The secrecy should have felt wrong. Dirty, even. Like we were doing something we needed to hide. But it didn’t.
It feltprecious. Like every moment we stole from the world was something fragile and rare, something that could shatter if we weren’t careful. The fear of discovery, of Shadow finding out, of Kansas asking questions, of Reaper showing up with thatcold, calculating look in his eyes, added weight to every word we spoke, every glance we shared.
It made me pay attention. Made mepresentin a way I hadn’t been since Julie died.
And God help me, I started looking forward to it. Toher.
“Tell me about your brother,” she asked one night, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, steam curling between us.
I leaned back against the booth, my own mug forgotten on the table. “Digger?”
She nodded, her eyes soft and curious in the dim light.
“He’s younger than me by two years,” I said, my words coming easier than I expected. “Total opposite of me in every way. I’m the one who plans, who thinks things through. Digger? He just blows shit up and figures out the details later.”
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Literally?”
“Literally.” I couldn’t help but grin. “He’s the club’s demolition expert. If something needs to come down, a building, a bridge, whatever, Digger’s your guy. He loves it. Gets this look on his face like a kid on Christmas morning every time he sets a charge.”
“And you don’t?”
I shook my head. “I build things. Design them. Ravage and I work construction together when we’re not handling club business. I enjoy seeing something go from blueprints to reality. Digger enjoys watching things turn to rubble.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “But you’re close?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightened slightly. “He’s my brother. Only family I’ve got left besides Aurora.”
“What about your parents?”
Her question hung in the air between us, and I felt the familiar ache settle in my chest. The one that came every time I thought about my mother.
“Mom died when I was twelve,” I said quietly. “Car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light and T-boned her on the driver’s side. She was gone before the ambulance even got there.”
Hope’s expression crumpled, and she reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Chapman, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. “But it fucked us up pretty bad. Me and Digger. We didn’t have any other family. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles. We were about to get shipped off to foster care when Roxy stepped in.”
“Roxy?”
“Roxy Franks. She was my mom’s best friend. Married to Moonshine, the Golden Skulls Tennessee Chapter former president.” I paused, remembering the way Roxy had shown up at the funeral in her leather and boots, her eyes red from crying but her jaw set with determination. “She adopted us. Both of us. Took us into the clubhouse and raised us like we were her own.”
Hope’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, a gentle, grounding touch. “That’s beautiful.”
“It saved our lives,” I said simply. “The club became our family. Roxy and Moonshine became our parents. And Digger and I—we had each other. We had a home.”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “Do you still feel like it’s home? The clubhouse?”
I thought about it. About the tomb and the blood and the weight of the cut on my back. About Aurora sleeping in the nursery while I rode away into the night. About the way the Smoky Mountains looked in the fall when the leaves turned gold and red and the air smelled like wood smoke.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “It’s home. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.”
“Tell me about it,” she whispered. “About Tennessee.”
So I did.
I told her about the Smoky Mountains—how they weren’t like the Wichita’s here in Oklahoma, all low and rolling and covered in scrub. The Smokies werealive. Ancient and towering, their peaks shrouded in mist that gave them their name. I told her about the way the mountains changed with the seasons: spring brought wildflowers and rushing creeks swollen with snowmelt; summer turned everything green and lush, the air thick with humidity and the sound of cicadas; fall painted the ridges in fire, every shade of red and orange and gold she could imagine; winter stripped the trees bare and left the peaks dusted with snow, silent and stark and beautiful.
I told her about the clubhouse. A sprawling compound tucked into the hills outside Knoxville, surrounded by forest and accessible only by a winding gravel road. About the main cabin with its stone fireplace and leather couches, the garage where we worked on bikes, the tomb hidden beneath it all.
