Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
I'm fine, I try to telegraph back. More than fine. Something in me has settled here, in this place that feels more like home than the mansion I grew up in.
After we set down the dishes, June touches my elbow. "Let me show you the garden before we eat."
She leads me past the pavilion to a fenced area where vegetables grow in neat rows, some still flowering, others heavy with produce. Beyond that is a chicken coop—not the decorative, useless kind my mother set up for photos, but a real working one with chickens that scratch and peck and actually produce eggs that people eat.
"The kids take turns collecting eggs in the morning," June explains, opening the gate so I can peek inside at the roost boxes. "It teaches responsibility. And they learn where food comes from, not just that it appears in refrigerators by magic. That’s what I tell Havoc, anyway.” She laughs. “But the honest truth is… I wanted your life, Savannah. It was never gonna happen for me as a child—I came from a broken home. We were very poor. So it became my dream to make it happen for my kids.” She throws up her arms. “That’s what we did here. We created the dream.”
I wonder how many people have little farms like this because of my fake life on social media. How many women saw my mother's carefully constructed fiction and tried to build it for real, not knowing it was all smoke and mirrors.
The thought is both flattering and horrifying.
June closes the gate and turns to face me directly. Her expression has shifted to something more serious, the farm wife veneer slipping to reveal steel underneath.
"Can I give you some advice? Biker woman to biker woman."
I'm not sure I qualify as a "biker woman," but I nod anyway, suddenly aware that June Dun is more than her apron and homemade pies.
"It's a commitment," she says, her voice dropping to ensure we're not overheard. "And once you make it, it's your life." She reaches for my wrist, turning it so the fresh tattoo is visible in the evening light. "This is nothing. It means nothing if you're not willing to have his back when the world comes for him. That's how Havoc and I make it work, twenty-three years and counting."
She holds my gaze steadily, her fingers still gentle but firm on my wrist. "I'm telling you this because I know that's what you're asking. How do we make this work? How does a woman like me end up with a man like him, and not just survive, but thrive?"
It is what I'm asking, though I hadn't put it into words even for myself. The question that's been burning in me since he saved me from Marcus.
June leans in closer, and whispers, "I will kill for him. He will kill for me. And both of us will kill for those kids. That's the level of loyalty it takes to make it work."
Her eyes never leave mine, and there's something in them that makes me believe every word. This woman, with her homemade pies and hand-sewn curtains, would end someone without hesitation if they threatened what's hers. Would bury a body under those perfect vegetable rows and serve dinner with the same hands.
And suddenly I understand something about this world I've stepped into.
It's not just about leather, and motorcycles, and danger.
It's about a kind of loyalty I've never experienced—not from my family, not from Marcus, not from anyone except maybe Legion.
It's about building something real in a world of lies, and protecting it at all costs.
CHAPTER 9
Havoc watches June and Savannah as they make their way into the house. Then, once they're inside, he turns to me, meat tongs in hand. "I hope you know what you're gettin' in to, Legion. That woman you've got, she's not like the rest. And by 'the rest' I do mean any other fuckin' woman you've ever met."
"Tell me about it," I say, taking a pull of my beer. "You think I don't know that, Havoc? I've been in love with that woman since she was a twelve-year-old girl. I was fourteen when we started this… affair, I guess it is. She was my first. I was hers too. What we have isn’t new. It’s older than Hell itself and I know who Savannah Ashby is better than anyone else in this world.”
"That's why I'm telling you this."
"Telling me what?"
"That if you want her, you had better be ready to fight for her. Because there ain't no Ashby in the world—and by Ashby, I mean rich-mother fucker, regardless of the last name—who will let their carefully cultivated family matriarch be swept off her feet by a man like you."
Before I can take offense, he puts up a hand.
"Or man like me. Men like us, Legion? We don't marry the fuckin' princess. We can fuck them, feed them, eat them out on the porch. But we don't marry them."