Page 8

M emories had a way of turning into mockery when held against present pain. Last month's girls' night burned cruelly in my mind—Victoria behind the bar, copper hair catching warmth from the Edison bulbs as she poured signature mocktails. Faith had claimed the coffee table as her stage, each movement a celebration of being alive. Nyla's laughter had filled every corner, pure and unguarded.

Now, stepping into that same space felt like entering a mausoleum where joy had come to die.

Victoria's bar stood abandoned, dusty bottles preserving memories we couldn't afford to revisit. Crystal glasses once bright with laughter now sat dull and empty, reflecting only what we'd lost. Even the air felt different—heavier, as if betrayal had become a physical presence we all had to breathe around.

The TV remained off—no romantic comedy providing the usual backdrop of predictable happy endings. That empty screen stared back at us like a black mirror, reflecting the emptiness back at us. Victoria's candles burned low, the sweet scent overtaken by bitter abandonment.

Usually, girls' night was our sanctuary—a few precious hours where we could pretend the MC world couldn't touch us. We'd drink mocktails and confidence, shared stories that made the others gasp or giggle, and for a little while, forgot about our troubles.

But tonight, that carefully constructed illusion had cracked, too fragile to survive tonight, leaving behind only sharp edges that drew blood when touched.

Victoria stared straight through us, focused somewhere past everything visible. Her movements carried barely contained fury—or maybe grief. It was hard to tell the difference anymore in our world. Nyla sat staring unblinkingly at family photos that now felt like evidence of crimes we couldn't name. Joslyn sat beside her, fingers steady as they worked through Nyla's brown locks with practiced care.

I'd never asked where Joslyn learned to be so calm in the aftermath of ruin—but sometimes, watching her move like this, it felt like she'd survived the kind of pain that made you good at holding broken things together. The repetitive motion seemed to settle them both—Joslyn's need to soothe meeting Nyla's need not to fall apart.

Joslyn was happier these days with Sarge–being able to hear with her new cochlear implants. But Nyla looked more miserable than I’ve ever seen her.

The door burst open with enough force to make us all flinch. In walked Faith, her new hair swinging with the same reckless edge she always carried as she barged in. Her usual bright smile faltered as she saw our faces.

"I heard we were having a party." She lowered the bag in her hand. "But it looks more like you're planning a funeral."

Victoria stared blankly at her. "Why are you here?"

"Knight told me." Her fingers drummed against the glass. "Said you girls might need backup tonight."

Libby's scowl deepened, her silver wedding band catching the light as she twisted it—a habit that spoke of ghosts she couldn't quite lay to rest. "You shouldn't even be here. You're not involved with or related to a brother."

"Knight's far enough up my ass to see out of my mouth." Faith didn't flinch. "So much so that even their fuckin' enemies have shown up threatening me at my salon. I'd say I have every right to be included, whether I like it or not, sweet cheeks."

The tension crackled between them like a live wire seeking ground. I pressed myself deeper into the couch cushions. My fingers twisted the fabric anxiously in my grasp.

Even here, with women carrying the same damage, I couldn't stop thinking about him. V slipped into my mind like he always did—quiet, wrong, constant. Even when he wasn't here, he was.

"How're you doing?" Libby angled closer to Nyla, tension easing from her shoulders, the usual razor edges dulled by something that might have been recognition. The leather couch creaked beneath her as she shifted closer, and Nyla's fingers tightened around her necklace—the silver band hanging from a delicate chain, the only thing Darrell had given her before he'd put her up for adoption.

"I don't understand why he left me again." Each word seemed to tear from Nyla's throat like something living, something bleeding. She twisted the metallic strand tighter, knuckles white—links straining like her father's promises. "He promised. He promised he wouldn't..."

She glanced at me, "Was I not enough?"

The words lingered heavily in the air. Victoria moved across our circle, her usual facade cracking with each step. Her bare feet made no sound against the plush carpet as she knelt before Nyla, close enough to catch her if she fell but not quite touching. The distance between them felt like watching someone approach a wounded animal—careful, so careful, because sometimes comfort hurt more than the original wound.

"Sweet girl, look at me."

But Nyla's gaze remained fixed on the family photos lining Victoria's walls—moments trapped in a time when she'd still been someone's daughter, when trust hadn't been a weapon used to gut her from the inside out. Her stare caught the lamplight but offered nothing back. She twisted the chain in her grip, red marks already blooming where metal met the delicate skin of her neck.

"Your father..." Something in that pause made Nyla's head snap up. Her chest hitched with a breath that sounded like breaking glass. "He's been running from something long before any of us knew him. Sometimes people run for so long, they forget how to stay."

Nyla's breath hitched, eyes glassy. "Did he ever love me?" Victoria's lips parted, but no words came—truth choking the silence. Her face drained of color so quickly I could almost hear her pulse stutter, could see the moment her body betrayed what her mind couldn't contain. "I just found him."

The delicate necklace snapped.

Metal scattered across the hardwood, tears halted mid-descent, each tiny link rolling away. Nyla stared at the broken chain in her palm, and something in her expression made my chest cave in. It was the look of someone watching the last light drain from a wound that wouldn't close. "You shredded his cut? Why?"

Victoria didn't look away as she explained softly, "So you wouldn't have to watch your husband do it."

"Mitchell wouldn't–"

"He had to if he wanted to be seen as a leader." She reached out, softly rubbing her hand over Nyla's hair. "You girls don't understand what the club life hides from you."

"I can't—" The words choked off as she pressed her free hand to her mouth. Her throat worked visibly against rising bile, against screams that would rupture windows if she let them loose. "I can't breathe?—"

She bolted for the bathroom, bare feet silent against the plush carpet until they hit the tile with a sound like bones snapping. The door slammed hard enough to rattle photos in their frames. The first retch echoed through thin walls, followed by a sob that sounded like it was being torn from somewhere vital.

Joslyn half-rose, mother-hen instincts taking over, but Victoria's hand on her arm stopped her. "Give her a minute." The words carried weight earned from countless nights holding back hair, wiping mascara tracks, piecing someone back together after they'd shattered. Through the bathroom door, water ran. More retching. The hollow thud of knees hitting tile. Each heave punctuated by sobs from somewhere deeper than organs—where daughters store faith in fathers who vanish.

One silver link rolled to a stop against Victoria's bare foot, and I watched something shift, violet eyes full of guilt.

"I need to—" She blinked fast, like she could push the words back down. Rain lashed against the windows, each drop an accusation against the glass. "There's something you all need to know."

Another sob tore through the walls, the sound of Nyla's heart shattering into pieces too small to ever find again. Victoria flinched like each cry was a physical blow, her fingers curling into fists against her thighs until her knuckles went white.

"Shouldn't we—" Joslyn gestured toward the bathroom, where the weight of what she carried made the air harder to breathe.

"Go." Victoria's command came out rough, like the word had scraped her throat raw on its way up. "She shouldn't be alone."

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Joslyn, leaving us suspended in that terrible pause that felt like the moment before a killing shot. Victoria stared down the silver links like they owed her the truth, each piece reflecting lamplight. When she finally spoke, the words fell heavy with confessions long overdue.

"Darrell and I were hooking up."

The confession dropped like a stone into still water. Thunder cracked outside, as if the sky itself was responding to her words. Her words hit me slowly, meaning dripping in like poison, connecting dots that had been there all along: the way she'd avoid saying his name, how her hands would tremble when someone mentioned the leather that once marked him, the careful distance she'd maintained that now looked less like indifference and more like someone trying not to bleed in public.

Faith's blue eyes opened wide with shock. "Since when?"

"The night he found out about Nyla..." Victoria's laugh came out hollow, a sound like bones splintering. "He showed up at my door in the rain. Said he needed..." She faltered, trapped somewhere between confession and condemnation. Through the bathroom door, we could hear Joslyn's gentle murmurs mixing with Nyla's quieting sobs. "I knew better. God, I knew better. But with Darrell..." Her fingers pressed against her lips like she could hold back the truth, but it spilled out anyway. "I never could resist him."

Lightning lit the windows, casting harsh light across Victoria's face. Each flash showed a different facet of her pain—the woman behind the club, the lover behind the lies, the heart that had been unraveling, and none of us noticed.

"Jesus, Vic." Faith moved across the room with unusual grace, settling beside Victoria. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Victoria's laugh cracked open. "Tell you what? That I let him in every time he showed up at my door? That I knew better—" She stopped, hands unsteady. "I knew better, but I did it anyway. He never loved me—I was just easy."

"Some men have that effect," Libby said quietly, turning her wedding ring restlessly. "They make you believe this time will be different."

She twisted the silver band. I didn't know much about Libby, only what everyone knew: she'd been married once, until her husband ended his life.

Her gaze settled on Victoria's trembling hands with a quiet understanding. "At least you get to hate him," Libby murmured. Victoria's head snapped up sharply. "At least he's still breathing."

"They never really leave," Victoria said softly. "Not completely."

Everything about Libby—the way she held herself, how she wielded words—revealed a woman who'd turned her tragedy into a weapon sharp enough to survive with.

Victoria reached out, stilling Libby's restless movement. Libby's other hand gently gripped Victoria's arm in silent solidarity, promising she wouldn't carry the burden alone.

"Love doesn't chain them—only us," Libby said quietly.

For a moment, neither of them breathed—two women who'd loved men who chose different paths, different ways of turning love into wreckage. The tempest raged outside like something wounded, while inside, we witnessed something rare: Libby allowing someone to touch the defenses she never let down.

I still felt like the new girl—watching how close Victoria and Libby were. I wondered if there would ever be a moment I didn't feel like an observer. Like I'd belonged here too. My dad was the club's lawyer for over a decade, but I’ve only been around for eight months.

Victoria's hands shivered as she pressed them flat against her thighs, like she could iron out the weakness in her bones. "I thought..." She swallowed hard, throat working against the truth that tasted like copper. "I thought if I loved him enough, if I just..." Another crack of thunder swallowed her words, but we heard them anyway: if I just loved him better than anyone else had.

"It's okay," Faith whispered, all her usual bravado stripped away to reveal something softer underneath. "We've all loved men who left scars we still lie about."

Through the bathroom door, Nyla's crying had quieted to hiccups with Joslyn’s smoothing hushes. The sound seemed to reach into Victoria, dragging out what she'd kept buried.

"I hate him," she whispered, "I hate him so much I can't breathe with it. But if he walked through that door right now..." Her hands fisted in her lap.

"You'd let him in," I finished softly, understanding too well how someone could become both poison and antidote. My fingers found the hem of my shirt, twisting fabric as I thought of different kinds of possession, of dark eyes behind surgical masks that claimed without asking.

Victoria's head snapped up, violet eyes swimming with tears she hadn't let fall in front of anyone until now. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you." Faith was gentle with her words. "Love's just another kind of violence."

The air hung thick after Victoria's confession. Faith bounced her leg against the carpet, that familiar restless energy that made her practically vibrate with the need to move, to escape, to turn pain into something that burned less. Joslyn walked out of the hallway, emerald eyes dim and red as she used the heel of her hand to wipe the corner.

The room was drowning, and Faith—ever the chaos-bringer—did what she always did when she saw us sinking: she lit a match.

"Jesus, if we keep this up, we'll need group therapy." Her new toffee-brown hair swung wild as she dug through her oversized purse – the one that had started more bar fights than we could count. "Lucky for you sad bitches, I came prepared."

She took out a flat wooden board with the kind of flourish she usually reserved for revealing new hair colors to her Instagram followers. The Ouija board letters carved like unanswered questions.

"Ta-da!" Faith's grin carried that manic edge that made Knight orbit her like a dying star. The board caught lamplight like a blade as she set it on Victoria's coffee table, each letter a door waiting to be opened.

"A Ouija board?" Victoria rolled her eyes. Libby didn't even flinch—just stared the way you only do with someone who'd saved your life and stolen your eyeliner. "What are we, thirteen?"

"Oh, please, like you've got a better idea?" Faith collapsed onto the couch dramatically. She gestured toward the untouched mocktail pitcher she'd brought earlier, condensation beading on the glass like tears. "Unless you want to keep sharing our feelings until we all die of misery?"

"If this thing spells out V's name, I'm setting it on fire," Victoria grumbled.

That made me wonder, what was V's real name? Every one of the brothers had a moniker–Grim was Mitchell and Sarge was Darin.

Faith's grip on the planchette was too tight. The Ouija board's letters seemed to writhe in the dim light. She looked over at Joslyn, who quietly gathered the scattered links of Nyla's broken necklace. "Come play with me, Jos?"

She looked down at the remnants of the necklace before giving Faith an uneasy smile, "Sure."

The bathroom door creaked open, and Nyla emerged, her skin pale under the hallway lights as she wiped the corner of her mouth. "What are you doing?"

"Communicating with ghosts," Joslyn grinned, patting the space beside her. Nyla shook her head, heading toward the empty space next to Libby on the couch.

"No thanks," Nyla mumbled, her voice still hoarse. "I talk to my demons enough."

Libby raised her mocktail, ice cubes clinking against the glass. "Amen."

"Are you here with us?" Faith leaned in once Joslyn settled on the other side of her, fingers holding the planchette lightly.

The wooden pointer glided across the board, smooth as silk, settling decisively on 'YES'. The candlelight flickered, sending shadows dancing across the worn letters. Faith's grin widened as she leaned forward, her toffee-colored hair catching copper highlights in the dim light. "You want to have some fun with us, oh wise spirit?"

Again, the planchette moved, this time spelling out 'NO'. Nyla's nervous laughter broke the tension, and even Libby's lips twitched. Faith's mock sneer was interrupted by Joslyn's disappointed pout. "Even the ghosts don't want anything to do with us."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound came from below, each knock precise and deliberate. Our screams pierced the air, mixing with the sudden scrape of chairs against hardwood as we scrambled closer together. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Or maybe they do," Joslyn squeaked, using Faith as a human shield. Her fingers dug into the taller woman's shoulders, leaving white crescents in their wake.

"Do you guys hear that?" Faith's whisper held more excitement than fear, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. She turned back to the board, "Let's try?—"

The planchette flew across the room, courtesy of Victoria's throw, splitting against the wall with a sharp crack that made us all jump. "You're not trying anything else."

Thud.

Everyone glanced up, but the sound hadn't come from the room.

Knock. Knock.

"What was that?" Faith's head snapped toward the noise, her brown hair swung sharply.

"Faith, I swear to God if you summoned a fuckin' demon inside my house," Victoria shouted at her.

"Me?" Her smile carried that wild edge that made men lose sleep and sanity. "I would never."

Libby stood from the couch, removing a cushion. She bent forward, pulling a gun out. "Sounds like it's coming from the basement."

Faith pouted, "Got one for me?"

"You know how to use one?" Libby mocked.

"No. What does pulling on that trigger do?" The sarcasm in Faith's voice could have cut steel.

"Well," Victoria's voice carried that particular blend of exasperation and resignation, "Guess we're doing this tonight." She jerked her head toward the wall. "Behind the picture, code is zero seven two six."

"That's Dad's birthday," Nyla pointed out.

Victoria's shoulders tensed, but her voice remained steady. "That's not important right now. Stay behind us."

Weapons drawn, we moved toward the basement door. Victoria led the way, flicking on the light switch before starting down the stairs. The tapping grew more insistent. The stairs creaked beneath Victoria, each step sinking deeper into breathing darkness. Faith followed, both women moving with the kind of grace that came from dancing with danger. Their gun barrels caught what little light filtered down from above.

We reached the bottom step, the tapping loud as we looked for the source.

And there in the center of the gritty stone floor sat V.

His massive frame seemed to absorb what little light reached him, turning familiar shadows into something ancient and hungry. Those black eyes, void of any emotion, lazily tracked Victoria and Faith's movements as they shouted at him. The bat never stopped its persistent strikes against concrete.

"V! What the fuck are you doing in my basement?" Victoria snapped.

His eyes were already locked on me. "Oakley."

"Why are you here for Oakley?" Victoria challenged, but V's bat maintained its steady beat.

"Protect her."

"Protect her from what?" Faith spat. "We were just having a girls' night. She's safe."

V's bat maintained its dull knock against the concrete instead of a verbal response.

"I can handle my own better than you assholes ever could." Victoria’s violet eyes narrowed in warning.

"Protect her." His voice dropped lower. The single overhead bulb flickered, casting phantoms of light across his mask. Fresh stains looked black in this light, like his brutality had found new ways to mark his territory.

"You don't need to be here. She can protect herself and she has us." Faith's finger tightened on the trigger. "Happy? Now leave."

"No."

That single syllable electrified the air. Heartbeat thudding painfully as memories of Hellbound flashed through my mind—the way he'd carried me, how gentle his touch had been despite who he was.

My father's words echoed. The club needs a monster.

But watching V now, seeing how his attention remained fixed on me despite the guns aimed at his head, I wondered if 'monster' was too simple a word. Monsters were mindless, all fang and fury. V was something else entirely. Something that thought, that chose, that wanted.

And what he wanted, inexplicably, was me.

"V," Victoria's authority never wavered as she stepped closer, "Get the fuck out of my house."

He cocked his head. "Make me."

Two words that froze the basement air. Faith cocked her weapon calmly. "Bodybag it is."

V unfolded from his position with lethal grace, his massive frame seeming to expand until he filled every shadow in the basement. Victoria and Faith didn't flinch, didn't retreat an inch. Their guns remained steady.

Behind them, Libby's wedding ring caught light as she shifted into a shooter's stance, adding another barrel to the standoff. Even Nyla stood her ground, Joslyn's blanket still draped around her shoulders like armor as she positioned herself between V and her gentle friend. Only Joslyn showed any outward sign of fear, but she didn't run—just pressed closer to Nyla, refusing to leave her side.

I pressed myself against the wall, trying to disappear into the concrete as my knees threatened to buckle. The contrast between my terror and their united defiance burned like shame in my throat. These women who'd survived their own monsters, who faced their own demons without blinking—and here I was, coming apart at the seams from the sheer weight of his presence.

I backed away, my eyes dropping to the floor where his bat had made a macabre of dark droplets. My hands fluttered as I wrung them together, my teeth finding my bottom lip. Blood touched my tongue; V's fingers twitched on his bat.

"You don't protect her by scaring her half to death," Victoria told him.

Something inside me snapped. I spun around and bolted up the basement stairs, a storm brewing beneath my skin. My lungs forgot how to function. My vision tunneled. I couldn't tell if I was running toward safety or away from something inside me. Shouts erupted behind me, but they were drowned out by the rushing in my ears and the heavy footfalls I knew would follow.

My fingers fumbled with the front door lock, panic making me clumsy. When I finally wrenched it open, the cool night air hit my face. I raced across Victoria's front lawn, the wet grass cold against my bare feet as the rain soaked the ground.

My car sat in the driveway, but even as I reached for the door handle, missing it twice with shaking hands, I knew. I could feel it—that shift in the air, the way the shadows seemed to deepen and move. An awareness slithered up my spine.

The overhead light in my car flickered once before dying completely.

A massive hand appeared next to my head, pressing flat against my car window. His heat radiated against my back, overwhelming and intoxicating. He appeared silently behind me, large and impossibly quiet. The scent of copper mixed with ash made my head spin.

"Oakley." My name rumbled from his chest, so close I could feel the vibration against my back. "Look at me."

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of my car window. Run. Collapse. I didn't know which would break me faster. The baseball bat struck once against my car, leaving a dark smear on the sky blue paint.

"P-Please," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what I was begging for. "I-I need to go home."

His other hand came up to my face, turning me around with a touch that contradicted the blood on his clothes. My back met the cold metal of the car door, breath caught halfway between need and escape. Even through his mask, those black eyes burned into mine.

His calloused thumb traced my bottom lip where I'd bitten it, "You're hurting yourself."

My heartbeat jumped underneath his touch. He was too close, devouring every inch of air between us until nothing else existed. I could hear shouting from Victoria's house, but it seemed distant, unimportant.

"I-I'm fine," I managed, but my weak voice betrayed me. "You don't need to protect me."

"Mine." His thumb dragged across my lip, smearing my blood like a brand. "To protect." He let the bat strike once more against the door. "Get in."

I slipped into my car, keys trembling between my fingers. Through the windshield, I watched the girls spill onto the porch with worried faces, weapons still in hand.

V's shadow fell across me as he moved toward his bike, each step deliberate and heavy against wet asphalt. The engine roared to life.

My reflection stared back at me from the rearview mirror. His headlight cut through the rain.

I started the engine, feeling the vibration hum through my bones, knowing with perfect certainty that wherever I drove tonight, those black eyes would never be far behind.