Page 18

T he clubhouse door swung open. V stepped through first, his blood-stained bat dangling from one hand as he held the door for me to follow. I smiled, small but genuine, and stepped through the doorway. Victoria looked up from behind the bar, her eyes brightening.

"Hey, gorgeous," she grinned before her lips flattened at V." And you. What are you doing here?"

I'd never been to the clubhouse without Nyla or Joslyn before. Leather, whiskey, and cigarettes hung in the air despite Victoria's relentless cleaning. The wooden floorboards gleamed beneath my feet, freshly polished. Shafts of afternoon light filtered through meticulously cleaned windows, catching dust motes that Victoria would likely attack with a vengeance the moment they settled.

The black and white club colors dominated the walls—patches, flags, and photographs of brothers my father had probably defended in court countless times. A massive wooden table dominated one corner, its surface worn but spotless, the wood grain highlighted by years of careful maintenance.

My pulse quickened as I scanned the room, noting exits and shadowed corners—a habit I couldn't shake since that day nine months ago. The day I'd stood trembling as Mitchell and Darrell interrogated Nyla, Joslyn, and I about the Flock. Nine months wasn't nearly enough time to feel comfortable in this world my father had hidden from me for twenty years.

"C-Could I use your kitchen for my orders?" I glanced nervously at V, his figure casting a shadow across the floor, muscles coiled under his leather cut.

Victoria's copper eyebrows shot up. "What happened to yours?"

My eyes flickered involuntarily to V, then back to Victoria. A flush crept up my neck as I gestured vaguely with my hands, unable to find the right words.

The realization dawned on her face, lips forming a silent "oh" as she looked between us. V remained expressionless. She slapped her forehead, copper hair falling across her violet eyes. "I know damn well you didn't try to bake." She shook her head, her eyebrow piercing catching the light. "V, I cook all your meals to prevent you from burning down my clubhouse."

"He can make coffee and tea." I defended him before I could stop the words falling out of my mouth.

Heat rushed to my face as Victoria snickered. "Wonder where he learned how to do that, yeah?"

My skin prickled with awareness. I remembered him watching me make coffee, studying my movements with intense focus, learning how I liked it. How he now made it perfectly each morning, his chest sometimes brushing against my back as he reached around me, his breath warm through his mask against my neck as he handed me the cup in a gesture meant only for me.

"I-Isn't the clubhouse Mitchell's now?" I asked, changing the subject.

Victoria snorted. "He wishes." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I cook. I clean. I keep those assholes from crossing the street without looking both ways because the good Lord knows they would stop in front of a car to pick a fight. I keep this place running, sugar."

V's ringtone— The Vengeful One by Disturbed—cut sharply through the room. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he listened intently to the muffled voice on the other end, gaze sliding briefly to me before hanging up.

"Stay here." He started abruptly toward the back door.

"Where are you going?" My voice came out smaller than intended.

The bat tapped against the floor in a grim rhythm. "Club business."

Her pierced brow arched. "Put that bat in my face again and I'll shove it up your ass." She pushed it down, scowling. "I won't let anything happen to my girls. Go do your psycho shit."

He looked at me one last time before leaving, bat dragging against the floor. The scrape of wood on wood made me shiver. The sound faded as the door slammed behind him.

The cold rush of air filled the space where he'd stood. I leaned toward it, as if the weight of him might still be there.

"Miss him already?" Victoria nudged me with her elbow, skin warm against mine. "You two seem cozier. Anything new happen?"

"N-No!" I swallowed quickly, tongue darting across dry lips, remembering how his hands had explored my body these past few nights, how my bedsheets still carried his scent.

Victoria's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Sure, sugar. Whatever you say." She grabbed a beer from the fridge, mercifully changing the subject. "Law's going to lose his shit when he hears about your kitchen." With a gesture toward the bar area, she added, "This kitchen isn't equipped for baking—but there's a secret one I'll show you."

She motioned for me to follow. The hallway creaked beneath our feet, doors shut tight along either side as Victoria strode ahead, boots steady. Her confidence only made the shadows feel deeper.

"How are you doing?" Victoria asked as we walked.

Our steps echoed past yellowed photographs lining the walls—snapshots of brothers caught in ordinary moments. Tyrant mid-sprint, a furious Sarge chasing after him. Grim and Knight hunched over a motorcycle, grease staining their hands. Laughter caught mid-frame. Arguments frozen in time.

But something felt...off. Spaces where frames should have hung left faint rectangles of cleaner paint behind. Empty nails jutted out. One frame still clung to the wall by a corner, glass shattered into a web of cracks that split Darrell’s face into a dozen fractured pieces.

And V… wasn't in any of them.

"I-I'm f-fine," I lied, the stutter betraying me. Nothing was fine, but I didn't know how to explain the mess my life had become. "A-Are you okay?"

“Why wouldn't I be okay?" Her voice carried an edge that hadn't been there before, defensive and brittle. Her gaze drifted to a photograph on the wall—Darrell standing beside his bike, his features caught in that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. The glass over his face was spiderwebbed with cracks, as though someone had slammed a fist against it but couldn't bring themselves to remove the image entirely. She traced the cracks, slow and distracted, a casual gesture that couldn't hide the tremor in her hand.

Victoria's posture tensed as she pulled her fingers away from the cracked frame. She cleared her throat. "Nyla's more snappy than usual." Her eyes had hardened, violet turning to amethyst. "Grim's riding her harder than ever. Highlight of my day is watching him get his ass handed to him."

Between her father being on the run and his club brothers hunting him, Nyla was drowning in depression. I barely knew Darrell, but his absence had created ripples affecting everyone I cared about—especially Victoria. I'd seen the way she'd looked at him, offering pieces of herself he'd never bothered to collect. His rejection still hung in the air of the clubhouse like a ghost no one acknowledged.

The man you loved telling you he'd already replaced you... I couldn't imagine surviving that.

Victoria hesitated at the door, her fingers lingering on the handle for just a heartbeat too long. When she finally turned the key, the lock released with a soft click that seemed to echo in the stillness.

She pushed the door open and something imperceptible changed in her posture—a slight stiffening of her spine, a tightening around her eyes, as though stepping into a room where grief had been preserved alongside the appliances. As I moved past her, I caught the briefest quiver in her normally steady hands.

The kitchen that greeted me made my breath catch.

It was immaculate. Double oven, gas stovetop with six burners—luxurious compared to my sad little electric stove with its dead coil. The stainless steel gleamed under the lights without a speck of dust. The sharp scent of bleach and vanilla hung in the air, professional-grade and pristine.

"Are you sure I can use it?" I traced the cool edge of the granite, trying to ground myself.

"Yeah." Her violet eyes grew distant, something shadowing her expression. She wrapped her arms around herself, like she was holding something fragile inside. "As long as you clean up after yourself."

"I-I will." Cleaning was essential for any baker. The need for order and precision was bone-deep.

"Everything you need is in the pantry, baking pans on the shelves, and necessities in the fridge." Her voice softened unexpectedly, the change catching me off guard. Her throat worked around something unspoken as she pushed away from the wall abruptly, boots clicking against the tile floor.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, noticing how her gaze kept drifting to a small scorched mark on the counter near the stovetop—the only imperfection in the pristine space.

Victoria's fingertips brushed the burn mark, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Yeah..." Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. She cleared her throat. "This kitchen used to be used a lot." The past tense slipped out before she caught herself, pain flashing in her eyes. She cleared her throat. "It could use some love and care, take care of it, okay?"

She turned away quickly, but not before I glimpsed the sheen of moisture in her eyes. Her shoulders were too straight, too rigid, as she walked away—the careful posture of someone afraid of breaking apart.

She left before I could respond. Her boots echoed down the corridor, leaving me alone in the spotless kitchen.

Something tightened in my chest watching her retreat. With her switchblade and sharp tongue, Victoria always seemed indestructible—a force of nature in combat boots and copper hair. But in this moment, I caught a glimpse of something different in her rigid posture, something I didn't understand but recognized as pain.

I made a mental note to bake her salted coconut cupcakes—Nyla mentioned they were her favorite. A small gesture, but it was all I knew how to do.

My fingers tapped the screen, scrolling to my baking playlist. Beyoncé's voice filled the kitchen as I lined up mixing bowls in neat rows. The oven's digital display blinked as I set it to 350 degrees, its heating elements glowing orange behind the glass. A whiff of warm metal escaped as the temperature climbed.

The mixer whirred. Flour puffed into the air as I measured, leaving a fine dust on my fingertips. I dipped my finger into the chocolate batter, the metallic tang of the bowl mingling with rich cocoa on my tongue. Sugar crystals crunched between my teeth. The balloon whisk clinked against the stainless steel as I folded in flour for the red velvet. Sweat trickled down my spine, dampening my shirt where it stuck to my lower back. The second oven timer chimed as I piped rosettes of buttercream, my hips swaying to the music's rhythm.

Baking had always been my escape—my happy place. But today, my mind kept drifting back to V. To his fingers against my skin, calloused yet gentle. To his breathing growing ragged when I rocked against him. My hands trembled as I mixed the buttercream.

"What the fuck are you doin' in here?"

I jerked mid-breath, the bowl slipping from my numb hands. Crack. Thick chocolate batter splattered across pristine white tiles, splattering my ankles. My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat, a scream trapped behind my teeth as adrenaline flooded my system. I whipped my head toward the doorway, neck muscles tightening with the sudden movement. That voice—I'd heard it before. Not in this room, not like this, but somewhere buried in memory, laced with fear.

In the doorway stood a man I vaguely remembered from the party at Hellbound. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long dark hair that fell in wet-looking waves past his shoulders, framing a weathered face with a thick beard and cold eyes. Hazel irises burned with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Intricate tattoos covered his chest and massive arms—faces and figures writhing across his skin with each movement, like trapped souls. The artwork shifted as muscles rippled with barely contained rage threaded through them. Where the flannel had slipped off one shoulder, I could see how the tattoos continued across his collarbone and down his back—an entire canvas of haunting images.

His massive hands hung taut at his sides that made my stomach clench. Thick veins protruded along his forearms, pulsing visibly with each heartbeat. His knuckles were permanently swollen and discolored, speaking of a brutal past. The careful control in those hands terrified me more than any sudden movement could have—the stillness of something wound too tight, a spring compressed beyond its limit, a grenade with the pin halfway out. I found myself instinctively calculating the distance to the door, wondering if I could reach it before those hands decided to move.

"I'm not going to repeat myself." His voice was cold, each word sharp as a blade.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I knew that voice. Not his name, not his story. But that voice—I'd heard it before. In a hallway thick with blood. In a scream that didn't belong to me. A chill spread through my body as recognition dawned, carrying with it a certainty that made my blood run cold.

Husk.