Page 29 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Zeppelin

T he door clicked shut behind her, and the silence came down like a goddamn hammer.

No voices in the hall. No music leaking through the walls. Just the sound of my own breathing, too loud, too ragged, and the thud of my heart like it was trying to break its way out of my chest.

She’d been right here. On my bed. In my shower. Trusting me with her body, letting me shave her, letting me taste her. She looked at me like I was worth something. Like I was more than the asshole who limps around pretending he’s whole. And then she said it.

You should be careful. That sounds dangerously close to attachment.

It wasn’t even an insult. She was joking, running her smart mouth like she always does.

But it hit me square in the chest, right where the wound is still raw and gaping.

Because the truth is, she’s already in there.

She’s under my skin, in my head, tangled in my ribcage like barbed wire, and I don’t know how the fuck to rip her out without bleeding to death.

The worst part wasn’t her leaving. It was the look on her face before she walked out.

Confusion first, then hurt. She wanted to understand, wanted me to explain, and I froze her out like a coward.

Turned into a fucking statue while she stood there begging me with her eyes—to give her something. Anything.

I gave her nothing.

And now she thinks I don’t want her.

That’s the totally fucked-up part. I do want her. I want her in ways I didn’t know I could want anyone. But how do I admit that when she’s carrying my brother’s kid?

Jack.

Jesus. Just thinking his name rips something open inside me.

He’s been gone weeks, but the wound’s still as fresh as if it was yesterday.

My twin. My other half. The guy who knew me without me ever saying a word.

And now I’m standing here, wanting the one woman who should be off-limits more than anyone on this earth.

It’s not even about sex anymore. If it was, I could keep it casual, keep it simple, the way she wants. But somewhere along the line, I crossed that line. Without even meaning to. Without realizing it until she said attachment and I felt my chest cave in because she was right.

I’m attached.

And it’s not casual.

Not for me.

When I was a kid, people used to ask if being a twin was like having a built-in best friend.

The truth is, it was more like having a mirror.

Whatever I was feeling, Jack was too, even if we didn’t say it out loud.

We didn’t always get along—hell, we fought more than anyone—but there was never a doubt that he was mine and I was his.

Now he’s gone, and I keep reaching for that reflection and finding nothing but empty air. The silence of it kills me.

And Ginny… she’s the closest thing I’ve felt to that connection since Jack died.

Not because she was my brother’s, just that whatever it was he saw in her, I do too.

She doesn’t even know it, but when she looks at me with those sharp eyes, like she sees straight through the armor, it feels like being known again.

Like being seen. And that terrifies me more than anything.

Because if I let myself lean into that, I’m betraying Jack.

The club’s got a ride coming up in three days. A long haul to the East Coast, out through mountains and plains, the kind of ride that burns through fuel and time and whatever bullshit you’re carrying in your chest.

Part of me is dreading it. Being on the road without Jack beside me feels wrong, like a song missing its harmony. We used to ride like two halves of the same machine. Engines synced. Tires chewing the same asphalt. It was us against the world.

Now it’ll just be me, and the silence inside my head will be deafening.

But maybe that’s what I need?

The road doesn’t lie. The road doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t care about grief or love or all the shit I’m too cowardly to say. It just takes whatever you throw at it and gives you space to bleed it out.

I don’t know if I’ll come back with answers, but maybe I’ll come back with less noise in my head.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling as if it holds all the solutions. The sheets are damp from the shower and from her body, and I can still see her stretched out here, her head thrown back, her mouth parted. I can still hear the way she said my name when she was close.

It should be enough.

It should be more than enough.

But it isn’t.

Because I don’t just want her body. I want her mornings and her nights, her laughter and her bad moods, her smart mouth and her soft silences. I want the baby she’s carrying to know me. I want to stand in her kitchen and fix her broken porch and hold her when the sickness gets too bad.

I want a life.

And that terrifies me more than death.

When I come back, I’ll figure out how to face her. Maybe I’ll apologize. Maybe I’ll tell her the truth—that I’m already too far gone to play casual.

Or maybe I’ll bury it all deeper and keep playing the asshole until she forgets about me. God, even thinking that makes my chest ache.

For now, all I’ve got is the road ahead. The open sky, the roar of engines, and the faint hope that somewhere between here and there, I’ll find a way to live with this impossible truth.

That I’m already hers.

And it’s gonna wreck me.