Page 54 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

T he Harley's engine rumbled through my thighs, a familiar vibration that had become as comforting as Gabe's heartbeat.

My arms wrapped tight around his waist, fingers locked together over the hard plane of his stomach, feeling each breath he took through leather and muscle.

The air bit at any exposed skin, making me grateful for the helmet even as it muffled the world to a rushing whisper.

We'd been riding for nearly an hour, cutting through roads I didn't recognize.

The trees blurred past in streaks of gold and rust, October showing off before winter stripped everything bare.

Every curve brought a subtle shift in temperature—warm where the dying sun still touched the asphalt, cool in the shadows of overhanging branches.

I pressed closer to Gabe's back, stealing his heat through his cut.

He hadn't told me where we were going. Just showed up after my shift at the clinic, helped me onto the bike with hands that lingered on my waist, and said, "Bring something warm. We've got a stop to make."

That was it. No explanation, no hints. Just that steady certainty in his voice that made questions unnecessary.

Six months ago, I would have panicked at the not knowing.

Would have needed itineraries and exits and backup plans.

But that was before. Before I learned that Wings's silences weren't threats but thoughts taking shape.

Before I understood that mystery could mean care instead of control.

The bike leaned into another curve, and I leaned with it, body moving in sync with his. We'd found this rhythm weeks ago—the way to breathe together through turns, how to shift weight without words. My chest pressed against the patches on his back, feeling the raised embroidery through my jacket.

The sun hung low now, painting everything in that particular light that made ordinary things look blessed. Through the helmet's visor, I watched the landscape change from suburban sprawl to something wilder. Fewer houses, more trees.

The Harley slowed, engine dropping from roar to rumble.

Gabe's hand dropped briefly to my knee—our signal for "attention, something's changing.

" I straightened, looking past his shoulder as he turned onto a dirt road I hadn't even seen.

No signs, no markers. Just a gap in the trees that looked like every other gap until you were right on top of it.

The dirt road wound upward, narrow enough that branches scraped the air above us.

The bike moved slower here, picking through ruts and roots with careful precision.

Pine smell overwhelmed everything else, sharp and clean in my nose.

The temperature dropped another few degrees, making me grateful for the warm jacket he'd reminded me to bring.

My heart kicked up, but not from fear. Anticipation, maybe. Curiosity. Whatever this was, wherever we were going, it mattered. I could feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the careful way he navigated each turn. This wasn't a casual ride to clear our heads. This was purposeful.

The trees opened up suddenly, revealing a small clearing.

Gabe killed the engine, and the silence hit like a physical thing.

No traffic, no machinery, no human noise at all.

Just birds settling for the night and wind moving through pine needles.

He kicked the stand down, steadied the bike, then helped me off with hands that lingered on my waist again.

"Okay?" he asked, pulling off his helmet. His hair stuck up in spikes, making him look younger despite the serious set of his mouth.

"Yeah." I removed my own helmet, shaking out hair that had gone flat and staticky. "Where are we?"

But he was already taking my hand, lacing our fingers together with that careful possessiveness that still made my stomach flutter. "Come on. Want to show you something."

A narrow trail led from where we'd parked, barely wide enough for one person.

Gabe went first, keeping hold of my hand, helping me over roots and rocks.

The path wasn't long—maybe fifty yards—but it felt like crossing into somewhere else entirely.

The temperature, the quality of light, even the sound of our breathing seemed different.

The trail opened into another clearing, this one obviously maintained.

Low wooden benches formed a rough circle around a central point.

Candles in weather-worn glass jars sat at various points, some fresh, some burned down to nothing.

And at the center, a wooden post worn smooth by weather and hands.

No names, no dates. Just a pair of wings carved deep into the grain.

"Gabe?" My voice came out whispered, like speaking normal would break something.

He squeezed my hand once before letting go, moving to a box I hadn't noticed tucked beside one of the benches. Inside were candles—simple white votives—and a lighter. He selected one, lit it with movements gone ritualistic with practice, then offered it to me.

"Here," he said softly. "We'll need this."

We settled onto the nearest bench, the weathered wood cold even through my jeans.

Gabe's thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm, grounding me in the strange sanctity of this place.

The candle flickered in my hands, throwing shadows that danced with the ones cast by the other flames scattered throughout the clearing.

"This is where we come," Gabe said quietly, his voice carrying that particular weight that meant he was sharing something sacred. "The Heavy Kings. When we lose someone. When we need to remember."

His hand found mine, fingers threading through in that way that had become second nature. I shifted the candle to my other hand, careful not to disturb the flame, so I could hold him properly.

"Lost brothers," I said, understanding washing over me as I took in the carved wings, the careful arrangement of benches, the mix of old and new candles. "This is your memorial."

"Yeah." He squeezed my hand. "Not official, nothing marked on any map. Just . . . ours. A place to sit with it when sitting with it is all you can do."

The wind picked up, making all the candles dance in their jars. Some went out, leaving thin streams of smoke curling upward. Others held steady, stubborn against the October chill. Like the men they represented, maybe. Some gone quick, some holding on through everything.

"We're here for Alex," I said. Not a question. I knew it in my bones, felt it in the careful way Gabe had brought me here, the weight of the unspoken that had ridden with us all the way from town.

He nodded, thumb stroking over my knuckles. "Been thinking about it for weeks. Wanting to . . . I don't know. Mark it somehow. That he's gone."

"He hasn't called." The words came out steadier than I expected. "Hasn't written, hasn't tried to make contact at all. Not once in four months."

"He's doing what he promised," Gabe replied, voice careful like he was testing each word before letting it free. "Staying gone. Starting over. Being dead to us."

Being dead to us. Such a strange phrase.

Alex was out there somewhere, breathing and walking and maybe even getting clean.

But to us, to this life, he might as well be in the ground.

The brother Gabe had grown up with, the man who'd claimed to love me while destroying everything he touched, the person who’d scarred me forever—that person was gone.

"I still think about him." The admission felt like letting out a breath I'd been holding for months. "Not the way I used to, not with fear. Just . . . I think about how bad it got. How twisted he became. How close it came to . . ."

I couldn't finish. Didn't need to. The wind said the rest, carrying smoke and pine needles and all the words for disasters that almost were. Gabe's hand tightened on mine, and I knew he was seeing it too.

"I do too," Gabe admitted, the words pulled from somewhere deep. "Think about him, I mean. Wonder if he made it to wherever he was going. If he's using the money to get clean or just . . . using."

"Does it matter?" I asked, then immediately felt cruel for it.

"No." His answer came quick, certain. "No, it doesn't. He made his choice. We made ours. What matters is that he's gone and we're here."

We sat in silence for a moment, watching our candle flame fight the wind.

Around us, other flames flickered in their jars —each one someone's grief made visible, someone's loss given light.

I wondered about their stories. Motorcycle accidents, probably.

Maybe cancer. Violence. All the ways men who lived hard could die too soon.

"I don't hate him anymore," Gabe said suddenly. "Thought I would forever. Thought that kind of anger was permanent, you know? Like a tattoo. But somewhere in the last few months, it just . . . faded."

"When?" I asked, genuinely curious. "When did you notice?"

He considered this, face thoughtful in the candlelight. "Maybe when I stopped checking for his bike in parking lots. Or when I could say his name without my jaw clenching. Or . . ." He turned to look at me fully. "Or when I realized I was grateful."

"Grateful?" That surprised me.

"He brought you to me." Simple words that hit like a punch. "Not on purpose, and not in any way that excuses what he did. But if he hadn't been who he was, if things hadn't gone how they went, you wouldn't be with me now."

Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked hard, not wanting to cry, not here in this sacred space where stronger people than me had grieved deeper losses.

"That's fucked up," I said, voice thick.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But true things usually are. Honestly, almost everything is."

"I think I forgive him." The words surprised me coming out, but once they were in the air, I knew they were true. "Not for what he did. Never for that. But for being lost. For being sick. For being so broken that breaking others felt like breathing."

"Yeah?" Gabe's voice held no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah." I watched wax pool at the base of our candle, tiny lakes forming and reforming. "Holding onto that anger was like carrying him with me everywhere. And I'm tired of carrying him. He's heavy."

"He always was," Gabe said softly. "Even as kids. Always needed more attention, more validation, more everything. Like there was this hole in him that nothing could fill."

"Addiction's like that," I said, thinking of all the times I'd tried to pour love into Alex's emptiness. "It makes you a black hole. Everything gets sucked in and crushed down and still it's never enough."

"I forgive him too." Gabe's words fell into the space between us like stones into still water. "For the stealing, the threats, for trying to destroy what we have. I forgive him for being weak."

We sat like that for a long while, not needing to speak, not needing to move.

The candle burned steady in my hands, wax dripping onto my fingers in hot little reminders that some pain was just sensation, nothing more.

In the distance, a hawk cried once—sharp and wild and free.

The trees swayed in agreement, pine needles whispering secrets to the wind.

A tear escaped despite my efforts, rolling down my cheek before I could catch it. I wiped it with my jacket sleeve, the rough fabric scratching against skin gone sensitive with emotion.

"It's strange," I said finally. "How grief makes space when you let it. Like it carves out rooms in your chest you didn't know were there."

Gabe kissed my temple then. His lips were warm against my cold skin, a blessing and a recognition both.

"You made space for him," he said against my hair. "Even when he was trying to destroy you. That's more grace than he earned."

"Maybe that's what forgiveness is," I said. "Not earned. Just given."

"Now we get to fill it," he said, and I knew he meant the space grief had carved. "With better things. Prettier things. Things that don't hurt to hold."

The candle flame guttered, then steadied. Around us, the memorial held its quiet vigil—all these loves and losses gathered in one clearing, marked by wings that could have meant angels or airplanes or just the dream of flight. All of it holy. All of it human.

The walk back came eventually, though neither of us had moved to make it happen.

The candle had burned down to almost nothing in my hands, wax pooling warm against my palms before Gabe finally stood, pulling me up with him.

My legs had gone stiff from sitting, pins and needles shooting through my feet as blood flow returned.

"Ready?" he asked, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. “To say bye?”

"Yeah." But I wasn't, not really. Leaving felt like closing a book I'd just discovered, one with pages I might need to read again.

The trail crunched beneath our boots, pine needles softening each step like nature's carpet. The temperature had dropped while we sat. I pulled my jacket tighter, grateful again that Gabe had known I'd need it. He always knew what I'd need before I did.

As we reached the edge of the clearing, something made me turn back. Maybe it was the wind shifting, or the way the remaining candles threw light against the trees. Or maybe it was just that feeling you get when you know you're leaving something important behind.

The memorial looked different from this angle. Smaller, somehow. More human. All those goodbyes, all those unfinished conversations, all those loves that death couldn't quite sever. Our candle still burned among the others, the one we'd placed for Alex joining the constellation of losses.

"Can we come back here?" The question emerged without planning, raw with need I hadn't known was there.

Gabe stopped beside me, following my gaze back to the clearing. "Whenever you want."

"Even if it's not for . . ." I gestured vaguely at the memorial, not sure how to articulate what I meant. Not for death. Not for loss. Maybe just for the quiet, or the way grief felt manageable when you could see it reflected in candle flames.

"Whenever you want," he repeated, and I heard the promise in it. This place would be ours now too. Part of our geography, our shared map of meaningful spaces.

We made it back to the bike without more words. The Harley waited patient as a horse, chrome catching the last hints of daylight.

And ahead of us, nothing but open road. Miles of it, stretching toward a horizon we couldn't see but trusted was there. Home. Together. The engine sang its mechanical hymn, and I pressed closer to Gabe's back, and we rode on through the darkness, carrying our own light.