Lyric.
She’s there before I even kill the engine, rushing out to meet me. My Lyric with her wild hair and eyes that have seen too much but still shine when they look at me. She throws herself into my arms, and I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, a stark contrast to the smell of destruction lingeringon my clothes.
“Highway,” she whispers—it soothes the jagged edges inside me.
“Lyric,” I respond, my lips finding hers in a kiss that speaks of the fear, loss, and the relief of return. It’s soft and fierce all at once, a promise and a homecoming.
“Are you okay?” she asks, pulling back just enough to search my face with worried eyes.
“Better now,” I admit, meaning every damn word.
Her touch is warmth and life, a reminder of why we fight so hard and cling to this brotherhood of outcasts and warriors.
“Come on,” she murmurs, taking my hand.
“Not yet.”
Her eyebrows come together in a frown, but she lets me pull her toward the bonfire burning at the back of the clubhouse. I take off all my clothing and boots, then throw them into the flames. There will be no forensic evidence to link us to the carnage at the Crimson Wheelers’ compound.
One by one, all the men who were at the raid do the same. Tank stands next to me, blood oozing down his chest as he stares into the flames.
“You okay, brother?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Yeah. This is only the beginning, isn’t it?”
Glancing at Lyric, I nod. “Yeah.”
She puts her hand in mind and pulls me through the clubhouse. Lyric asks no questions, and I feel as long as she’s by my side, I’ve got something worth returning to. No matter what hell we ride through, Lyric is my haven, and for her, I’d burn down the world or build it anew.
The clubhouse is silent as we each retreat into our rooms, looking for a shower and clean clothes. Lyric turns on the faucet, and I step under the spray, letting the water wash me clean.There’s a knock on the door, and she leaves me to see who it is, only to come back a few moments later.
“Winchester said to give you this?” Lyric looks puzzled as she hands me a bottle of bleach.
“He’s making sure none of us goes down for what we did.”
Using a scrub brush, I pour the bleach on myself and scour my skin. It flushes red, and I don’t stop until the whole bottle has been used. The water goes cold long before I’m finished. When I’m done, I step out onto the tiled floor, and Lyric wraps me in a towel.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Creed will be waiting for us.”
“Will you talk about it?”
The atmosphere feels heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. My rough exterior hides a tumultuous past, and the broad-shouldered frame I carry feels burdened by countless dark deeds.
I run a hand through my tousled hair, a nervous gesture that contrasts with my usual composed demeanor. Taking a deep breath, my chest rises and falls heavily as if preparing myself for the weight of my confessions.
“Yes.”
Lyric steps closer, touching my hand, gentle yet reassuring. In that moment, I realize that sharing my darkness will not drive her away but bring us closer. For the first time, I feel the possibility of redemption and the hope that true and unwavering love can heal even the deepest wounds.
She kisses me and entwines her fingers in my hair, then steps back, her nose wrinkling. “You smell like bleach.”
Grinning, I say, “I smell clean.”
“Are you hungry?” Lyric asks.
“Yeah.” It feels like forever since I last ate.
