Page 12 of Wilder's Promise
I find my assigned room exactly where he said it would be. It's larger than Wilder's, with a queen bed covered in what looks like new linens, a dresser, desk, and attached bathroom. Someone has placed a vase of wildflowers on the nightstand, an oddly thoughtful touch in this testosterone-fueled environment.
My father's work? Or maybe this Evelyn person?
I set my backpack on the bed and unzip it, pulling out the few clothes and toiletries I hastily packed when my father's warning call came. Three days ago, my biggest concern was finishing my forensic toxicology paper. Now I'm hiding in an outlaw motorcycle club from biker traffickers who want to kidnap or kill me.
The absurdity of my situation hits me all at once, and I sink onto the bed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up from my chest. What am I doing here? This isn't my life. I don't belong in this world of violence and brotherhood and blood oaths.
Except, by birth, I do. Jackson Kane's daughter. Born into the life whether I wanted it or not.
I force myself to stand, to move, to do something other than spiral into panic. The bathroom calls to me—a hot shower mightclear my head, wash away the lingering fear from the diner attack and the emotional overload of seeing my father with Evelyn.
The bathroom is surprisingly modern, with clean white tiles and a large shower stall. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray, letting it pound against my tense muscles. As steam fills the small space, I close my eyes and try to sort through the chaos in my mind.
The Vultures MC who knew my name.
Wilder bleeding to protect me.
My father with a woman barely older than me.
The trafficking victims he supposedly saved.
None of it fits the narrative I've constructed over the years. The selfish criminal who chose his club over his family. But neither can I reconcile it with the father who let me walk away without a fight.
When the hot water begins to cool, I reluctantly shut it off and wrap myself in a towel. The mirror reveals a pale face with shadows under amber eyes. My red hair hangs in wet tendrils around my face, making me look older than my nineteen years.
I dress quickly in clean jeans and a sweatshirt from my backpack, then sit at the edge of the bed, dreading the inevitable confrontation with my father. Part of me wants to stay locked in this room for the duration of my forced stay. The more rational part knows that's impossible.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my brooding. I tense, expecting my father, but the voice that calls through the wood is female.
"Emma? It's Evelyn. May I come in?"
My first instinct is to refuse, to tell her to go away. But curiosity wins out. I want to see up close what kind of woman has captured my father's attention after all these years.
"It's open," I call, remaining seated on the bed.
The door opens slowly, and Evelyn steps inside. She's even more beautiful up close. Delicate features, luminous skin, dark eyes that hold a depth of experience at odds with her youthful appearance. She's dressed simply in jeans and a loose sweater, her dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders.
"I thought you might be hungry," she says, holding up a plate with a sandwich and some fruit. "The meeting's in twenty minutes, and you haven't eaten since the diner."
"I'm fine," I say, even as my stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
She sets the plate on the desk. "Your father says you're studying criminal forensics."
"That's right." I'm surprised he remembers. "What are you, his secretary?"
The barb doesn't land as I intended. Instead of looking hurt, Evelyn just smiles.
"No," she says simply. "I'm someone who knows what it's like to be angry at the world. To feel like you have no control over your own life."
"Look," I say, softening my tone slightly, "I'm sure you're very nice. But I don't need a heart-to-heart with my father's..." I trail off, not sure what to call her.
"Girlfriend?" she supplies. "Partner? Those labels seem so inadequate for what we are to each other."
"And what exactly is that?" I can't keep the edge from my voice.
"Survivors." She says. "Your father saved my life, Emma. Not just by rescuing me from that auction house, but by seeing me as a person worth protecting when I'd forgotten my own worth."
"Wilder told me you were one of the trafficking victims."
