Page 172 of Hidden

There was one more thing in the envelope.

A folded piece of paper.

I knew it was his before I opened it. Of course I did. Vienna’s presence clung to everything he touched. Even now, even after what I had done, I could almost imagine the warmth of his hands in the crease of the note, the pressure of the pen where he had written too hard.

I unfolded it carefully.

And then I read.

Gabriella,

I don’t know who found a way into your room, and I don’t want to know. I gave it to Dante, and he assured me it would reach you.

Just read this and listen to me for once in your bloody life.

I haven’t retaliated. Not properly. Not in the way everyone expected me to. Crash is holding the club back because I asked him to, and Dante is standing beside me in that. There’s anger, of course there is, but I have not called church on your family for what happened, and I have not told the brothers to ride. That is not weakness, and it sure as fuck isn’t forgiveness for your father. It is me refusing to make this worse for you when I know exactly what men like him do when they feel cornered.

I know what this looks like. I know what you made it look like. But I also know you, Gabriella, and I know what I saw before your father walked in that room. If there is even one part of you left that belongs to me, then you already know I’m telling the truth.

I’m not letting you go.

Read that again if you need to. I am not letting you go.

You can call me every name under the sun, you can stand in front of both clubs and twist the knife until there’s nothing left in my chest but the handle, and I will still not let you go. Not because I want to trap you. Not because I want to own you. But because I know what we are, and I know what you are to me. That didn’t die in that room just because you tried to kill it.

My plans haven’t changed.

If anything, I’m more certain now than I was before. I meant everything I said to you. About us. Aboutleaving. About our baby. About making a life that belonged to us and not our clubs. I meant all of it, and I mean it still. You come to me, and I will take care of the rest. I don’t care if you come tonight, tomorrow, or three months from now with every bridge in flames behind you. Come to me, and I’ll deal with it. We will work through it. We will figure it out. I’m not scared of the mess, Gabriella. I’m only scared of losing you to it.

If you’ve done this because you’re frightened, I understand. If you’ve done it to protect me, I understand that too, even if I hate the way you’ve gone about it. If you’ve done it because you truly mean every word you said to me, then I suppose this letter makes me look like the biggest bastard fool in England. I can live with that. I cannot live with doing nothing.

You once asked me if I would still come for you if the whole world stood in the way. You know my answer to that. It hasn’t changed. Neither have I, no matter what name you use when you say goodbye—Vienna, Luke. I’m yours in all my forms.

All you have to do is come to me.

Luke

I didn’t realise I was crying again until the ink blurred.

A drop landed on the page, then another, and another after that, until I had to lower the letter to the desk because I could no longer see the words properly through the tears. My chest hurt so much I genuinely thought something inside it might be tearing.

He hadn’t retaliated.

That was the line that kept circling my mind, cutting deeper each time it returned.

He should have hated me. He should have dragged the club to war. He should have told Crash everything, told Dante everything, told every Devil in that room to burn my world to the ground the way mine had just burned his.

Instead, he had done the exact opposite.

He had protected me.

Protected me from my father. Protected me from his club. Protected me even now, in the privacy of this room, by refusing to lay the blame at my feet in his letter. He had left me a path back to him so open, so gentle, so painfully unlike anything I deserved, that it made me feel more monstrous than my father ever could.

A sob broke free then, sharp enough to make me fold over the desk, my forehead pressing against the wood as I cried in earnest. The scan picture crumpled beneath my hand. The little silver pram charm dug into my palm so hard I knew it would leave a mark.

He still wanted me.

After everything, he still wanted me.