Page 77 of Slaughter
The words echoed in my mind, and I realized with startling clarity that the command didn’t fill me with dread or resentment. It filled me with something else entirely.
Want.
I wanted to marry her. Not because Reaper ordered it. Not because it was the only way to keep my cut and avoid the GoldenLine-Up. But because Hope was mine, and I was hers, and making that official in front of the club felt right in a way nothing else had since Julie died.
The thought should have made me feel guilty. Should have made me feel like I was betraying Julie’s memory.
But it didn’t.
Julie would have wanted this for me. She would have wanted me to find someone who could love me despite the darkness, someone who could stand beside me and not flinch when the truth of what I was came to light.
Hope was that person.
And I’d be damned if I let Ghost or Shadow or anyone else take her from me.
The trip to the Owens Farm was painful. Not because of my injuries, but because my brother Digger and Sandman didn’t give two shits about my injuries.
Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of agony through my broken ribs. Every turn made my head throb. By the time we pulled up in front of the farmhouse, I was gritting my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
The second we pulled up in front of the farmhouse, Sandman took off without a word, his bike roaring to life and disappearing down the gravel drive. I watched him go, envying his ability to just leave.
Digger cut his engine and swung off his bike, stretching his arms over his head like he had just finished a leisurely Sunday ride instead of escorting his half-dead brother across Oklahoma.
“You good?” he asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“Fuck off,” I muttered, trying to swing my leg over the bike without passing out.
The movement pulled at my ribs, and I hissed, freezing halfway through the dismount. Pain radiated through my torso, sharp and vicious, stealing my breath.
“Jesus Christ,” Digger said, shaking his head. “You look like shit, brother.”
“Thanks for the observation.”
“Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure? ‘Cause you’re kinda just... sittin’ there.”
I shot him a glare that would’ve made lesser men back off. Digger just grinned.
“Stubborn asshole,” he muttered, but he didn’t move to help. He knew better. I would rather collapse on the gravel than accept his pity.
It took me three tries, but I finally managed to get off the bike. My legs wobbled beneath me, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might actually fall. But I locked my knees and stayed upright, breathing through the pain.
The front door of the farmhouse opened, and Hope appeared on the porch. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and she was down the steps and across the yard before I could blink.
“Chapman,” she breathed, her hands hovering near my arms like she wanted to touch me but was afraid she would hurt me. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’re not fine. You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing, aren’t I?”
She looked at Digger, her expression somewhere between exasperated and furious. “You just let him ride like this?”
Digger held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I offered to help. He told me to fuck off.”
