Page 113 of Sinful
My chest tightens. "Were there times where you thought they’d be right?"
"Several times." She looks at me, eyes serious. "But they were also wrong. Because I gave up one life and built something better. Harder, scarier, more dangerous—but better. In the end, I realized they were jealous because they wanted what I had."
"Wow."
Her voice is fierce now. "Even with everything we've been through—the club, the violence, the fear, watching your father almost die more times than I can count, raising two daughters in a world that wanted to destroy them—I'd choose him again. Every single time."
Tears burn in my eyes. "What if Bravos dies in the attack? What if I go to him and he's just—gone?"
Mom's face softens with understanding and pain.
She moves closer, takes my hands in hers. "Then you'll grieve. You'll hurt worse than you've ever hurt before. You'll probably want to die too. I know I did, these past few weeks when I thought I'd lost your father." Her voice breaks. "But Helle, at least you'll have loved him. At least you'll have tried. At least you'll have had those moments of happiness, however brief."
"That's not very comforting."
She squeezes my hands. "Don't let fear stop you. Don't let the possibility of pain keep you from the possibility of joy."
I'm crying now—full-on sobbing—and Mom pulls me into her arms like I'm five years old again.
"You've spent three years surviving," she whispers into my hair. "It's time to start living."
Two days later, I'm on my bike heading to Austin.
I need to pack up my apartment, clean it out, officially close that chapter before I can start the next one.
Elfe offered to come—offered to rent a truck and help me move everything—but I said no.
This is something I need to do alone.
One last goodbye to the girl I was before I become whoever comes next.
The ride helps clear my head.
Wind in my face, engine vibrating between my thighs, highway stretching endlessly ahead like possibility itself.
This is who I am—a rider.
Fast and free and unafraid of the road.
Bravos gets that. Encourages it. Doesn't want to cage me or change me or make me smaller.
Maybe this really could work.
My apartment looks exactly like I left it—which is to say, depressing.
A small studio in a shitty complex where the AC barely works and the neighbors fight at three AM.
Barely furnished with things I found on the street or bought at Goodwill.
Racing posters on the walls—advertisements for underground circuits, photos of bikes I'll never own.
Everything sparse and temporary, like I never planned to stay.
Because I didn't.
This was a place to sleep between shifts.
Not a home. Never a home.
