Page 28 of Priest

Lila smiles faintly. “Some are.”

Evan leans back, sighing dramatically. “But God. I would love a sexy, dirty biker.”

Lila and I both go still.

“…Evan,” I say carefully.

“What?” he asks innocently. “They dirty talk really well, don’t they?”

Lila snorts, and I lose it. I laugh so hard my sides hurt, tears springing to my eyes. “Stop. Oh my God, stop, I’m going to pee.”

Evan grins, victorious. “You’re welcome.”

Lila wipes her eyes. “Okay, but seriously. You okay?”

I nod, breath finally steadying. “Yeah. I am.” And for the first time in months, I realize I mean it.

Later, after they leave and the apartment is quiet again, I stand in the doorway with my hand on my stomach, feeling the baby shift. A slow, steady roll.

“See?” I whisper. “We’re okay.”

Outside, a motorcycle revs, and my heart jumps, fast and sharp, before I catch myself. It’s just someone passing through. Not him. Never him.

I let out a breath and turn back inside. The past doesn’t get to own me anymore.

Not tonight.

9

Priest

There’s a rhythm to the clubhouse when things are running right, and I know it the same way I know the sound of my own engine.

It sure as hell isn’t calm. It's loud. It’s the scrape of chairs across worn floorboards, the clink of bottles behind the bar, the low thunder of bikes cooling outside after a run. Voices overlap in layers, brothers talking shit, women laughing, kids cutting through the gaps like they own the place because in some ways, they do. To anyone else, it would sound like chaos. To me, it’s a system. Every room has a pulse if you know how to listen.

Maybe that’s why this catches me so fast. Sadie has been striking wrong notes in this room for weeks, and tonight, I finally hear the pattern instead of the noise around it.

Sadie moves through the clubhouse like she’s learned the beat too well.

She moves deeper into the clubhouse now, claiming space with a confidence that feels earned only because I’ve let people think it is. She chooses her seat, catches prospects with a glance, and asks for things like the room already knows to make way.A pregnant widow under club protection earns a certain amount of patience. I gave her that. The club followed my lead.

Now I’m starting to wonder how much room she thinks that gives her.

Across the room, she pauses near the bar, reaches behind it without asking, and grabs a clean rag from the shelf where Max keeps them folded. She wipes a spill off the counter, then turns toward one of the prospects with the kind of easy confidence that makes my shoulders tighten.

“Grab a case of whiskey from the basement,” she says, nodding toward the hall. “We’re getting low behind the bar.”

The prospect nods before he thinks to look anywhere else.

That’s the part that catches. Not the spill. Not the rag. Not even the fact that she gave the order. It’s the way he takes it like she has the right to hand one out.

I don’t correct him. Not with half the room watching and Sadie standing there looking like the picture of harmless help. A man can lose control of a room by grabbing too hard for it. I learned that young. So I stay where I am near the office hall and let my gaze move over the clubhouse like I’m only watching the night breathe.

Still, I note it.

The tally in my head has grown too long to keep pretending every little overstep is harmless.

Sadie glances my way, and the second she catches me looking, her expression changes. Just a fraction. The softness sharpens, then smooths back into place before anyone else could notice. She turns from the bar with that little smile she wears when she thinks she’s handled something well and drifts toward the long table where the women have gathered.