanging in the air like a warning. “Coco was there.”

The air felt thinner suddenly, and I gripped the edge of the bed as my heart began to race. “Is he okay?” I asked, already knowing the answer I didn’t want to hear. He wouldn’t be calling if Coco was okay. But I needed to hear it. I needed to know for sure.

“No,” EZ murmured, his voice breaking with the weight of the news.

“Who?” I asked, the question leaving my mouth like a prayer.

“We don’t know yet,” EZ responded, the urgency clear in his tone. “Gotta go, Templo.”

I nodded at the phone, as though he could see me, though I knew he couldn’t. The line clicked off, and I was left in the hollow silence of my room. I sat there on the edge of the bed, numb, as the gravity of it all sank in. The helplessness washed over me like a cold wave, and for a long moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Powerless to stop any of it.

I showered, the hot water stinging as it washed away the remnants of the night, but it did little to erase the weight pressing against my chest. I dressed quickly, pulling on something comfortable, then stopped in front of the mirror. The bruises on my face were vivid against my skin, angry streaks of purple and blue. There was no point in covering them up—it was too obvious, too much of a mess.

But I couldn’t walk into the store looking like this. I had a reputation to maintain, even if I felt like a shell of the person I used to be.

I grabbed my phone, dialing Patrick’s number with a sigh.

“Aye, lass, ya take care o’ yerself, yeah?” he answered, his voice warm, even through the phone.

“Thanks, Patrick,” I said, trying to keep the gratitude from cracking my voice. “I owe you.”

“More dan one, but who’s keepin’ score?” he chuckled, a sound that almost made me smile.

“Still, I appreciate it.”

“Ya take care o’ yerself, now, lass. I’ll handle the store for ya.” His tone softened, almost like he knew exactly what I needed to hear.

“Thanks,” I whispered before hanging up.

I climbed into my SUV, the engine rumbling to life as I drove toward the only place I knew I could go—the clubhouse.

When I walked inside, the atmosphere hit me like a heavy weight. It was somber, as expected. Even with everything Coco had been through in the past year, the fights, the betrayals, the reconciliation—it all seemed so fragile now. He had just gotten right with himself, with everyone. But now, that was gone, leaving only the thick, suffocating grief that clung to the air like smoke.

Bishop’s eyes found me, lingering on the bruises marking my face. His expression tightened, a flicker of concern breaking through the stoic mask he usually wore. “What the fuck happened to your face, querida?”

I winced as he reached up, his fingers brushing lightly against my skin. The touch was softer than I expected, tender even, as if he were trying to make sure I wasn’t broken in some way he couldn’t fix. It was like somewhere inside of him, he still cared.

“Wrong place, wrong time, I guess,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even though everything inside me was starting to crumble. “Caught an elbow last night when everything was happening.”

He didn’t pull his hand away, his gaze never leaving mine, like he was trying to read something deeper in me—something I didn’t want to show. “Who was it?” he asked, his voice low, almost quiet.

“I don’t know,” I answered, the words leaving me in a rush. “It doesn’t fucking matter. It’s over. Just let it be over.”

The air between us thickened. I could see the hesitation in his eyes, the urge to press for more, but I knew he wouldn’t. Not here, not now. He might have wanted to fix things, but it wasn’t just my face that was bruised.

Angel jumped up out of his seat as EZ and Hank walked out of Templo, his eyes sharp, eager for answers. “What did he say?”

“We wait,” Hank answered, his voice steady but edged with something darker. “Figure out who’s responsible.”

Bishop scoffed beside me, his body language tense, as if the weight of this shit was finally getting to him.

“My money’s on those reaper motherfuckers,” Gilly muttered, his voice low, almost a growl.

“That came up,” EZ said, his tone clipped, though the frustration was evident.

“Why the fuck would they hit us now?” Angel snapped, his voice rising with a mix of anger and confusion.

I scanned the room, my gaze catching Taza’s face. There was something there—something hidden under the surface. Guilt? Frustration? Maybe both. Hell, we were all frustrated.

“Alverez needs a beat to get a handle on the situation,” Hank said, his words firm, even though his own impatience was clear. “He wants to make sure the next move’s the right one.”

“So what? We do fucking nothing?” Angel’s voice was louder now, the disbelief obvious as his hands balled into fists.

“We have no choice,” EZ replied, his voice low but unyielding.

“No! Damn it!” Gilly exploded, flipping a stool with a force that sent it crashing to the floor. His face was a mask of fury. “Fuck the rules.” Then, without another word, he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him.

The room was left in a tense silence, everyone’s frustration hanging thick in the air, but no one dared to move. The heat of anger was palpable, but there was nowhere to direct it—not yet.

The new girl—the one who had been all over Bishop since she got here—eyed me, a smirk tugging at her lips like she’d won a fucking prize. But it wasn’t a game I was interested in playing.

“You want a drink?” Cielo asked.

“Diet Coke, if there’s still some back there,” I replied.

“I got you,” Jess said, sliding a can in front of me.

“Thanks.” I cracked it open and took a sip, then studied her for a beat. She’d been off the last few days—nervous, jumpy. Maybe it was just the tension of all the charters being here, or maybe it was Coco.

“You doing okay?” I asked.

Jess hesitated before nodding. “Yeah,” she said softly. Then, after a pause, “I’m sorry about Coco.”

Her words carried weight, something beneath the surface, like there was more she wasn’t saying. Maybe I was imagining it, reading too much into the grief and the unease settling over everyone. Or maybe there was something there.

I pushed the thought aside and let my gaze drift across the room—straight to Bishop. He looked like a man drowning, weighed down by his own suffering, glass empty but still clutched tightly in his grip.

The girl moved toward him, stepping into the space he barely occupied. She refilled his glass. 

“How you holding up?” she asked, voice soft, measured.

Bishop didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at her.

Undeterred, she pulled up a chair and settled beside him. “I know what it’s like to lose someone,” she murmured. “It’s like losing gravity. You get all upside down, like you’re just gonna float away without them.”

Bishop turned his head just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “What the fuck you talking about?” His tone was ice-cold.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, backtracking. “Just… know that I’m a good listener if you want to talk.”

“What I want,” Bishop said, his voice low and hard, “is to sit here, get very drunk, and not talk or think about how I just lost a brother and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.” He let that hang between them before adding, “And if you really are a good listener, then listen to this—leave me the fuck alone.”

She stiffened but didn’t move fast enough. Bishop’s gaze cut toward me, pinning me where I sat. “If I want to talk, it won’t be to you. It’ll be to her.” His voice softened, just a little. “She knows me. She knew him.”

The girl’s smirk was gone now. She rose from the table and walked away, retreating without another word.

She didn’t think she’d won a prize anymore.

Gilly slid silently onto the stool next to mine. It looked like he’d decided against going rogue—for now. He needed a target, something to aim his anger at. Otherwise, everything would blow the fuck up.

Cielo filled a glass and set it in front of him, knowing exactly what he needed. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

“You know, Coco taught me how to shoot a pistol,” I said, breaking the silence. “I told him I learned to shoot skeets with my father.”

Gilly frowned. “The fuck is a skeet?”

I huffed a soft laugh. “That’s exactly what he said.”

“To the breezes, brother,” Gilly muttered, lifting his glass in a quiet toast before downing the shot. He set it back down with a dull thud. “Another one.”

Cielo refilled it without a word.

The clubhouse door swung open, and Angel walked in, his eyes catching mine for a second before shifting to Gilly. He slid onto the stool beside him. “Hey, bro. You good?”

“You’d think after all this time, this shit would get easier.” Gilly exhaled sharply. “Fucking doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Angel murmured. A beat passed before he added, “Somebody should probably check in on Letty and, uh… what’s her name?”

“Hope,” Gilly said. His voice was rough, tired. “Her name’s Hope.”

“Yeah,” Angel said softly. “Her.”

“I’ll do it,” Gilly muttered, pushing off the stool—only to lose his balance completely.

I was up in an instant, catching him before he hit the floor.

“Sit down,” I ordered, steadying him. “Stay here. I’ll go with Angel.”

Gilly looked at me, then at Angel, his jaw tightening. “Letty’s gonna be fucked up.”

“We know,” Angel said. “We’ll be there for her.”

I caught Cielo’s eye and gave her a look. She understood.

I climbed onto the back of Angel’s bike, slipping my arms around his waist as we pulled out of the scrapyard lot. His hand found mine, squeezing it—not just to steady me, but to ground himself. Angel was hurting too.

The ride to Coco’s house—Letty’s house now—was quiet.

When we walked through the door, Letty was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. The living room was trashed.

Angel stepped forward. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is Hope around?” he tried again.

Still nothing.

I righted the coffee table, setting down the bag of food. “You hungry?” I asked, pulling out the containers.

Letty finally blinked, her gaze flickering toward me. “You brought me chicken nuggets?” she muttered. “Am I six?”

I smirked. “We got you a cheeseburger too.”

I settled into the chair beside her. After a beat, she reached for a nugget, rolling it between her fingers. Her eyes drifted over the wreckage of the room.

“He would’ve hated to see it this way,” she said quietly.

I nodded to Angel, motioning for him to start cleaning up. We moved quietly, putting things back in order, piece by piece.

Letty reached for Coco’s blanket but stopped, her fingers hovering over the fabric.

“He’s not coming back,” she whispered. Her voice was so soft, so broken, it barely carried through the room. “He’s not coming back.”

I wrapped my arms around her. She was shaking.

“It hurts,” she sobbed.

I held her until her breathing steadied, until the shaking stopped. She settled into the chair, eyes hollow but dry.

“We, uh, should go,” Angel said, watching her carefully. “You good?”

“I’m good,” she answered.

“If you need anything—the club, you know, we’re all here for you,” he told her.

“I’m good, Angel,” she repeated, firmer this time, like saying it enough times might make it true. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” I said gently. “If you don’t want to go to the club, you can call me. Anytime. Whatever you need.”

She exhaled sharply, irritation creeping in. “Yeah, I fucking got it. I just need to be alone right now.”

I nodded. “Alright.” No point in pushing.

Outside, I climbed onto Angel’s bike, slipping my arms around his waist as we rode back to the clubhouse, the weight of loss clinging to both of us.

It was quiet when we pulled into the lot. I climbed off Angel’s bike, my fingers catching his for just a moment. He closed his eyes, his breath unsteady, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

“You good?” I asked softly.

“I don’t know.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I guess I’m just numb right now.”

“Same,” I admitted. “I lost a friend.” My eyes flickered to the flash on his chest. “You lost a brother. If you need anything…”

“I know, princesa,” he murmured. His voice wavered. He took a sharp breath, then another. “Fuck.”

He sniffed, jaw clenching, but the tears came anyway. I reached up, cradling his face in my hands, wiping them away with my thumbs.

He gathered himself, his breathing steadying, but his eyes locked on mine—searching. For permission. For something to hold onto.

“Angel…” My hands stayed on him, grounding us both. “We can’t. Not here.”

“I know,” he exhaled, his voice raw. “But… fuck.”

I stepped back, giving him space while still staying close—still there in the way I could be. Without another word, we walked into the clubhouse together.

—-

“Nova,” Marcus’s voice came through the phone, steady as ever. “Izzy’s birthday dinner is tonight. She wants you there—with Bishop.”

“Bishop and I…” I started, but he didn’t need to hear about the strain between us.

“I know, hermana,” he said, cutting off my excuse. “My wife wants you there. So please, come.”

“I’ll be there,” I told him. I couldn’t make the same promise for Bishop.

Clutching the wrapped gift in my arms, I walked up the stone path to Marcus and Izzy’s house. The familiar roar of Bishop’s bike sounded behind me. I didn’t turn around. Not until I felt his presence beside me.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” I said softly.

He caught my hand like nothing had changed. Like things between us weren’t crumbling.

“It’s Izzy,” he said simply. “I owe it to her to be here.”

I nodded as Bishop tapped lightly on the door. Marcus opened it, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly—surprise flickering in his eyes at the sight of us together.

“You’re late,” Marcus said.

“I got tied up at work,” Bishop replied, brushing past him into the house.

“Hey, you made it!” Izzy beamed.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bishop answered.

I handed her the gift. “Thank you for inviting us. Happy Birthday.”

“Have a seat,” she said, already opening a bottle of wine. “May I?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, letting her pour me a glass.

“No, thanks,” Bishop muttered, pulling a fifth of whiskey from his kutte. “I brought my own.”

Izzy’s smile didn’t falter. “Thank you for making time to come, Obispo. I know you’re busy.”

“Actually, I just got a demotion,” Bishop shot back. “So my schedule’s wide open.” He took a long drink, his eyes cutting to me. “Though Nova? She’s pretty fucking busy. Taking care of everyone in the club. Running two businesses. The whorehouse and that fucking store. Surprised she could squeeze this in.”

“Bishop…” I said softly, forcing the edge from my voice.

“What, querida?” he pressed, his tone sharper now. “Not like you need to work. You’re fucking royalty, right? An Irish fucking princess.”

The room tensed, the weight of his words settling like a heavy fog.

“Not in my home,” Marcus stated, his voice low but final.

“I think I’m gonna leave now,” Bishop muttered, pushing up from the table. He swayed slightly, catching himself before he could stumble.

“Bishop…” I stood, reaching for his arm.

“No, querida,” he slurred, yanking free. “You stay. Enjoy the fucking dinner.”

His steps were unsteady, but his anger kept him upright as he staggered toward the door.

“I’ll show myself out.”

The door slammed behind him. The room felt hollow in his absence, the silence stretching too long.

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “He’s just so fucking mad at the world.”

Marcus exhaled, shaking his head.

“I know, hermosa,” he said. “I know.”

I sat back down, pushing through the dinner in silence. None of us were in the mood for idle chit-chat. The tension was suffocating. Finally, I stood up.

“Thank you again for inviting me,” I said to Izzy and Marcus, my voice steady despite everything, “If the color of that bag isn’t right…” I motioned toward the Cartier bag I’d given her, “Let me know, and I’ll get you the one you want. No trouble.”

Izzy’s eyes softened, but she didn’t say anything for a moment. She just stared at the bag as if contemplating something deeper, something more than just the gift. “It’s perfect, thank you,” she finally replied, but there was something behind the words, a quiet relief, or maybe a question. “How did you know it was the one I was looking for?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “When your husband speaks,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt, “I listen.”

Marcus stepped forward then, his hand on the back of my chair, his presence a comforting weight. “Let me walk you to your car,” he said, offering a break from the lingering tension in the room.

I nodded, grateful for the chance to leave the suffocating silence. We walked side by side to the door, but it wasn’t the kind of walk that offered comfort. It was heavy, the air between us thick with all the things we couldn’t say. The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t let them spill out.

“I wish I could still make him see the good in the world,” I finally said, the words heavier than I intended. “I’ve tried. I’ve fucking tried.”

Marcus didn’t respond right away. He took a deep breath, as if weighing his words carefully. “You stuck it out longer than most would have,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “You know, if you could ride, if you were a man, I wouldn’t hesitate to put a kutte on your back.”

I almost laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was hollow, empty. I looked up at him, my gaze steady, but there was something breaking inside. “My whole fucking life would be different if I were a man.”

The words felt like a confession, but there was no going back. In the world we lived in, I wasn’t allowed the same choices, the same privileges. I was a woman, a woman who could fight but never fully belong, never truly be seen the way the men were.

Marcus didn’t say anything else, but his silence spoke louder than any words could. We both knew the truth. It was something we didn’t need to say aloud. Not here. Not now.

—---------------

Bishop wasn’t home when I got there. Not that I expected him to be. I showered and slipped into a pair of comfortable pajamas. Then sank onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. 

The sound of an approaching bike pulled me out of my thoughts. Why did he come home now? 

“Yo Malibu,” Angel pounded on the door, “Let me in.”

I opened the door and Angel stumbled inside. His hands gripped my hips tight, pulling me flush to his body, his lips crashed down on mine. He tasted of whiskey and smoke. 

My fingers gripped tight to his kutte, as I pushed him away. “Why are you here, Angel?” 

“I’m fucked up,” he said, “I fucked it all up.” 

“You’re not making any sense,” I said. He stumbled past me into the living room. 

“She’s fucking gone. There’s not a baby anymore,” he muttered, “And I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.” He pulled me tight to him again.

“What are you saying?” I wiggled out of his grasp, pushing him down to the couch. 

“Stephanie left, she lost the baby,” he stated, holding his head in his hands. 

“And you decided to come here, like I’m some kind of consultation prize?” I asked. 

Angel sat there for a moment, his hands running through his hair, his breath shaky. He didn't look up at me right away, but when he finally did, his eyes were hollow—like something had broken inside him. “I didn’t come here for that,” he said, his voice cracking. “I came here because… I don’t know where the fuck else to go. I can’t go back to her. I can’t go back to that mess.”

He was still drunk, but there was a rawness to the way he spoke that made it hard to ignore. It wasn’t just the whiskey talking.

I swallowed, my chest tightening. "So, what? You think I can just pick up the pieces for you? That you can come here, and I’ll be the one to fix it? That’s not how this works, Angel.”

He closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch. "I didn’t ask for this. Fuck, I didn’t even want it. But now I’m here, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with myself.”

The anger that had bubbled up inside me earlier started to give way to something more… complicated. The guy who stood in front of me, broken and vulnerable, wasn’t the Angel I knew. The one who was always so put together, always so confident, was nowhere to be found.

“You don’t get to just come in here, Angel,” I said, my voice quieter, but still firm. “You don’t get to wreck shit with her and expect me to be your safety net. That’s not how this works.”

His face twisted with frustration. “I know. I know it’s messed up. But I—” He stopped himself, then rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know what to do anymore. She’s gone. The baby’s gone. And I’m just… lost.”

I stood there, trying to absorb everything he was throwing at me, but it didn’t make sense. It was too much. I stepped back, crossing my arms. “And that’s supposed to make me feel sorry for you?”

“I don’t want your sympathy, Nova,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “I just… I just need someone to fucking listen.”

“My lot in life is drunk fucking Mayans,” I grumbled. “I’m here for you, Angel. I’ll always be here for you. But you can’t come to me expecting me to fuck you and make you feel better. I deserve better than that.”

“It’s not fucking like that,” he said, “And I know you do. You deserve so fucking much. But I can’t help the way I fucking feel.”

“What is it that you feel?” I asked. 

His hand raked down his face again and he pulled a cigarette out of his kutte and stuffed it between his lips. 

“You can’t smoke in here,” I told him. 

“What?” he looked up at me confused. “If you want to smoke you have to go outside,” I said I reached out my hand for his, “Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

“You make Bishop smoke outside too?” he asked as he followed me to the back porch. 

“Yes, I make everyone smoke outside,” I responded. 

“No wonder he don’t want to come home,” Angel chuckled. 

“Fuck you, Angel,” I gave him a slight smile, “Keep talking shit and I will lock your drunk ass outside.” 

“Fine, I’ll fucking smoke outside,” he grumbled as he sat down on the lawn chair. He searched his pockets for his lighter, flicking it a few times, not able to get his cigarette lit. 

“Give it to me,” I took the cigarette and lighter from him lighting it and taking a drag before handing it to him. 

“Thank you,” he sucked in the smoke, “you gonna make me leave?”

“No,” I said, “mostly because I don’t want to see you splattered on the side of the desert when I drive in tomorrow.” 

“See I knew you cared,” he smirked. 

“Caring about you wasn’t ever the question,” I told him, “I care about you too much is the problem.” 

He exhaled a long, slow drag of smoke, watching me through the haze. "That a bad thing?"

I leaned against the porch railing, wrapping my arms around myself as the night air cooled the warmth still lingering on my skin. "When it makes me the place you run to after everything falls apart? Yeah. It’s a bad thing, Angel."

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I never wanted to make you feel like that."

"Then what is it?" I challenged. "What do you feel?"

His jaw clenched, and he dragged a hand down his face before rubbing the back of his neck. "Fuck, Nova, I don’t know how to explain it. I just know that when everything feels like it's burning down around me, you’re the only person I want to be around. It’s not just about fucking, and you know that."

I sighed, shifting my weight. "Maybe. But I also know that I deserve to be more than just the person who makes you feel less broken for a night."

Angel took another slow inhale, then stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray beside him. "I’m not trying to use you.  I just don’t know where else to go."

“What happens when Nails decides she wants you back or if Luisa comes back?” I asked. 

“Neither of those things is gonna fucking happen,” he said. 

“That’s not an answer,” I responded. “Do you want me or do you just not want to be alone?”

“I want you, fuck,” he stood up, “I’ve always wanted you.”

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m just the last option left standing?”

Angel ran a frustrated hand through his hair, pacing the length of the porch. “That’s not what this is,” he muttered.

“Then what is it?” I pressed. “Because I’ve been here, Angel. I’ve been here through all of it. And every time you’ve had a chance to choose me, you didn’t.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face me. His expression was unreadable, torn between frustration and something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he could put into words. “You think it was that simple?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think if you really wanted me the way you say you do, it wouldn’t have taken losing everything else for you to admit it.”

His jaw tightened. “You really believe that?”

I looked at him, forcing myself to hold his gaze even as the weight of this moment threatened to crush me. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Angel stepped closer, his voice softer now, the anger ebbing away. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” I whispered. “Over and over again.”

He exhaled sharply, looking away. “Tell me what you want from me, Nova. Tell me what to do, and I’ll fucking do it.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing, Angel. I don’t want to have to tell you. I just want you to know.”

Silence stretched between us, thick with everything left unsaid. He reached for me then, but I took a step back.

“I need time,” I said.

His hand fell to his side, and for the first time, he didn’t fight me on it. He just nodded. “Okay.”

“Come on,” I told him, “you can sleep it off in the guest room. When you’re sober and you’re not hurting, if you still want me, maybe I’ll listen.” 

Angel exhaled heavily, dragging one last pull from his cigarette before stubbing it out against the porch railing. He didn’t argue, didn’t push—just nodded.

I led him inside, flipping on the hallway light as I walked him toward the guest room. He followed in silence, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, grief, and whiskey.

I opened the door and stepped aside. “There’s water on the nightstand. Extra blankets in the closet if you need them.”

He lingered in the doorway, his eyes searching mine. “Nova…”

I shook my head. “Not tonight, Angel.”

He let out a soft chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah. Okay.”

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted it to be like this.”

I didn’t look back. “Me neither.”