“You all know my daughter, Naomi,” Atlas continues, gesturing towards his daughter, who is now standing near the platform. She steps forward, a smirk on her face. “She grew up in the club. And for years, she’s been proving herself valuable to our organization with her… technical skills.”
There’s knowing laughter from the crowd. I’ve gathered enough from snippets of conversation over the past few years to know that “technical skills” likely refers to something not entirely legal.
“Tonight,” Atlas says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “we’re making history. The Devil’s Rejects was founded as a brotherhood. But times change, and smart organizations adapt.”
I notice some of the older brothers exchanging glances, their expressions unreadable.
“Naomi has earned her place among us,” Atlas continues. “As a full member of the Devil’s Rejects.”
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd. I straighten up, surprised. I hadn’t realized women could be full members of the club. From the reactions of those around me, it seems like this isn’t a common occurrence.
“And who better to present her with her cut,” Atlas says, “than the man who knows better than anyone that she can be depended on in a fight, my second-in-command, Viper.”
My stomach does a strange little flip as Roman steps forward. I have no idea what Atlas means by “knows better than anyone that she can be depended on in a fight.” Not for the first time, I wish I knew more about my husband’s life in the MC.
Atlas hands Roman a leather cut, identical to the ones worn by the male members, with the Devil’s Reject patch prominently displayed on the back. Roman holds it with reverence before turning to face Naomi.
“Tech,” he says, using what must be her road name, “you’ve earned this. You’ve proven your loyalty, your skill, and your dedication to this club. You understand what it means to put the patch first, to live by our code.”
His voice carries clearly across the now-silent room. There’s pride in his tone, a warmth I rarely hear him express publicly. It makes my chest tighten to hear it directed at someone else.
“Once you put this on,” Roman continues, “you’re one of us completely. Your brothers will die for you, and you for them. There’s no halfway, no turning back. Are you ready for that?”
“Born ready, Viper,” Naomi replies, her voice steady and confident.
Roman nods, then helps her slip on the cut. When she turns around to face the crowd, the Devil’s Rejects patch gleaming on her back, a roar goes up from the assembled members.
Looking around, I realize several of the brothers aren’t celebrating. They are simply clapping politely, their expressions strained.
The music comes back on, louder than before, and people surge forward to congratulate Naomi. Drinks flow freely, and the celebration kicks into a higher gear. Roman is surrounded by his brothers, accepting backslaps and congratulations as if he were the one being honored. Naomi remains at his side, basking in her new status, occasionally shooting glances my way that I can’t quite interpret.
Suddenly desperate to leave this place, I start to make my way to my husband, but the crush of the crowd prevents me from reaching him. As I try to push through, I can see Roman and Naomi laughing together at their own private joke.
The distance between Roman and me suddenly feels like miles instead of yards. This is the compromise I made to be with him. I come to these events; I try to fit in, and I wait patiently until we can go home to our real life. The one where I don’t feel like an intruder in my own husband’s world.
2
Chapter 2
Kayla
Roman should probably take note; I am not in the mood to be anyone’s fucking sunshine this morning.
Cracking the eggs into the bowl, I stir them with probably a little more force than is necessary. The whisk clinks angrily against the ceramic as I beat the mixture, my mind replaying last night’s party in vivid detail. Naomi’s smirk. The other women literally turning their backs to me. Roman laughing with Naomi, like they shared some private joke that I’d never be allowed in on.
My hands are shaking just enough to be annoying as I melt a knob of butter in the skillet, the sizzle the only sound in the otherwise quiet kitchen. Outside, the sun is coming up gold and clear, lighting the frost on the grass and the last of the summerflowers. It’s all so bright and cheerful that it makes me want to scream.
I pour the batter in a little too fast, making three uneven ovals that ooze together. Just like my thoughts keep congealing into a messy, ugly mass. I’m still stuck in the same cycle I was in when we got home last night: (1) I hate that I care, (2) Naomi’s a bitch, (3) Roman let me down, (4) I hate that I care. Repeat ad nauseam.
The stairs creak, and then Roman appears, bare-chested, hair sticking up in wild black tufts, the dark scruff of his beard shadowing the sharp line of his jaw. He’s always so unfairly beautiful in the mornings. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose.
He pauses at the foot of the stairs, watching me. I know he’s watching because I can feel the heat of it, prickling along my skin. He doesn’t say anything right away, just takes in the kitchen with the table set for two.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still raspy from sleep.
“Hey,” I say, not turning around. Instead, I slide the spatula under the pancakes and flip them.
Roman’s bare feet make barely any sound as he crosses to me. He bends and kisses my neck, slow and deliberate. “You making me breakfast, sunshine?”