All Chapters of My husband's twin, my ruin: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Cassie's pov. The small clock on the kitchen wall ticked a steady, agonizing rhythm through the quiet house. It was past eight in the evening.I paced the length of the worn linoleum floor, my sneakers squeaking softly against the wood as I turned back toward the window for the twentieth time. I pulled my phone out, my thumbs frantically hitting the dial button on Mark’s number, but the line remained completely dead. No answer. Just the flat, digital silence that made the panic inside my chest tighten like a wire. I was wearing a pair of dark denim trousers and a simple black top that brought out my snatched nature, but right now, the fabric felt suffocating against my skin."Cassandra, sit down before you wear a hole through the floorboards," my father said from his worn leather armchair.He had his police captain's uniform unbuttoned at the throat, his face a grey mask of professional exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the television screen. My mother stood near the stove, carefully st

Cassie's pov. The pale morning light filtered through the vaulted glass windows of the estate, casting a cold, clean glare over the white sheets of the mattress.I woke up first, the heavy rhythm of my heart instantly clearing the remaining fog of sleep from my brain. I didn't move an inch. My left arm was pinned beneath the weight of her body, and my right hand was resting flat against the small of her back, holding her flush against my chest. Cassie was still deep under, her breathing soft and slow against the bare skin of my collarbone, her wild hair scattered like a dark shadow across my shoulder.I looked down at her face, my jaw locking tight as my eyes tracked the pale curve of her neck. Under the stark daylight, the faint, purplish thumbprint marks David had left on her upper arm were still visible, but they were surrounded now by the deep red friction marks my own mouth had left on her collarbone last night. The slow-burn wall we had spent fifty-three chapters building was c

Mark. The heavy iron gates of the Sanctuary slammed shut behind us with a loud, mechanical thud that echoed through the concrete bay like a gunshotI killed the ignition, the sudden silence of the compound settling over the rows of customized choppers lined up against the blackened brick walls. The engine cooled with small, sharp clicks against the oil-stained floorboards. Cassie slid off the rear saddle, her fingers slowly releasing their tight grip on the waist of my leather cut. She stood by the front tire, her jaw locked, her eyes wide as she clutched her old wooden drafting kit against her chest like a shield. Her grey sweater was damp from the morning mist, and the dark, swelling bruise David had left on her left cheek was fully exposed under the harsh yellow glare of our industrial cage lamps. "Savage! Up here! Now!Hammer’s voice cut through the cavernous space from the top of the wooden stairs, rough and entirely focused. He was leaning over the iron railing of the upper b

Mark. The raw roar of the custom chopper finally died as I skidded the machine into the rear loading bay of the Sanctuary.The air inside the concrete walls was heavy, thick with the smell of wet gravel, exhaust smoke, and stale tobacco. I didn't help Cassie off the seat. I just kicked the stand down and stood up, my leather cut creaking against my chest as I unzipped the front to let the cool morning mist hit my bare skin. My split knuckles were still throbbing with a dull, burning pain from the beating I’d given my brother, but right now, the internal lines of this compound were a much bigger problem."Stay behind me, Cassie," I muttered, my voice a flat vibration as I caught sight of Hammer standing by the iron stairs.She didn't answer. She just held that old wooden drafting kit tight against her ribs, her grey sweater damp, her chin up as she followed my heavy boots up the timber steps. The main bay downstairs was dead silent, but the moment we pushed the heavy double doors of t

Mark. The rain started just as we cleared the warehouse district, a cold, needle-sharp downpour that washed the grease from my forearms and slicked the asphalt lane into a black mirror.I led the pack, my boots locked hard against the metal pegs of my chopper, the headlights of five secondary transport vans cutting through the torrential sheets behind my back. The younger riders—Hammer, Roach, and eight full-patched Vandals—were trailing my exhaust pipes like a silent wall of iron. We had an hour before the city precinct’s tactical sweep hit the eastern garages, and I needed to ground our network servers at the docks before the badges could weld the net shut. We turned sharply down the narrow, dark avenue behind the old rail yards, our tires screeching against the wet concrete.Suddenly, a blinding flash of high-beam high-beams exploded from the intersection ahead, slicing straight through the thick river fog. Three heavy custom choppers rammed out from the shadow of an abandoned s