Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
His jaw tightens, and there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “He’s not gonna touch you again,” he says, low and hard. “I promise you, Cambria. He’s not gonna get to any of us, me, you, or our family. Because you’re with me, they are your family too.”
Tears keep coming, hot and angry now. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to be someone broken in your eyes.”
“You’re not broken,” he says, his voice a gravel-soft oath. “You’re the strongest damn person I’ve ever known.”
“I’m scared, Drew.” He leans his forehead against mine.
“So am I.” His honesty—it breaks something open in me. “But I’m here,” he continues. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever comes next, you’re not facing it alone.”
I grip the front of his shirt like a lifeline. “I need you,” I admit. “Not because I’m weak. But because you’re the only person who ever made me feel safe.”
He kisses me. Not gentle. Not soft.
It’s a kiss full of everything we have yet to say. It’s his promise between us, one pressed to my lips. His vow to stand by me and my vow to stay in this with him. When we break apart, I’m breathing hard, heart pounding like it’s trying to run out of my chest.
All the pieces of myself I’ve been holding together fall apart in his hands. But he doesn’t flinch. He just holds me tighter, like he’s piecing me back together one breath at a time.
“I love you, Cambria,” he says into my hair. “Every scar. Every moment. I love you.”
I clutch him tighter. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For not telling you. For not trusting you. For thinking I had to do this alone.”
He lifts my face again, his fingers gentle but firm. “You survived, Cambria. That’s what matters. And now you’re not alone anymore.”
The sun dips low behind the trees, casting gold over everything. The porch is quiet, except for the cicadas starting up their evening song. The world should feel heavy, but for the first time in a long time it doesn’t. It feels like maybe we still have a chance.
Maybe love isn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it’s not clean or perfect or soft.
Maybe it’s standing in the ruins with someone who refuses to walk away.
Maybe it’s this.
Just this.
Me and him. And whatever comes next.
Together.
TWELVE
DREW
Quiet comes and quickly goes.
Surprisingly, it’s been a quiet week.
No sign of Frankie. No Salentino. No strange cars running our backroads or signals over the scanner. The air itself feels like it’s holding its breath. I wait for the hammer to drop, because quiet like this, after months of trouble, never lasts. Every time I walk the property, boots crunching the frostbitten grass, I scan the tree line, half-expecting those shadows to move, half-wishing I could will them to life just so we can get this shit over with.
I don’t sleep easy. Don’t let myself. If you relax in times like this, you don’t get a warning—just a bullet or a knife in the dark. But the only things that come are the ordinary noises: wind rattling through pine, the distant cough of a neighbor’s truck, or a thunderstorm that rolls through. The sounds of a world still spinning, still ordinary, even if mine is anything but.
I check in on Cambria’s mom, too. Can’t help myself. I send Smoke and Knox, two Nomads, and the only guys mean enough to scare up answers without drawing heat. When they come back, they tell me she’s still alive—working the street, strung out, stubborn as ever. “Woman’s a ghost walking,” Knox grunts, handing me a wrinkled note with the street address and a one-word update: breathing. I toss it in the trash.
There’s a part of me that aches for Cambria, for what she came from. The way she cares for her mother, but can’t save her. There’s another part of me—meaner, sharper—that knows some people don’t want to be saved. She’s alive. For now. That’s all I need to know.
My phone buzzes. The vibration’s low, rattling against my thigh as I stomp out a cigarette on the gravel. I fish it out, thumb smudged with grease.
Text from Rex.
SERMON. NOW.
No one ignores that message. Not even me.
I flick the cigarette into the dirt, grind it down, and jog up the steps into the clubhouse, head already filling with worst-case scenarios. Inside, the air’s thick with expectation. Every man in the place looks up. Even the old-timers put their cards down. They know something’s brewing. Rex is at the head of the table, stone-faced. Shooter, Toon, and Axel are already in their seats, eyes hard.
On the table is a map. Not the tourist kind, but the old biker’s kind—creased and stained, marked with routes only we know. Highways twisting through the Smokies, mountain passes barely wider than a truck, old border towns where cops look the other way if you grease the right palms. Red marks cross the page, some faded, some fresh. The last one’s bleeding right over the state line.