Page 13

Chapter 13

Mira

The cemetery is peaceful as I wind through the neat rows of headstones. I know the path by heart—not that I visit often. My parents died when I was a toddler, and I was too young to remember them, but sometimes I imagine I can recall the sound of my mother's laugh or the warmth of my father's hugs. Lately, I’ve been coming here when I really need to talk—to get something off my chest or to contemplate my problems.

My lip quivers as I sink to my knees on the damp grass. My parents' share a headstone. It’s simple, unadorned. No angels or fancy epitaphs, just their names and dates. I stare at it for a long minute before I begin my confession.

“Mom and Dad, I’m so tired." And then the words spill out, all my fears and insecurities flowing like a river. "I met someone. Someone amazing. He makes me feel safe and cherished and...worthy. But I found out today just how broken and damaged my body is. Fixing me will cost so much. Too much. If I stay with him—if he even wants me to stay—I’ll only be a burden like I’ve been to everyone all my life. I can’t bear to be a burden—not to him."

Tears blur my vision as I trace their names with trembling fingers. "The other women at the clubhouse, they're all so beautiful and strong and sassy. And I'm...plain, sick Mira with second-hand clothes and failing heart."

A sob catches in my throat. "He wants me to be his ol’ lady. That’s what bikers call their significant other. But he doesn't know what he's getting into with me. Ghost deserves better than a broken woman who can't even afford to keep herself alive. I think I love him," I confess to the silent grave. "And that's why I can't tell him.”

The thought of seeing disdain—or even worse, pity—replace that fierce tenderness in his eyes, makes me want to wretch.

“I’m tired of this life," I whisper to the silent stone. "I'm tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of being a burden to everyone who enters my orbit. Maybe...maybe it would be better if I just..."

I can't finish the thought. Can't voice the dark possibility that's been growing in my mind since the doctor's office. That maybe it would be kinder to everyone—to Ghost especially—if I just…bow out gracefully. Let nature take its course.

"I wish you were here," I tell my parents' headstone. "I wish I knew if you'd be proud of me, or disappointed in what I've become. I wish..."

By the time I push myself to my feet, my legs are numb from kneeling so long, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I make my way back to the truck, where Rash has been waiting patiently, trying to look like he hasn't been watching me from a distance, but I don’t miss his concerned eyes. "Ready to head back?"

I nod, unable to trust my voice. As we pull away from the cemetery, I take one last look at my parents' gravesite. A final goodbye? Maybe. I don't know anymore.

By the time we pull into the clubhouse compound, I’m smiling, pretending everything's fine while worry gnaws at me.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost collide with Big-Boobed Blonde—the club girl who seems to hate me for some reason—as I enter.

"Well, if it isn't little Miss Pity Party, Ghost's charity case," she sneers, looking me up and down. “Just get back from dumpster diving?"

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the devastating news from the doctor, or maybe I'm just tired of being life’s punching bag, but suddenly I can't take it anymore.

"What exactly is your problem with me?" I demand, squaring my shoulders. My voice comes out stronger than I expect, fueled by years of pent-up frustration.

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Clearly, she expected me to cower like before.

"My problem?" She laughs, but there's an edge to her voice and a frighteningly hard look in her eyes. “You are my problem. Look at you in those pathetic second-hand clothes, with that cheap haircut. You come in here like a drowned street rat and he looks at you like you’re a supermodel. Well your time here is numbered, bitch. There’s no way you’re anything more to Ghost than a pet project."

A couple of the other club girls hanging nearby shift uncomfortably. The redhead looks like she might come forward to back up her blonde cohort, but then her gaze lands on something over my shoulder, her eyes widen, and instead she steps back.

"You know what I think?" I lean my body forward, channeling every ounce of shame and anger I've ever swallowed. "I think you're pissed that Ghost treats me like a person, not just another piece of clubhouse furniture."

Her face contorts with rage. "You little fucking?—”

"Is there a problem here?" Ghost's deep voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

The blonde’s demeanor changes instantly—because of course it does. Her expression morphs into one of wounded innocence. "Oh, Ghost, baby, I was trying to be friendly and welcoming, but she attacked me out of nowhere!" Her lower lip trembles theatrically.

Ghost's steel-gray eyes move between us, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he takes my elbow and guides me upstairs to his room. Once inside, he fixes me with an irate stare.

"Has this happened before?"

His intense gaze flusters me and for a second, I’m unable to coherently form words. “I…it’s…she…”

“Answer the question, angel. Has she done this to you before?”

It’s then that I realize that Ghost may be pissed—livid, actually—but not at me. I hesitate, not wanting to cause trouble. “It’s nothing I can't handle."

"That's not what I asked." His voice carries a dangerous edge. "Tell me the truth, angel. Has Krystal been harassing you?"

I shrug and study the floor. “I don't want to be a troublemaker.” "Look at me." He waits until I meet his gaze. "Either you tell me what's been going on, or I go down there and toss every single club whore out on her ass right now."

"What?" I blink in shock. "But...they live here. You'd really kick them all out?"

"In a heartbeat." There's no hesitation in his voice.

I let out a slow breath. “She…she made fun of my clothes and shoes and…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s not a big deal. I can’t really afford to be fashionable and I’ve dealt with mean girls like her all my life.”

“What else,” he demands, his face a stony mask.

“Um…I was wearing your shirt and…” my face heats and I wish I could backtrack and not finish the sentence, but there’s no way Ghost will let me get out of this. “She told me all of the women here have worn that shirt, that I’m nothing special.”

To my surprise, he throws back his head and barks a laugh. “First, angel, not only are you special, you are the only woman who has ever worn one of my shirts, and the only woman who ever will.”

My eyes widen at that confession, but he’s not done.

“Second." He pulls out a credit card and holds it out to me. "I haven’t had a chance to give you this, but now is as good a time as any. I want you to go shopping. Buy whatever you want—clothes, shoes, jewelry, whatever makes you feel good. No limit."

I stare at the black card like it might bite me. "Ghost, I can't?—"

"You can and you will." His tone brooks no argument. "But you don't leave the compound without at least two prospects guarding you. Things are...heating up and I need to know you're safe."

The card feels heavy in my hand, weighted with implications I'm not ready to face. Here he is, offering me the world, while I’m planning to leave before I become an even bigger nuisance.

“And lastly, if you ever get into another altercation and don't tell me about it, I'll turn that pretty ass of yours red."

Heat floods my cheeks at his words, and a shiver that has nothing to do with fear runs down my spine. Ghost notices, his lips curving into a knowing smirk.

“Now,” he pulls me close, “tell me how the doctor’s appointment went.”

Oh, great. Here we go.

"Fine," I lie, hating myself for it. "Just preliminary stuff like I thought. Information gathering."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze. If he sees the truth, well, I can’t bare to watch the passion in his eyes turn to irritation and annoyance when he realizes I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Or worse—the desire could turn to pity. I couldn’t bear that.

As he holds me, I memorize everything about this moment—the strength of his arms, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek, his spicy leather scent.

I love him. I’m in love with a big, bad, biker who treats me like I'm precious. And that's exactly why I have to leave. It will hurt—God, it will hurt worse than anything, but I have to let him go before I become an anchor that drags him down with me.

I can do this. I can be strong one last time.

For him.