Page 42 of Vows & Violence
“Doesn’t matter. I’m staying anyway.”
I roll in his arms, face to face now. His hair’s a mess. His jaw’s bruised. His eyes look clearer than I’ve ever seen them. I rest my hand on his chest, feeling the heartbeat under my palm.
“The world can turn to ash before I let them take you from me,” I tell him.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. He just nods once. “Then we light the match together.”
The words hang between us, heavy and sacred. Not a vow, but something close.
I know when I walk out that door, back into the chaos, the strategy, the MC waiting for us, Ghost won’t be behind me.
He’ll be beside me.
Chapter Nineteen
Phoenix
Dawn doesn’t rise so much as bleed. The horizon cracks open in streaks of red and gold, leaking light over a city still reeling from the night before. New Orleans isn’t silent, she never is, but this morning, she’s hushed. Like, even the ghosts are holding their breath.
Smoke clings low to the streets. Sirens wail in the distance, distant and tired. Somewhere behind us, the compound’s ashes still smolder. The Hollow Sons are gone. Their rot burned out of the roots they tried to sink into this place. But victory never feels clean. It clings like blood in your mouth, metallic and sharp, reminding you it cost something to get here.
We ride out slowly.
The Non Cras doesn’t rush. We don’t scatter. We move like we survived something, and we did. Some of us are bruised. Some are stitched. All of us are changed. Ghost rides beside me, his cuts healing, his eyes sharper than ever. Poison leads the line, Kitty, as her backpack watches her flank. Wendigo scans the rooftops. Scissors and Sissy ride close behind, flanked by Gypsy and Viper.
We look like a funeral procession for something ugly. Maybe we are. Maybe we’re the ones who finally buried a lie that’s been haunting more than just this city.
We reach the edge of the Quarter before I pull us over. There’s a quiet spot under the shadow of an old cathedral, her windows still stained with sun and stories. The others give us space. They know this is something Ghost and I have to do ourselves.
He stops his bike beside mine and takes off his helmet, shaking his hair out. There’s dried blood under one ear, a bruise along his jaw. But his eyes are steady. That man could walk through fire again and not blink.
Ghost leans toward me. “You good?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m still here.”
His mouth tips in that almost-smile that wrecks me every time. “That makes two of us.”
I slide off the bike and walk a few paces to the cathedral steps. Ghost follows without needing a word. We stand beneath the broken archway. The sun filtering through shattered glass, dust dancing like memory, and I face him.
Not a woman in love. Not a soldier. Not a killer. Just me.
“You know this doesn’t get easier from here,” I say.
Ghost nods. “I don’t want easier. I want truth. Even if it bleeds.”
I step closer. My hand finds his. “Then let’s be honest.”
He tightens his grip, like he’s holding onto something sacred. And maybe he is.
“I don’t promise peace,” I whisper. “Not in this life. Not in the dark we walk through.”
“I don’t want peace,” Ghost answers, voice low, carved in granite. “I wantyou.”
We lock eyes. No fanfare. No audience. Just a shared truth that feels like it could shake the sky.
“If they come for you,” I say, “they come for me.”
Ghost leans in, forehead to mine, his voice gravel and vow. “We fight in the dark.”
