Chapter 5 Wolf

Sun wasn’t up yet, but I was.

Couldn’t sleep. Not with her coming.

I stood in the kitchen, coffee cooling in my hand, staring out at the gravel lot behind the clubhouse. The bikes were lined up like sentinels. Quiet. Waiting.

She’d be here by noon.

Kathrene Kyle.

Not Ricci. Not Katrina.

Not the girl who vanished into Liam’s world and didn’t come back.

The last time I saw her, she was around 10 and I was 15.

Mom stepped in first. Hair braided tight, eyes sharper than mine. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She knew better.

“She on the bus?” she asked.

“Sarah put her on last night,” I said. “No tail. No noise.”

Mom nodded. “Good.”

Dad followed, slower. His limp was worse in the mornings, but he still moved like a man who’d earned every scar.

“She know we’re waiting?” he asked.

“She knows someone is,” I said. “Not who.”

We sat around the table like it was war council. Because it was.

“She’s not ready to face the Riccis',” I said. “Not yet.”

Mom folded her hands. “They think she’s dead.”

“I know.”

Dad rubbed his jaw. “You sure we shouldn’t tell them?”

I shook my head. “It has to be her choice. Her terms. She’s been controlled long enough.”

They didn’t argue. That’s why I trusted them.

I sipped the coffee. Bitter. Burned. Didn’t care.

“She’s gonna be different,” I said. “Not the girl we remember.”

Mom looked at me. “She’s still family.”

I nodded. “That’s why we wait.”

They left me alone after that. I didn’t move.

I thought about the last woman I trusted. The one who smiled sweet and sold me out for a patch and a payout. I gave her everything. She gave it to my enemies.

Since then, it’s been Mom. Sarah. No one else.

But Kat?

Kat was Ricci blood. Legacy. Fire.

And she’d swung the bat herself.

I didn’t know what she’d need when she got here.

But I knew this: whatever it was, I’d give it.

No questions. No conditions.

Just protection.

Because she was ours.

And no one was taking her again.

The bus hissed as it pulled in, brakes whining like the end of a long confession.

I stood back, arms crossed, patch visible, but not loud. Didn’t want to spook her. Didn’t want to crowd her.

She stepped off slow.

Hood up. Bag slung low. Shoulders tight like she was bracing for impact.

I knew her face. Even after all these years.

She didn’t know mine.

She scanned the lot, eyes sharp but guarded. Looking for danger. Looking for escape.

Not for me.

She walked past me at first. Didn’t even pause.

“Kat,” I said.

She froze.

Turned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

I shook my head.

She studied me. “You’re with Sarah?”

“I’m her brother.”

That got her. She blinked. “Wolf?”

I nodded.

She looked me over—leather, ink, the weight of the patch on my chest.

“You’re the President,” she said.

“Of the Lords of Valhalla,” I said. “Yeah.”

She didn’t speak. Just stared. She shifted her bag. “So what now?”

I stepped closer, slow. Careful. “Now you get safe. You get quiet. You get time.”

She looked past me, toward the clubhouse. “They know who I am?”

“They know who you were,” I said. “But they’ll wait for who you become.”

She swallowed hard. “And my family?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. That’s your call.”

She nodded. Once. Sharp.

Then she walked toward the clubhouse.

Didn’t look back.

And I followed.

She walked in like she didn’t belong.

Shoulders tight. Eyes scanning every corner. Like she expected danger behind every door.

I didn’t blame her.

The clubhouse wasn’t warm. It was steel and leather and legacy. But it was safe. And that mattered more.

I kept my voice low. My steps slow. Didn’t tell her I remembered the way she used to braid her hair with ribbon. Didn’t mention the time she fell asleep on the couch during a Ricci meeting, curled up like a secret no one dared touch.

She didn’t recognize me.

That was good.

She needed space. Not ghosts.

The crew nodded as we passed. No questions. No stares. Just quiet respect. I’d told them enough: she was under protection. That was all they needed.

But Mom?

Mom saw everything.

She stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. Her eyes flicked from Kat to me, sharp and knowing.

“She’s here,” I said.

“I see that,” Mom replied.

“She doesn’t know.”

Mom’s jaw tightened. “She should.”

“She will,” I said. “When she’s ready.”

Mom didn’t argue. But she didn’t like it.

Kat paused beside her. “Hi,” she said, voice soft.

Mom nodded. “Welcome.”

That was all.

We led her to the guest room. Clean sheets. Locked door. No questions.

She stepped inside like it might vanish.

I watched her sit on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the blanket like it was the only solid thing left.

“You’re safe here,” I said.

She looked up. “For how long?”

“As long as you need.”

She nodded. Didn’t thank me. Didn’t cry.

Just sat there.

And I left her to it.

Because she wasn’t ready to remember.

And I wasn’t ready to tell her.