Page 13 of Whispers of Fire

Fuck it.

With a grunt, I grab the pen and notebook from her bedside table. My calloused fingers fumble with the small pages. I scribble a few terse words. My handwritin’ resembles more of a scrawl than anything fancy like hers.

I put the notebook down and shake my head. “What am I doin’ here?” I murmur to myself. It's fuckin' ironic, playing the role of a perfect gentleman when my life revolves around anything but. But for her, I'd put on the charade, if only to ease whatever doubts she might have.

I grab my helmet and reach for her face with my hand covered in leather, letting a gentle caress on her cheek.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart," I whisper, before leaving the place.

Turning away from the angel lying in front of me, I make my way out of the room, the roar of my motorcycle callin’ me back to the reality of the club.

I can’t let her enter my life, not now, not ever. What happened to her was her business, her life, and I can’t get more involved than I already am. I need to stick to what has been keeping me alive for the last decade: the club and my brothers. That’s where my loyalty lies. The ride toward the club helps clear my mind, and I enter the basement carrying the fury of what happened to Rose.

God help O’brian.

Chapter 4

Rose

It’s been three weeks since the night of my punishment. Twenty-one days since I woke up with my wounds mended and my body tucked under my covers for the first time in my life. My parents never did this when I was little, so I knew it wasn’t them.

I realized instantly who had done this. I never interact with people from the outside world, except last week in my garden when my stranger, Vox, talked to me. He looked at me like I was a strange enigma he wanted to resolve. But also like something else… something he wanted to look at and touch. The way his eyes burned on my skin, spreading like a wildfire, made me feel flushed and intrigued. I couldn't forget his icy blue eyes and his short dark hair that I dreamt about passing my fingers through.

Despite my initial reservations about interacting with someone from the outside world, especially a man covered in tattoos, I find myself drawn to him.

When I awoke after that terrifying night, tears welled in my eyes, not from the pain inflicted by my parents, but from the tender care he had shown. He tended to my wounds, gently wrapping my injured hands and ensuring my comfort.

It was the first time in my life I felt truly cared for, as if a guardian angel was watching over me. Despite the teachings of my community, I didn't feel uneasy about his touch. I had never experienced that kind of concern before, especially after reading the note he left me on my bedside table.

“Kept the gloves on the whole time.”

His handwriting was rugged and untamed, a stark contrast to the neat script I am accustomed to. But still, I liked it. It wasn't just about tending to my physical wounds, it was about honoring my boundaries and ensuring my comfort and safety, even when I was asleep and unable to protect myself.

He somehow knew I couldn’t let a man touch my skin and he honored it by keeping his gloves on. I close my eyes and try to imagine him standing in my bedroom, his biker clothes on, watching over with a protective eye.

The image filled me with a strange sense of security.

How could I believe the words of our Shepherd about the evil of the outside world when in fact, the hurt had come from within, and he, a stranger from the so-called dangerous outside world, had shown me more care and respect than anyone in my own community ever had?

Hearing my parents talk downstairs takes me out of my thoughts and into the new reality I've been facing for weeks. I quickly hide the note under my mattress, making sure it’s not visible. Since the punishment, my parents, once indifferent to my presence, now regard me with suspicion, as though I am an outsider in my own home. Their glances are laced with hostility, and conversations are sparse and awkward. Each interaction feels like walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around the unspoken threat of my beliefs.

For the first time, I’ve allowed myself to question the morals that had been ingrained in me since childhood, wondering if there’s more to life than the narrow confines of our community. But with doubt came fear—a fear of straying from the path laid out for me, a fear of disappointing my parents and risking the wrath of our community. The weight of their expectations bears down on me, threatening to suffocate the flicker of curiosity and skepticism that has ignited within me.

My father has almost stopped talking to me, as if I was carrying a disease, and my mother signs to me only when we’re alone in the house. Perhaps she’s also scared of my father.

The memory of that evening keeps haunting me like a relentless storm, each wave crashing against the shores of my mind with brutal force. The brutality of my parents' actions, the venom in my father's words, the indifference as they left me bleeding on my bed—it's all etched into my mind, impossible to escape. I'm torn between accepting and rejecting what happened.

Was it fair to be drowned, to be struck by Mr. Collins?If I truly deserved it, then why do I continue to question it?

As I think back on that awful night, I'm just shocked.

How could my community, the people I've grown up with, be so brutal just because I asked questions?

The cult preaches love and acceptance, but their actions were so harsh and violent. It's hard for me to understand how they can say one thing and do another.

Was I really so wrong for being curious? Or is there something dark hiding under the surface of our seemingly perfect community?

These thoughts are weighing on me, but doubt isn’t something tolerable in our household.

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