“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I do.”
Stella’s smirk softened into something that almost looked like approval. “Good. She deserves someone who’ll fight for her. And you deserve someone who’ll fight for you.”
Before I could respond, Hope returned with a steaming mug of tea. She set it on the side table Digger had just moved, then perched on the edge of the couch beside me.
“Careful,” she said, wrapping my hands around the mug. “It’s hot.”
I took a sip, the warmth spreading through my chest and easing some of the lingering chill from the ride. The chamomile tea was sweet, with a hint of something floral. Jasmine, I realized, and the scent of it brought back memories of the pond, of her skin beneath my hands, of the way she had whispered my name in the darkness.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice rough.
She smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from my forehead. “You’re welcome.”
For a moment, the room fell quiet. Stella and Faith exchanged a look. Digger stood near the doorway, watching us with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Charity and Joy hovered near the kitchen, whispering to each other.
And then the front door slammed open.
Ghost walked through, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He took one look at me laid out on the couch, at Hope sitting beside me with her hand still resting on my arm, and his entire body went rigid.
His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. And his eyes, dark and furious, locked onto mine.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Ghost growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Hope stood, placing herself between me and her brother. “He’s hurt, Balthazar. He needs to rest.”
“I don’t give a fuck what he needs.” Ghost’s gaze didn’t leave mine. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“I want him here,” Hope said firmly. “And this is my home. Not yours.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, I saw something crack in his expression. Pain. Betrayal. Anger. He shook his head, his jaw working like he was trying to hold back words that would only make things worse. Then he turned on his heel and stormed toward the kitchen, shouting for Faith.
“Faith! Get your ass in here! We need to talk!”
Faith sighed, shot me an apologetic look, and followed him into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind them, but I could still hear Ghost’s raised voice, muffled but unmistakable.
Hope sank back down onto the couch beside me, her shoulders tense. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “He’s just—”
“Protective,” I finished. “I get it.”
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “Are you okay?”
I wanted to tell her I was fine. That Ghost’s anger didn’t bother me. That I could handle whatever her brothers threw at me.
But the truth was, I was exhausted. My body hurt. My head throbbed. And the weight of everything Reaper had told me—the war, the conspiracy, the danger closing in on all of us—pressed down on me like a physical thing.
“I will be,” I said instead.
She took my hand, her fingers lacing through mine. “We’ll figure this out, Chapman. Together.”
I squeezed her hand gently, careful not to hurt her. “Yeah. We will.”
Because I had to marry her. Not just to legitimize the lie I told Reaper. Not just to keep my cut and avoid the Golden Line-Up.
But because she was mine.
And I would be damned if I let anyone, not Ghost, Shadow, or the entire fucking MC world, take her from me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight