The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 305

Chapter 149-2

“You look like a tattooed broomstick, Riff,” Bear grunts, elbowing him in the ribs. “Zara needs a real man. Someone who can lift a transmission without complaining about his tower back.”

“Hey! My back is fine!” Riff protests, splashing gravy onto his shirt.

The banter bounces around the long table like gunfire, fast, and loud, and completely uncorrected. It’s a language born of shared danger, long miles on rain-slicked asphalt, and a fierce, unspoken loyalty that binds every single person in this room together.

I sit between Jade and Tucker, eating slow bites of pork and cornbread, listening to Stitch argue with Byte about whether the garage security cameras were properly grounded, while Rook quietly reaches across the table to load more potatoes onto my plate without saying a word.

For the first time all day, the tight, cold knot in my chest begins to unwind completely.

When you live in the orbit of an MC, fear is a quiet, constant shadow that sits in the back of your mind. It tells you that every departure could be the last, that silence is dangerous, that peace is just a temporary illusion between storms.

Knox used fear as an anchor, tethering me to my own helplessness. But here, surrounded by these loud, scarred, fiercely protective men, fear doesn’t get to run the room.

We build our own warmth. We build it out of braised pork, and loud laughter, and heavy tables pushed together in a biker bar.

The meal stretches into an hour of heavy plates, second helpings, and coffee poured straight from an industrial urn into thick ceramic mugs. When the last platter is scraped clean, the atmosphere subtly shifts back from feast to duty.

Rook snaps his fingers, and Spoon and Trench immediately scramble to clear the bone-dry serving dishes, hauling them into the kitchen, and over to the four-bay commercial sink.

“What the hell, kid,” Byte mutters, shoving Spoon out of the way. “You don’t scrub iron with green scouring pads. You’re gonna strip the seasoning right off the pans.”

“I was just trying to help!” Spoon squeaks.

“You’re helping by staying five feet away from the cast iron,” Byte deadpans, turning the hot water tap on full blast until steam rolls up around his arms.

Jade leans close to my shoulder, slinging an arm around my neck as we stand by the drying rack.

“Look at them,” she says, nodding toward the sink where three patched members are currently arguing with the two prospects over proper dish-washing and -drying techniques. “You turned a bunch of ruthless outlaw bikers into a bunch of tattooed Martha Stewarts.”

“It’s the power of garlic butter,” I say, smiling despite the sudden, quiet wave of fatigue settling into my shoulders. “And pork shoulders.”

By six in the evening, the kitchen is restored to an almost eerie level of order. The counters shine under the industrial lights, the stainless steel sinks are wiped dry, and the fifty-quart pot rests clean and inverted

112

Chapter 140

on the lower storage shelf.

Claim

The men have all kissed me, thanked me exuberantly, and then filtered back out. Stray and Riff are taking the night patrol shift, Rook is back behind his table, and the rest are drifting toward the bar to get drinks.

Jade walks me out to my truck in the gravel lot. The evening air has turned crisp, carrying the faint, sharp smell of impending snow.

“You sure you don’t want to stay at our place tonight?” Jade asks, leaning against my driver’s side door as I toss my canvas totes into the cab. “We can order takeout tomorrow, drink cheap wine, and yell at bad reality TV.”

“I’m sure, Jade,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “The kitchen down here was what I needed today. But I really want to go home tonight.”

“Got it, girlfriend. Well… me and Mayhem will have you over for dimmer soon, okay?”

“Okay. Maybe in five days, when I actually feel hungry again.”

“I know, right?” Jade rubs her stomach. “I look eight months pregnant!”

laugh, give her a hug, and slide into my SUV.

The drive back into the city is quiet. Streetlights flicker to life in long, amber ribbons along the highway, reflecting off the hood of my truck. When I step into the penthouse, the silence is still there, wide and deep, but it no longer feels heavy or suffocating.

I set my keys on the island, pour myself a fresh glass of water, and walk over to the windows. I pull my hair free from its tight knot, letting it fall down my back, and rest my forehead gently against the cool glass.

Out there, somewhere in the black expanse beyond the city limits, Locke is breathing, driving, existing. No lights, no signal, no communication, no trail to follow. Just a man moving through the dark.

I close my eyes, placing one palm flat against the cold pane, the other on my chest. I can both feel and hear the deep, steady pulse of my own heart in the quiet room.

And somehow I know – I just know – that it’s beating in time with Locke’s.

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