I was a mess. He was the one in the hospital. He was the one on morphine and dealing with a brain injury. Yet he consoled me. He was once again the strongest, giving me sanctuary, holding me while I came apart.
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “I c-can’t. I just n-need—”
I couldn’t do it any longer.
For so long, I’d pretended to cope. I’d painted on a mask and acted out the highs and lows of life. But I’d been dead inside. I’d missed more than just my memories. I’d missed this.
This wealth of emotion.
This undying affection.
This unswerving connection.
I’d been so alone. So afraid. And now … I was home.
A sob ripped itself from my soul, opening the floodgates of my tears. For eight long years, I’d never let myself come undone. I’d never undone the tight corset around my feelings to purge and heal. For eight years, I’d fought away sadness as if it was a plague trying to kill me. I couldn’t fall apart because I had no one to glue me back together again.
But here … in a hospital, in my soul mate’s arms, in a country I’d left behind, I jumped off the precipice I’d always clung to and fell.
I fell into sadness.
I fell into happiness.
I fell into love all over again.
And he caught me.
Arthur never stopped murmuring, his croaky voice the best chorus for my shattering psyche.
Tears streaming, I snuggled into him, inhaling the scent of him smothered with medicine. “You’re a-alive.” More tears. More sobs. “Thank G-God, you’re alive.”
He flinched as I kissed his brow, his eyes, his lips.
I wanted to kiss every inch, imbed myself into his every pore so he could never carve me out.
“Life and death don’t mean shit to us, Buttercup. My love for you makes us immortal.” His arm tightened, wrapping fiercely. “I get it. I get your pain.” His kissed my eyelids. “Just let go, baby. Let me catch you.”
More tears poured. I never knew I had so much liquid pain inside me. It all evicted, torrential waterfalls, unable to stop.
Time ticked past but I wasn’t aware.
The door opened and closed but I didn’t notice.
All I cared about was Arthur, his warmth, and his ever-steady heartbeat.
For a while, all I could do was hang in his embrace and sob.
I cried for everything.
For the past.
The present.
For good and evil.
And when I finally cried my last tear, I found completion. Every splintered piece realigned and for the first time since fire licked my skin and cast me from my world, I felt whole.
No more missing pieces. No more holey memories.
Exactly who I should be.
His.
My breathing slowly evened out, my hiccups fading in tune with the heart rate monitor.
Arthur settled into the single mattress, kissing my cheek. “Come here.”
Kicking off my shoes, I climbed into the narrow bed beside him. Tugging me, he helped smuggle me into the sleepy heat of his bed. The heavy thud-thud of his heartbeat soothed me and I relaxed for the first time in years.
“Are we okay?” he whispered finally.
I nodded, rubbing my cheek on his chest. “Better than okay.”
Smiling shyly, embarrassed from my breakdown, I looked into his eyes.
The green glowed with something I hadn’t seen before.
Contentedness.
Gone was the harsh glow that never left. Gone was the rigid hatred in his limbs. He was free—just like I was. Healed and whole, truly living in the moment, not the past or future.
I sucked in a shaky breath. My eyes stung from crying and I wanted nothing more than to drift into a heavy sleep in his arms. But he’d given me safety to heal; I would do the same for him. “You found closure.”
He nodded, the bandages around his head brushing against his pillow. “I did.”
The promise I’d made not to ask what Pure Corruption did faded. I was happy he’d found peace, but at what cost? Would he be able to live with whatever occurred last night?
I looked away. “What happened?”
The words scattered around us like a jury waiting for a verdict. He tensed but his face etched with righteousness. “I did what had to be done.”
I nodded, tracing a crease in the bedding. He murdered them. I didn’t know how to be happy for someone’s healing at the cost of another’s demise—even if they deserved it.
When I didn’t reply, anger decorated his features. “I ended it.”
My heart spasmed. “You killed them.”
Never looking away, not looking contrite or guilty or regretful, he nodded. “I did.”
“Both Rubix and Asus?”
His good hand fisted on the sheets. “I delivered penance for the crimes they committed. Both of them.”
I sucked in a breath, stroking the starched bedding. Part of me was horrified to be in love with a man who could steal a life with such precision, but the other part of me was proud. Proud of him for sticking up for himself. For finally putting this nightmare behind him.
Arthur’s eyes locked onto mine. “My vengeance is complete, Buttercup.”
I shuddered at the cold finality in his voice.
His lips softened. “Don’t ask any more questions. What’s done is done. And I’m glad it’s done. But I don’t want to talk about it. Do you understand?”
I understood. Whatever had happened last night had been harrowing and gruesome. I didn’t want that knowledge tainting my thoughts. I didn’t want to know what he’d done or the scars he would bear because of it.
I hung my head. “I understand.”
Arthur breathed out heavily. “Thank you.”
“I’m just glad you’ve found peace after all these years.”
Taking my hand, Arthur smiled—a true smile—with no residue of past pain or suffering. My heart skipped as he kissed the back of my knuckles, gathering me close. “Life is going to be so much happier from now on, Cleo.”
I smiled, melting into his embrace. “As long as we’re together, life couldn’t be better.”
A few minutes passed with only the beeps and humming as conversation. Finally, Arthur murmured, “The past is dealt with. And soon the future will be, too.” He kissed my head, muscles relaxing as he drifted with painkillers and sleep. “Stay with me …”
I nodded. “Always.”
It didn’t take long for him to stray into slumber. I didn’t chase him into dreams. I lay awake for ages, hoping, fearing, praying that our future would be better than our past.
Last night had been one of the longest nights of my life. But it was finally over. Arthur was back where he belonged. He’d finally found peace instead of revenge.
We’d paid our toll.
Lived through sacrifice.
Life could be great again.
After everything we’d lived through, we deserved to be happy.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kill
I couldn’t remember the last time I smiled.
Death surrounded me in the form of rapists and murderers and thieves.
Life inside prison didn’t reform me; it just made me more determined to find justice. Every day inside the festering cesspool reminded me that when I got out, something had to change.
And I would be the one to do it. —Kill, age nineteen
Life changed.
Not only was the world no longer polluted with my kin, but I also had to take a step back from the Club.
For twelve days, I remained chained to a bed inside a motherfucking hospital. Every hour, I badgered doctors to give me honest to God statistics on how damaged I truly was. Every day, Cleo would spend as much time with me as possible, keeping my mind distracted from the awful thought of losing who I’d been. And every other day, I submitted to rehabilitation therapy—making sure my basic accomplishments were still intact.
; While I was healing, Grasshopper became more than just my friend and VP; he stepped into his upcoming role with ease. We’d both known this day would happen … I just hoped I wouldn’t be a fucking invalid to celebrate it. He became a valuable second in command, and with me out of action, he postponed the interviews I’d had planned, kept Samson in the loop, and ferried funds where they needed to go. He kept Pure Corruption in order, ensured the books tallied and our turf remained protected.
Most of the day-to-day running he already knew, but occasionally I’d get a phone call asking my input on certain disputes or queries. He was no longer my helper but my equal and did his best to provide leadership as well as companionship for those who’d lost Beetle and Mo.
Wallstreet was almost out. It was time.
On the tenth night of being locked in an uncomfortable bed, Hopper came to visit.
I looked up from the So You Think You’re a Genius book, fuming and fucking pissed that simple equations that’d been so easy once upon a time were still giving me grief.
Beneath my fear, I did acknowledge that every day the sludge inside my brain crystalized. I was getting better. But I didn’t want to jinx myself. I wouldn’t admit it out loud—I couldn’t—not until I was back to full speed.
“You all good, dude?” Hopper came forward, his cut slung over his arm out of respect for terrified patients.
We shook hands. “Better.”
“Sweet. That’s great news.” Patrolling my box of a room, he rubbed the back of his nape. “So … I did what you asked. Clubhouse is sorted, funerals ready to go, and paperwork in order.”
I sat higher in my pillows. “We always knew this would happen. I’m still fine with it. You?”
He didn’t meet my eyes. “Honestly, not really.”
The past few years, I’d wondered how I’d react when it came time to honor my final vow to Wallstreet. I loved my Club. I’d devoted every waking moment turning it into a family. The men and women who served beneath me had given me something to fight for while I thought I’d lost Cleo.
They’d been my home.
But now I had another home and it didn’t hurt me to move.
I growled under my breath. “This was always the deal. Wallstreet made me promise.”
And I’d made Wallstreet promise in return. I’d had my own conditions when agreeing to his terms. This conclusion was a joint agreement—something benefiting both of us.
Pointing at him, I narrowed my eyes. “He made you promise. You, me, and Mo knew from day one that this was the plan.”
Hopper stomped forward, his mohawk catching the spotlights around my bed. “Just ’cause it was planned, doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”
Funny, it does to me. Always knowing this was my fate had given me structure and guidelines I needed.
I chuckled. “You’ll be fine. You’re more than capable.” Closing my eyes, I visualized my upcoming future. I’d been both dreading and looking forward to this, but now all I felt was freedom. Complete freedom—a fresh start. “I’ll be fine, too. It’s the best thing … for all of us.”
“Go head, Killian.”
I looked up, squinting in the high noon Florida sunshine at the sprawling highway before me.
The concrete shimmered with heat waves, slick with tire tracks and gasoline. Out here was our Church. The roads were our sermons. The wind our vespers. There was no better resting place for one of our brothers.
Nodding at Grasshopper and the row of Pure Corruption behind me, I took the urn and tucked the remains of Mo into my chest.
The past three weeks had been a marathon of healing, saying goodbye, and attending funerals.
Beetle had been first. His send-off was a heart-tugging affair as we all paid our respects and laid to rest a loyal member. He’d chosen to be buried out of state with his twin sister who’d died when she was young. Together, we drove in a snaking entourage to say goodbye to the youngest and most promising prospect. He had no family left to compensate or to speak his praises, so we donated his income from serving the Pures to a local research fund dealing with infant deaths.
The last and absolute hardest was Mo.
The only surviving relative was his father who’d been estranged from his son for decades. He refused to come to the funeral.
Tristan “Mo” Morgan, the man who’d put me through my paces when I first arrived, who kept his secrets close, and never truly lost the bastard veneer, was sent off with our engines roaring and plumes of smoke sending his soul to heaven.
It hurt to think of him gone. I didn’t realize what he meant to me until the moment he’d died in Grasshopper’s arms. I wished I could do more for him. A bigger send-off. A more soul-healing goodbye.
But this was what he’d wanted.
No fuss. No tears.
Along with being a secretive prick, he’d also been organized. A will had been lodged with our in-house lawyer, along with instructions for his cremation, and his businesses had been divided between the members he bequeathed them to.
He didn’t want to be eaten by fucking worms in a dark pit beneath the ground.
He wanted to ride the roads for eternity.
After dedicating his life to the MC, the least I could do was honor his last request. My own needs didn’t matter.
I’ll always have your back, man.
I’ll see you on the other side.
The urn was heavy in my grip. With the cast still on my left arm, I couldn’t open the lid. Glancing at Cleo who stood beside me looking fucking gorgeous in jeans and her jacket, I raised an eyebrow in request.
The past few weeks had brought us closer together. We were never apart. Never angry. The pain in my head had gone—replaced by incessant itching from the stitches in my skull as I healed from surgery.
Every day I completed the tasks set by doctors to ensure my healing continued uninterrupted. And every day I improved.
The doctors said I’d been a miracle. My IQ was on the rise, my intelligence returning at a rapid pace. I didn’t believe in miracles, but I did believe in Cleo. It was all thanks to her.
I’d found her again. I’d had no intention of dying.
The endless compulsion I’d lived with all my life finally tempered. I still needed more. I still needed to fix and improve and create but for now … I was content. Happy.
Her small fingers latched around the lid, unscrewing it, and she took a step back. With a smile of gratitude, I held up the urn and faced my brothers.
“Mo was one of us. He’ll always be one of us. His motorbike is now the wind. The road is now his home. God speed.”
The members murmured their final goodbyes. Other eulogies had already been said at the local watering hole where Mo had wanted his brothers to have one last drink in his honor—he’d even picked up the tab, the crazy bastard.
“Happy trails, brother.” I turned downwind and dumped the contents of Mo’s earthly remains. The cloud of grey dust took flight, weightless and translucent, spreading quickly with the breeze.
No one spoke as Mo disappeared into the air.
He would become a legend. He would forever be a Pure.
Cleo came closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. “The end of an era.”
I smiled; her words couldn’t have been more perfect. “The end of war.”
With the breeze in my hair and my woman in my arms, I was finally able to let go and just be.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cleo
I’d always hoped life would pay me back for the pain it’d caused.
Every day with no memory, I’d begged life to be gentle.
Every month with no recollection, I’d pleaded for salvation.
And every year with no epiphany, I’d prayed to be worthy.
My hope had finally paid off. I was whole again. I’d found him again. And life was now complete. —Cleo, last week
Two things happened a fortnight after Mo’s funeral.
Both proved that life moved swiftly and all I could do wa
s hold on, be by Arthur’s side, and never let go.
The first was a newspaper article.
I didn’t normally read newspapers, but while waiting in the hospital foyer while Arthur had his cast removed, I picked it up out of boredom.
Flicking through the black and white pages, I yawned and glazed over. But then a photo wrenched me to a halt.
There we were.
Arthur and me at the cocktail party at Samson’s house.
Beneath the image—taken without my knowledge—was a short but poignant article.
Local motorcycle club president Arthur Killian has recently moved up the ranks from fringes of society to corruption-exposing businessman. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen him in the media, but it is the first he’s been spotted with a woman. Taken at Senator Samson’s house, it’s been reported that both Killian and Samson are behind the recent commercial and radio bulletins with leaks about the latest spying incident from our government. They both claim that the world is falling into anarchy with the men and women in charge unable to rule such a vastly changed economy. They state that the laws being created aren’t to our benefit, and it’s up to us, the people who chose this governing power, to take action and fight for truth and justice.
“Ah, you’ve seen it then.”
My eyes wrenched up, locking onto Arthur. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. The cast that’d been scribbled over by Pure Corruption had gone and the shaved patch on his skull was no longer white against the shaggy length of dark hair—growing back with short bristles, hiding the injury that could’ve killed him.
“You knew about this?”
He smiled, perching beside me on another chair. “It’s not like I’m hiding them from you, Buttercup. The campaign has been going on for weeks now.” He chuckled. “I can’t help it if you don’t watch television or read the paper.”
My heart raced. After I’d learned his long-term goals with Samson, we hadn’t discussed it in great detail. After all, he’d gone to war, come back injured, and our life turned toward healing and supporting our Club rather than discussing world revolutions.
But now it was all I could think about.
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