The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 229

Chapter 117-1

That evening

Clam

It’s just past ten in the evening. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretches out in a blurred grid of rain-slicked neon and headlights, shrouded in the heavy fog rolling off the ocean.

Jade and Mayhem left about an hour ago. They didn’t yell, which was almost stranger than if they had. Mayhem had just stood by the kitchen island, looking big and exhausted, waiting for her to finish wiping down her glass before asking if she’d go for a drive with him.

Jade had looked at him for a long, quiet moment, set her towel down, and grabbed her jacket.

Now, it’s just me.

I’m sitting on the far end of the long leather sofa, my knees pulled up under a thick knit blanket, holding a mug of tea that went cold thirty minutes ago. I haven’t turned on any lights. The only illumination in the room comes from the pale glow of the moon off the glass, and the faint amber power light on the wall

unit.

My mind keeps running in circles, retracing the steps of the last twenty-four hours.

I thought the anger would keep me warm all day.

But as the sun went down and the garage cleared out, the raw, ugly truth started picking at the edges of my pride.

I know why Dad drew that line. I grew up under the shadow of the patch; I know how the machinery of the club moves when a threat looms. And deep down, past the stinging humiliation of being spoken to like a child, I know Locke wasn’t trying to diminish me.

He was trying to survive the night.

A sharp, chime-like ping echoes through the foyer.

My heart gives a violent, involuntary jump against my ribs. I freeze, staring at the polished steel doors of the private elevator as they slide open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

Locke steps out.

He’s still wearing his leather cut over a heavy gray hoodie, his dark hair damp from the snow outside. He looks completely spent. The shadows under his eyes are dark and bruised, his jaw stubbled with a day’s worth of dark growth. He carries the heavy, shifting smell of cold wet leather, exhaust, and metallic sleet into the warm apartment.

He stops the second he sees me sitting in the dim light. His boots make a quiet, heavy sound against the hardwood as he takes two steps forward, then pauses, his hand hovering over the back of the armchair.

For five agonizing seconds, neither of us says a word. The space between us feels thick, charged, and fragile, like stretched glass ready to shatter.

“Zara,” he says. His voice is low, rough, and gravelly, sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Hey, baby.”

12

Chapter 11

Hey, I say quietly. I don’t move from the sofa, but I lower my legs, letting the blanket slip down to my

waist.

Clam

He stands there, looking at me, his eyes scanning my face with a careful, guarded intensity. He doesn’t come any closer, and he doesn’t take his cut off. He just stands on the edge of the living room, looking like a man who isn’t sure if he’s still welcome in his own home.

‘Mayhem and Jade went out,” I offer, breaking the heavy stillness before it smothers us both. “About an hour ago.”

“Yeah,” Locke says. “Mayhem texted me. Said they were taking the long way around the bypass.” He shifts his weight, his large hands resting heavily on the back of the chair. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

‘I tried,” I admit, staring down at my cold tea. “Couldn’t close my eyes.”

Locke lets out a long, heavy breath that blows out his cheeks. He finally moves, taking off his cut, pulling it off his shoulders, and draping it carefully over the back of the entryway bench. He looks smaller without the leather: still massive, still broad enough to fill the hallway, but stripped of the iron armor he wears for the club.

He walks over to the sofa, his movements slow and stiff, like every muscle in his back is locked tight. He doesn’t sit right next to me. He sits on the opposite end, leaving two cushions of space between us, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at his boots.

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