Page 85 of The Grief We Hold

She’s trying to appear indifferent, but I can see the hurt in her eyes. “Widowed, Blue. It’s why I freaked out the morning after you stayed over at the clubhouse with me. Pack a bag for you and Fen and come stay at my place tonight. I’ll explain everything, because none of it is what you think.”

She glances back up the stairs. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You know what was a really good idea?” I move closer to her, so my words are more of a whisper. “Holding you both in my arms last night when you were scared. You caring for me when I was hurt. The two of us fucking like the world might end this morning. Don’t step back from us because my mother-in-law doesn’t know her fucking place.”

“I was thinking of leaving tomorrow. If I have to find a new job, might as well do it in a place where I can wipe the slate clean.”

I touch her cheek softly. “I figured. Come stay with me tonight. You still want to leave in the morning, I’ll let you go. But give me a chance to fight for us.”

“Is that Wraith?” Fen shouts from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, bud. It’s me. You and your mom want to come for a sleepover at my place? I got a pond we can look for frogs in.”

“Yes!” Fen replies.

Raven raises an eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest. “That’s not playing fair.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Who said anything about playing fair? Pack the bags. I’m gonna ride home and switch my bike for my truck, then come and get you. Say, twenty minutes. If I leave, are you gonna open the door when I come back?”

Raven takes a deep breath. “One more night?”

“The first of many more.” I shrug. “I’m not gonna play fair to get you to stay, Blue. Wait and see.”

27

RAVEN

The house is a standing memorial to Wraith’s wife.

It’s a beautiful single-story home, stone and timber clad. Inside is that soft but luxe country vibe. Unfinished wood, crisp white paint, and black fixings.

There are shoes by the front door that aren’t Wraith’s. Sneakers and a pair of black knee-high boots. But it’s the small stack of dusty baby blankets—placed on the wooden bench that serves as a seat in the mud room—that makes my heart pound.

“Hey, Fen. Wanna watch TV in the den for a little while?” Wraith asks while I take in everything around me.

“Yes. Can I, Mom?”

“It’s Wraith’s house, so Wraith’s rules.”

“Stay here,” Wraith says to me. “Come on, Fen, I’ll get you set up.”

Photos adorn the hall table. Of bikers, of Wraith and his wife and a tiny, tufted-haired baby. A plaster imprint of a baby’s foot sits in between them. And Wraith looks…happy. Genuine, unadulterated happiness pours from him in the images.

“You have a child?” I ask when Wraith returns.

He comes to stand next to me and picks up the picture where he’s holding the baby in his arms while kissing a rosy cheek. “That’s Lottie. My wife was Hallie.” He brushes his fingertip over Lottie’s cheek, and the gesture rewrites everything I thought I knew about this man.

Everything.

What he holds important.

I was confident he didn’t understand what it took to care for a child, but he’s been there himself and understands the sacrifices a parent has to make.

“Where is she?” I ask, even though I have a strong stirring in my gut that I already know the answer.

Wraith takes in a deep breath. “Dead.”

Immediately, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Oh, God. Wraith. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

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