Page 25 of Phoenix's Rising
And the age gap…
Phoenix has to be at least ten years older than me, maybe more. He's the president of a motorcycle club, scarred, dangerous, and carrying the weight of impossible decisions. I'm a twenty-six-year-old woman who just escaped an abusive relationship, covered in bruises and trauma, desperately trying to figure out who I am without Cole's voice in my head.
What business do I have kissing him? What right do I have to want more when I'm barely holding myself together?
But God, that kiss.
I touch my lips again, remembering it. The care. The way Phoenix cupped my face like I might break, the way he pulled back and looked at me with wonder in his dark eyes.
Like he couldn't quite believe it was happening either.
"Fuck my life," I whisper to the empty room.
I ran from one disaster straight into another. But somehow, this disaster feels different. Feels like maybe, possibly, it could be something good instead of something that destroys me.
Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.
Hours later…
I spend the next few hours alone in the small room, listening to sounds from downstairs—voices, footsteps, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle engine. The Iron Phoenix preparing for war while I hide in a bedroom like a damsel in a tower.
The helplessness grates at me, but I don't know what else to do. Phoenix told me to stay put, to stay safe. And after two years of Cole controlling my every move, the idea of going against Phoenix's instructions feels wrong even though his request came from protection instead of possession.
Eventually, I force myself into the bathroom across the hall.
The shower is hot, almost too hot, and I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. I watch the grimy dirt of three days on the run swirl down the drain: gas station bathrooms and rest stop sinks and sleeping in my car don't exactly make for good hygiene.
I scrub myself raw, washing away layers of fear and road dust. Wash my hair twice, untangling the choppy strands I cut with kitchen scissors the night I ran. I look at the bottles in the shower, basic men's products, nothing fancy, and use them anyway.
When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel I found under the sink, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
The bruises look worse clean. Purple-yellow on my jaw, finger-shaped marks on my wrists, shadows under my ribs where Cole kicked me a week ago. My eyes are hollowed out from stress and lack of sleep, bags under them that make me look a lot older than twenty-six.
But my hair is clean. My skin feels new. The grime is gone.
I feel like a different person. Not the woman who showed up at four in the morning desperate and terrified. Not quite myself yet, but maybe getting there.
I get dressed in the same clothes. I only have one change, and I already wore those yesterday, and return to the room. Sit on the bed and wait.
For what, I'm not sure. For Phoenix to come back? For the Vipers to arrive? For my life to make sense again?
Dinner comes around six. I know because there's a knock on the door, and when I open it, Saint is standing there with a plate of food.
"Thought you might be hungry," he says, offering me the plate. "Canvas made spaghetti. It's edible, I promise."
I take the plate, the smell making my stomach growl. I haven't eaten since yesterday and couldn't keep anything down this morning from nerves.
"Thank you," I say.
Saint lingers in the doorway, and I gesture for him to come in. He does, leaning against the wall the same way Phoenix did this morning.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, settling back on the bed with the plate.
"Sure."
"Your name, Saint. Is it the opposite of your brother's? Demon and Saint?"
He chuckles, and when he smiles, he looks so different from Demon it's almost jarring. "Yeah. When I patched in with the Iron Phoenix, Phoenix asked what road name I wanted. I said Saint. Partly as a fuck-you to my brother, partly because I wanted to be the opposite of everything he represents."
