Page 9

EIGHT

CAMbrIA

Everything begins with the first step.

It’s the quiet that gets me.

Not the silence, exactly—there’s always noise in the compound. Engines roaring, boots crunching gravel, the occasional burst of laughter or shouting. But it’s not the kind of noise I grew up with. Not the kind that follows violence or screams through thin motel walls.

This is different. This is safety dressed up in chaos. And I’m starting to let myself believe it might last.

Little Foot’s different now. There’s a weight to him—like the club finally gave him permission to become who he always was. I see it in the way the guys look at him now. Not just as Shooter’s kid or Axel’s brother, but as someone who stands on his own.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know something shifted during that Memphis run. When he came home, there were shadows in his eyes, but also pride in his chest. A piece of him clicked into place that night.

And I felt it too.

He doesn’t call me his wife around the compound anymore like it’s part of the lie. He says it like it’s truth.

And I catch myself responding like it is.

Today I’m helping Yesnia, Laura, Caroline, and Tessie in the clubhouse kitchen. There’s a party tonight—one of the older members is retiring from their day jobs, and the Hellions don’t do anything halfway. There’s going to be meat, beer, and enough music to rattle the windows. Caroline’s elbow-deep in a tray of marinating ribs while I chop onions and try not to cry like a rookie.

“You’re getting better at this,” she says.

“At what? Crying?”

She smirks. “Fitting in. Feeling confident in being here with us”

I shrug. “Still feels like playing dress-up most days.”

“You’re not pretending. You’re surviving. And surviving here? That’s as real as it gets. You’re an ol’ lady. You matter, Cambria.”

I nod, wiping my eyes on the back of my wrist. When has anyone told me I matter?

Not my mother.

Not a single teacher in school.

Not Frankie.

No one.

It’s strange how right it feels to be here. Even with the dirt, the violence, the scars that everyone wears like patches of their own. It’s not a fairytale. It’s not clean or kind or easy.

But it’s honest.

And I’ll take honest over fairy dust any day.

Tonight, I’ll wear the black dress Little Foot picked out. I’ll stand beside him with a drink in my hand and a smile on my lips. I’ll be his. Not just in name, not just in story—but in truth. Our truth. Our connection.

Even if the past tries to find me.

Even if the lie we told at the start comes back around.

I’m not running this time.

I’ve got something to fight for now.

And I’ll fight to keep it.

The party starts just after sunset.

The compound lights up like a small town—lanterns strung from trees, bonfires kicking up sparks, grills blazing with slabs of meat that sizzle and spit as the smoke curls into the sky. There’s music, loud and gritty, pulsing through the yard like a heartbeat.

I stand just inside the edge of it all, drink in hand, watching.

Little Foot is standing with Rex and a few of the other officers. He’s laughing, easy and open, all night. When he’s near me, one hand resting on the small of my back every time he shifts. That small gesture—it’s nothing to anyone else, but it anchors me. Tells me I’m not just here by chance. I’m not just part of the background.

I’m his.

And he wants everyone to know it.

Toon spots me and wanders over with a bottle of whiskey and a lopsided grin.

“You clean up nice,” he says, tipping the bottle toward my dress.

He raises his eyebrows, then leans in close. “You know, people were watching at first. Wondering how long you’d last. Lotta bets being placed.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, lifting my drink.

He nods. “But most of ‘em? They’re saying you’re gonna outlast half the club now.”

I snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is around here.”

I sip my drink and let the music roll over me. For the first time since I got on the back of that bike, I let my guard down. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. But breathing doesn’t last long. Not in this world. Not when your past is a shadow with teeth It happens fast—too fast for anyone to catch right away.

A black SUV rolls through the gate.

No one recognizes it.

Not right away.

Rex notices first. His hand moves subtly to his sidearm. A couple of the prospects edge closer to the perimeter. It’s all instinct now—centuries of outlaw tension packed into seconds.

Toon moves in front of me as Little Foot makes his way to me and then moves me behind him.

The SUV door opens.

And my stomach drops through the floor.

Because the man who steps out?

I know him.

Frankie.

He’s wearing clean clothes for once. Fresh shave. Gold chain around his neck. But I’d know those eyes anywhere. Cold. Hungry. Full of venom.

I feel my knees buckle, but I stay standing.

Little Foot tenses.

Frankie’s eyes find me instantly. He grins.

“Well, well,” he says, arms wide like we’re old friends. “Ain’t this a sweet setup. Your momma wasn’t lying this time about how you got yourself tied up good.”

Little Foot’s voice goes low. “You know him?”

I nod, heart in my throat. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

Rex walks up beside us. “Cambria?”

“I didn’t tell him where I was,” I say, panic creeping in. “I swear.”

Frankie laughs. “Baby girl, I got ways. You think you disappear and I don’t follow?”

Rex steps forward. “You’re on private property. You got five seconds to turn around.”

Frankie doesn’t move. “Just came to talk to her.”

“No, you didn’t,” Little Foot growls.

I step forward, even as my hands shake.

“This isn’t your life anymore, Frankie,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “You don’t own me.”

His smile fades. “You think this is gonna last? This little fantasy? You’ll be back in my pocket the second it falls apart.”

“No,” I say. Louder this time. “No, I won’t.” I feel Little Foot behind me, solid as steel. “I wasn’t in your pocket. Momma was and she stayed with you. Why can’t you leave me alone.”

“You need to leave,” Little Foot orders.

Frankie looks at him, then at Rex. Then he laughs. “You think this ends here? This ain’t over.”

But he gets back in the SUV. And he drives away. Just like that. The gate closes behind him with a heavy clang, and the party resumes—muted now.

Changed.

I stand there, shaking, until Little Foot pulls me into him and holds me like he’s trying to keep me from flying apart.

“You did good,” he says into my hair.

“I thought I was past it,” I whisper.

“You are.”

He pulls back, cups my face in his hands. “We’ll deal with him.”

And for the first time, I believe we will.

Together.

I feel like I can’t catch enough air.

Little Foot is watching me, leaning against his bike with that quiet patience he always wears like armor. Not saying anything, not pushing. Just waiting until I’m ready.

There’s so much I want to tell him. About Frankie. Does he know the man is a pimp?

For me, though, I have too many questions. How did Frankie find me? I didn’t even tell my mom where I am exactly. How did Frankie get such a nice car? He’s only ever driven busted up ones that don’t always crank to come see mom.

“It’s not you,” I say instead, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… sometimes it’s heavy. Everything I’ve been through. I don’t always know how to carry it.”

He steps closer, tilts his head until our eyes meet.

“Then let me help carry it,” he says. “Or… forget it. Don’t carry anything at all. Not right now. Just get lost in the night with me.”

My heart flips. That one simple sentence unknots something tight in my chest.

He kisses me then. Not hesitant or careful like before—but like he means it. Like he’s pulling me out of the wreckage of my thoughts and into something real. His lips are warm and certain, his hands framing my face like I’m breakable and strong all at once.

And suddenly, I don’t want to be in my head anymore.

“I want to go home.” I whisper. “To our home.”

We don’t speak on the ride. His hand rests on my thigh, grounding me. The world outside blurs, but in here, in this small space with him, everything sharpens.

The trailer is quiet when we arrive, all soft shadows and the scent of pine from the woods just beyond the porch. I follow him inside like I’m stepping into another life.

He turns to me once the door closes. “Cambria?—”

“I know what I’m doing,” I say before he can ask. “I know what this means.”

His eyes search mine. “I don’t want to be something you regret.

“Never.”

And just like that, the distance between us disappears.

We undress each other slowly, deliberately, like each layer is a secret we’re finally allowed to share. My hands find the hem of his shirt, soft cotton beneath my palms, and I lift it with trembling fingers. He raises his arms, making it easy, his eyes locked on mine, searching for hesitation—finding none. The shirt slips over his head and onto the floor. My breath catches at the sight of him, the way his skin glows gold in the lamplight, the curve of his shoulders, the vulnerability written in the way he lets me see him, just as he is. The way his muscles tense and flex as if he’s holding back while his body is on fire with desire.

He touches my face, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, then trails down the line of my throat. There’s a question in his touch, one I answer by reaching for his belt, undoing it with a patience I didn’t know I possessed. Every click, every whisper of fabric, is a revelation. He helps me, too, unzipping my dress slowly pausing to press a kiss to my shoulder as each patch of skin is revealed. Goosebumps rise on my arms, not from cold, but from the nearness of him, the weight of his attention.

His hands tremble just once, and so do mine. We pause, a nervous laugh escaping me, and he leans in, kissing me, steadying us both. We finish undressing each other with that same sacred slowness, as if we’re afraid to break the spell. I feel exposed, but not naked; his gaze shields me, his hands worship me. For the first time, I feel precious, chosen. Not just wanted, but seen.

He lays me down on the bed, not rushed, not frenzied, but careful, cherished. The sheets are cool beneath me. He brushes my hair away from my face, his fingers gentle, his smile soft. The emotion in his eyes is so intense, so real, that I forget what it’s like to be afraid. For years, my body felt like something borrowed, something I had to hide or defend. But here, with him, I feel safe. I feel like maybe I belong to myself again.

He settles beside me, his body warm and solid, his arm curling under my neck. He kisses me again, slower this time, lingering, as if he wants to memorize the shape of my mouth. His hand drifts over my stomach, my hip, learning the curve of my body like he’s reading a map he’s wanted to study for ages. I arch into his touch, letting myself feel—really feel—every place our skin connects.

He pauses, searching my face again, asking with his eyes if I want this. I nod, too full for words, and he smiles, the kind of smile that makes my heart stutter. I’ve never gone this far with a man, but I’m not scared. Not with him. Because he looks at me like I’m more than my past. Like I’m more than what I’ve lost. His hand settles at my waist, grounding me, and I exhale, letting go of old fears.

He moves over me, his weight gentle, his body fitting to mine like we were always meant to meet like this. His lips travel over my collarbone, down the center of my chest, leaving a trail of warmth and longing. He murmurs my name, the sound of it a prayer, a promise. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him close, anchoring myself to the here and now.

I know about sex. My mom got paid for it more than once and left me to sit in a closet while she did it. The memory flashes behind my eyelids, sharp and ugly. But when he touches me, none of that matters. With him, it’s not about transaction or survival. It’s about connection. It’s about choosing.

I choose him. He chooses me.

When our bodies finally meet, when he moves with me, inside me, it’s not just physical—it’s everything. It’s surrender and trust. It’s healing. His body presses into mine, slow and deep, and I gasp at the feeling, the fullness, the ache that isn’t pain but something softer, something sweeter. He holds me like I’m something sacred, like he’s honored to be here—with me—for this. Every thrust is a promise, every breath a vow.

We move together, finding a rhythm that belongs only to us. The world outside the room dissolves—there is only the hush of our breathing, the quiet urgency of our bodies, the thud of our hearts beating in time. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting all of him. He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot, his voice rough with feeling. “Cambria,” he whispers, as if saying my name can hold us both together.

Pleasure builds inside me, slow and insistent, curling through my body like a flame. I cling to him, letting myself fall, letting myself trust that he will catch me.

He does. His hand finds mine, our fingers lacing together, grounding me. I come apart with him, my body shuddering, my heart breaking open. He follows, groaning my name, burying himself deep as if he could anchor himself in me.

Afterward, I don’t ache. I feel full, complete. We stay tangled in the silence, hearts thudding together, breath slowing. He strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, and I realize I’m crying, but it’s not sadness, not fear. It’s relief. It’s gratitude. I press my face to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He doesn’t pull away. He holds me, his hands gentle, his body curved around mine like a promise. We lie there in the quiet, letting the world come back slowly. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone.

I feel cherished.

I feel whole.

He brushes my hair from my face. “You okay?”

I nod. “More than okay.”

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. “Then don’t go back to the weight. Stay here. With me. Just for tonight.”

I press my lips to his shoulder, close my eyes, and let myself believe—maybe for the first time—that I deserve this.