Page 29 of Shadow's Edge

Jagger didn’t push. Instead, he reached for the shampoo, poured some into his hands, and started lathering it into my hair. The simple act was grounding, it was a quietoffering. I tipped my head back, letting him work his fingers through my hair, the pressure of his hands helping to steady the storm inside me.

“How much do you know about my parents’ relationship?”

Jagger paused, just for a second. Then, he continued his careful movements.

“It wasn’t a good one,” he said carefully. “She played theclichémove—got pregnant and tried to use it to control him.”

He was diplomatic in his choice of words, but the truth was there. I nodded, stepping under the spray to wash the suds away, giving myself time tothink. After a beat, I leaned back again, waiting for him to do a second round of shampoo. After so manytripsto hot, sandy countries, one wash was never enough, and Jagger knew that by now.

“From as far back as I can remember, my parents fought,” I said finally. “Screaming, slamming doors, and drama… There was a constantwar.” I took a breath. “When I was five, I came homeand found my momwasted. Slurring, rambling about how I’d never find a man who would be faithful. How menliedabout everything.”

Jagger’s jaw clenched, but his face stayed blank. He knew the kind ofdamagethat could do to a little girl. So didshe, that was why she’d done it.

“She used to rant about how she hadsacrificedeverything for Preacher, and how he didn’t give ashitabout either of us.” I hesitated. “She said the reason I was named Kyle was because he was so fuckingdisappointedthat I wasn’t a son, he gave me a boy’s name anyway.”

That part had alwaysstuck, and today, Store hadthrown it in my face, almostverbatim.

Was that what he toldeveryone?

Jagger rinsed his own hair with one hand, but the other stayed firmly wrapped around my waist.

“Youknowhe named you after his grandfather, right?”

I shrugged. Maybe, maybe not.

Reaching for the shower gel, I poured some into my hands. “It only got worse. I dideverythingto get Preacher’s attention, but he was hardly home. And when hewashome, he’d lock himself away from us after the obligatory screaming match with my mom.” My hands slowed as I rubbed the soap over my skin. “If I really think about it…” I swallowed. “Ididspend a lot of time with him. But themoremy mom said, the more those memories started tofade. So, I kept trying. I kept needinghim to see me.”

I looked down, watching the soap slide off my skin, watching thepasttry to drain away with it, but some stains neverwashed off. When Preacher became President of the Knights MC, everything got worse. The rare moments of attention he’d given me before dwindled into almost nothing. I’d show up at the compound, eager, hopeful—desperate—only to be met with distracted glances and half-hearted words. Five minutes of his time, maybe ten on a good day, before something or someone would pull him away.

Mom had told me not to bother and that I was wasting my time. But I’d still tried. Becauseif I just did something right, if Ijust made him see me, he’d stop brushing me aside.

Jagger took the shower gel from my hands, his fingers brushing over mine as he turned me so that my back was to him. His touch was firm yet careful as he ran his hands over my shoulders, massaging the tension that had been embedded there for years.

“Do you think you got his attention?” he asked, his voice low.

Jesus. This man hadmagic hands.

I let my head fall forward slightly, letting him work on the knots that had settled deep into my muscles.

“I got Red to teach me how to ride a motorcycle when I was fourteen,” I said, shaking my head as a laugh escaped me. “I was such apain in the assabout it, but he finally caved. When I rode it in front of Preacher for the first time, he actuallysmiled.” The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. “He told me I could only ride it on the compound, and then he said, ‘One day, you’ll make a fine biker.’”

That day, I’d feltproud, and like Ihada purpose. Like I hadsomethingof him to hold on to. That feeling had fueled me. After that, I’d made it my mission to learn everything the guys did. By sixteen, I could shoot like a pro, ride my bike with myeyes shut, and my knife skills werescary. I made sure I wasone of them, not just some girl hovering on the sidelines.

Jagger chuckled, his breath warm against my shoulder. “That you did.”

I laughed softly, but it faded quickly.

His voice turned more serious. “Sounds like things between you and your da—Preacher were good then. When did it change?”

The shift in my body must have told him everything, because his hands slowed slightly. I didn’t want to say it, but the memories came anyway. By seventeen, I was spending most of my time at the compound—anywherebut home because my mother had been unraveling.

The screaming had turned to fists, the slaps became kicks, and by then, she wasn’t holding back. Black eyes, stitches in my mouth, chunks of hair ripped from my scalp. The worst was the baseball bat.

I swallowed.

“She used to hit me, but I told you about the baseball bat, right?” I felt Jagger nod against my back.

Ishouldstop talking, but something inside me neededthis. Only a handful of people knew what had happened next.

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