The president’s face doesn’t change. But the yard does. People go still in little increments. A cigarette pauses halfway to someone’s mouth. A laugh dies near the porch. The woman with the shotgun lowers it an inch.
Legend’s eyes sharpen. “Why?”
My mouth is dry.
I should answer.
I came all this way. I ran from my husband. I dragged my child through the dark. I let a stranger lead me through iron gates into Hell itself because I needed to say the words out loud to someone who might know if they’re true.
But now that the moment is here, I want to hide.
What if they laugh?
What if they call me a liar?
What if Legendary Mike did know about me and told everyone I was nothing?
What if this man looks at me and sees only trouble?
August shifts in my arms. “Mama, I’m tired.”
That gives me something to hold on to.
I kiss his forehead. “I know.”
Legend looks at him.
For the first time, something moves across his face.
Not softness. Not yet.
Recognition maybe. Not of August himself, but of a child caught in adult wreckage.
A woman comes out behind him, and the whole scene changes again.
She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t ask permission. Petite, polished, and sharp-eyed, with hair that looks expensive and a spine that looks stronger than most men’s tempers. She wears jeans and boots and a simple top, but nothing about her feels simple. She steps beside Legend, not behind him, and slides one hand against his lower back.
Not calming him.
Claiming space beside him.
His woman.
I know that too, though I don’t know how.
Biker queen.
She looks at me, and unlike the men, she doesn’t assess me like a threat.
She sees too much.
That is worse and better at the same time.
“Bring them inside,” she says.
Legend’s gaze cuts to her.
She doesn’t look away from me. “The child is exhausted, she’s been crying, and half the club is staring at her like she’s tonight’s entertainment. Bring them inside.”