Page 37 of Tinsel & Chrome

“Take that out of here.” Ezekial’s tone is serious, his brows scrunched together.

“It’s just one present, babe.” I try convincing him. Walking over to him, I sit on his lap.

As I straddle him, he tells me about his childhood. Fuck, no wonder he hates the holidays.

“Jesus! Fuck, baby. You were just a child. You had no control over your father. He was a monster. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” I gently say. “But by pushing away any celebration, you are still allowing him to control your life. You are a strong man who deserves love and everything that comes with that.” I kiss him softly on the lips. I see tears in his eyes but don’t mention them. I’m going for broke.

“I love you, Ezekial. I think I always have. I don’t ever want you to feel lonely again.”

He takes my face in his hands and gives me a deep kiss. We linger for a moment, letting our lips do the talking. He pulls away, and I immediately feel his absence. He grabs the package I brought in and opens it—a framed picture of the two of us on his bike.

“Trixie, I love this. Thank you.” He kisses me again, deeper this time. This time, it’s my turn to cry. For his admiration of the photo, for his brutal lost childhood, and for his realization that he’s worthy and can be loved. He fought so hard to keep those memories at bay, it never occurred to him that it would be cathartic to talk about them.

My sweet man is finally showing his true emotions. I know now, this is where I’ve always belonged.

I’m actually able to get Ezekial out in the common room on Christmas day. Seeing a genuine smile on his face puts me in a happy place.

I still have nightmares about my ordeal, but with Ezekial by my side, I know I can take on the world.

Epilogue

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Dredge

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We all thought hell would freeze over before the Pres would choose an old lady. He seems like he’s happier than ever before.

If he can do it, maybe I can too...?

Reckless Princess

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By Lila Grey

Chapter One

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Larissa

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The snow-covered road ahead is nothing but a blur of white, my wipers doing a piss-poor job of clearing the windshield. The heater in my rust-bucket of a car wheezes like it’s about to die, barely keeping the chill at bay. My knuckles are stiff around the wheel, my hands numb, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

Not until I’m home.

A bruised ache pulses through my ribs with every breath, and I clench my teeth to keep from wincing. I’ve felt worse. I’ve survived worse. The bastard thought he could break me, but he underestimated just how deep my roots go. I’m not some fragile doll. I’m Cyclops’ daughter, born and raised in the chaos ofThe Merciless Few MC. I know what survival looks like.

The bruises will fade. The rage won’t.

The entrance to the compound looms ahead, the wrought-iron gates still bearing the jagged skull logo that made other people think twice about stepping onto club territory. A familiar flicker of relief sparks in my chest. The gates open slowly, creaking like they’re alive. I roll through, the crunch of snow beneath my tires the only sound.

The clubhouse is just as I remember — a fortress of brick and steel, lit by the faint glow of yellow lights against the encroaching night. Bikes are lined up in a row like sleeping beasts, their chrome gleaming beneath a thin blanket of snow. My heartbeat kicks up, and I grip the wheel tighter. This is it. No turning back.

I pull into a spot beside a custom Harley I’d recognize anywhere.Mace.My older brother. The thought of seeing him,of seeing my father, is a sharp mix of comfort and dread. I’ve been gone too long, convinced I could make it on my own, away from the club and its brand of lawless loyalty.

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