Page 19 of Wilder's Promise
"This is insane," I murmur, more to myself than to him. "How is this my life?"
"Not what you planned for your weekend?" There's a hint of gallows humor in his voice.
"Not exactly." I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "I was supposed to be finishing a paper on blood spatter analysis."
"Well, if it's any consolation, you might get some hands-on experience before this is over."
"That's not funny."
"No," he agrees, "it's not. But sometimes you have to laugh at the darkness, or it swallows you whole."
Another piece of outlaw philosophy that makes more sense than I want to admit. I've used similar coping mechanisms during the darkest periods of my life—finding the absurd humor in tragedy to keep from drowning in it.
The clubhouse door opens behind us, spilling light into the courtyard. Ghost stands in the doorway, his scarred face impassive.
"Wilder, need you inside," he calls. "Final briefing before we roll out."
Wilder nods, standing. "Be right there."
Ghost disappears back inside, leaving us alone again in the gathering darkness.
"Duty calls," Wilder says, offering me his hand. "Come on. You should be inside too."
I hesitate before taking his hand, surprised by the warmth of his skin against mine. He pulls me gently to my feet, and for a moment we stand too close, neither of us moving away. In the dim light, I can see the details of his face—the faint scar through one eyebrow, the intensity in his eyes, the firm set of his mouth.
"Emma," he says, his voice lower now. "Whatever happens tonight, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
Can I? Trust is not something I give easily, especially not to someone in my father's world. And yet Wilder has already proven himself once today, taking a knife for me without hesitation.
"I'll try," I offer, the most honest answer I can give.
He nods, accepting this. "Good enough for now."
He releases my hand and leads the way back into the clubhouse. Evelyn sits on a couch nearby, her face drawn with an anxiety she's trying hard to mask.
Unlike me, this is all new to her. Not just my father's world, but this particular ritual of men preparing for violence. I remember Wilder saying they'd only been together a few days, thrust into a relationship by trauma and danger. She's just beginning to understand what it means to care for a man like my father, to watch him walk into harm's way.
I find myself sitting beside her, drawn by a strange solidarity. Whatever my complicated feelings about her relationship with my father, right now we're united by a common fear.
"First time watching them go out like this?" I ask quietly.
She nods, eyes never leaving my father across the room. "The Vultures MC attacked the clubhouse a few days ago, but that was different. We were all here, together." She twists her hands in her lap. "This is..."
"Worse," I finish for her. "Because you're not there to see what happens."
"Yes." Her dark eyes meet mine, grateful for the understanding. "How do you handle it?"
I almost laugh. "I don't. I ran away from all this years ago, remember?"
"But you grew up with it," she points out. "With him being who he is."
"True." I watch my father check his weapon. "I guess you get used to the fear. You learn to push it down, lock it away where it can't paralyze you."
"Is that healthy?"
"Probably not," I admit. "But it's survival."
Chapter 7 - Wilder
