After crossing the St. John's bridge on the back of Rich's motorcycle, Gracie lost track of time and location. He'd gone onto the backroads, climbing higher in the coastal mountains. At first, she worried he'd gone off not knowing where he was going. But, then it hit her.

Rich stayed off the main roads because they'd both taken off without wearing their helmets—which was illegal in Oregon.

Through the shock of information she'd handed him, he continued to keep his head. He safely rode the bike and stayed aware of her on the seat. She only wished she understood the emotions he struggled with and how she could comfort him.

Telling him something the men of Notus had struggled with since Thalia's murder, knowing Rich had been in love with Thad's sister, broke her heart. There was no reason to protect Rich or hide the truth from him when it was obvious he needed closure as much, if not more, than all the others.

Just as she had deserved to know the truth about her mother. No amount of her father's protection and hiding the crime to keep the truth from her and Clara while they were younger saved her from being hurt.

Rich slowed and turned onto a one-lane asphalted road. She concentrated on feeling his heartbeat, which had raced when they'd taken off from Wayne's house, but the vibration of the bike camouflaged the beat.

He rounded a corner, and suddenly the hillside broke away, and they were on top of a lookout, looking down at St. John's. The bike slowed even more and came to a stop. She held on to him, even when he shut off the engine.

Her legs continued vibrating. Life seemed perilous and fragile as if she'd crumble if she let go of him.

She'd gone on plenty of rides with Chuck and a few rides with Wayne, but they were always from the bar to the house. Short trips with a purpose.

Rich kept on riding. She had no idea how long or how far he'd taken her. The sun hovered over the horizon in the west. They had to have been on the road for a few hours, and yet St. John's lay in front of them.

Rich's body sagged as he let go of the handlebar. Gracie stared over his shoulder at the view of the trees, the Willamette River, the bridge, and housetops. Physically and mentally exhausted from the whole day, realizing the danger surrounding Rich ran deeper than she'd thought and not prepared to rehash her past, she could only sit behind Rich and silently support him with her company.

During her lowest moments, she'd always had Clara or Chuck with her. Rich seemed to have no one. 

"Did Thalia suffer for long?" asked Rich, breaking his silence.

She lowered her chin to her chest. Roy Jenson's confession while he'd tied her to the bed was branded in her head. She knew every detail about her mom and Thalia's murder. The killer had been a creature of habit. Precise and sick, enjoying the retelling of his ritual.

Nobody would be able to understand the meticulous and disturbing mind of a serial killer. She'd tried and failed. His words played over and over in her head. The mind-numbing pain from the injuries she'd suffered in her arm, her chest, still bothered her today.

"Please, Gracie," he said, roughly. "I need to know."

She refused to tell him the truth while facing his back.

She needed to look into his eyes and see for herself how much information he needed to learn so that he could accept the truth and heal.

Sliding off the motorcycle, she inhaled deeply, steadying her legs. Then, she put her foot on the peg and swung her leg over the gas tank and sat in front of him. The added height put her eye to eye with him.

Studying him, she asked, "Have you talked with the others about Thalia?"

"I don't want to hear it from them." He hardened his mouth. "I want to hear it from you."

Her throat closed with emotions, and she swallowed. How could she hurt him with the truth? He would only punish himself for not finding Thalia sooner.

She'd seen how the other Notus members lived with the guilt. It was different for Rich. He'd loved Thalia as only a man loved a woman.

"Death doesn't always strike fear in people." She moistened her lips. "Sometimes, the promise of relief is the sweetest gift that they pray for."

His pupils constricted and he exhaled harshly. "Don't."

She cupped his whiskered face, needing him to understand. "She thought of the good things in her life. The people who loved her. But, at the worst, she prayed, and her mind took her to a place where nothing could hurt her. Where she could escape."

A tear fell down into his beard.

She swiped her thumb across his cheekbone, drying the path of the teardrop. All the hardness and fierceness he'd displayed over the last couple of months came out as raw pain. He was killing himself trying to hold everything in since his return to the club. She was afraid the pressure would explode, and he'd blow, and she wasn't strong enough to save him.

His gulp hammered her soul. "How much did she—?"

She shushed him. "Thalia's at rest."

His mouth hardened. "How much did he do to you?"

She moved her hand away from him, and he grabbed her wrist. Not in force, but to keep her from withdrawing and not answering his question. The last thing she wanted to do was have him compare her to Thalia. To understand what she went through, he'd realize Thalia had gone through the same thing, but more. She was the lucky one. That was something she had to convince herself of every day and gave her survivor's remorse. It was unfair that her mother had to die. That Thalia had to die. That young, blonde girls had to die because of a man's sick fascination with Gracie's mother.

"Physically, he broke my wrist." With her free hand, she unbuttoned the top five buttons on her shirt, opening her chest up to his inspection. "And, this."

His gaze lowered and he let go of her wrist. Aware of his disgust, she raised her shaking hands and struggled with re-buttoning her top.

"Don't." He pulled her hands away and then trailed his rough finger over the scar on her chest. "The police." He grimaced. "Thalia had this done to her, too."

"It was my mother's name. All the women, and girls, he kidnapped had the same thing done to them," she whispered, hating that she wore her experience on her body.

He flinched and raised his gaze to her eyes. "I'm glad you survived."

His honesty, after everything she'd told him, hit her out of nowhere. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. There were days, weeks, months, years afterward where she prayed for relief, wishing she would've been killed instead of living with the knowledge of what Jenson had done to her mother and the others.

That he could draw empathy for her while dealing with his pain learning about Thalia spoke volumes to her. She believed with her whole heart that whatever nightmare, whatever evil, whatever memory that kept him from opening up to the bikers of Notus would someday be fixable.

"I'm sorry." She could no longer hold back the tears. "I wish —"

"Don't." He inhaled deeply.

She looked down at her hands, encircled in Rich's larger, rougher hands. "I wish you'd let the others be a part of your life. They love you."

"I can't." He leaned forward and laid his forehead against hers. "They're my life, and I can't."

His breathing mixed with hers. She barely heard his admission.

Her stomach fluttered at the closeness and sharing. It felt good to be the person who could help someone else. She didn't want him to leave town.

As an outsider associated with Notus MC, she'd quietly listened to the talk about Rich for the last four years. She'd witnessed the highs when a lead came in on Rich's whereabouts and the lows of disappointment and worry when it was like he'd disappeared into thin air. Club members had broken out into fights when emotions hit too close to home as a way to hide how deeply their feelings ran for their missing member. There were times when she was blessed with memories from Chuck about his friendship with Rich, and she'd listened to him while relevantly wanting to know the man who demanded such loyalty from his friends.

To her, Rich had become a heartbroken hero that existed but was never seen or heard from, and the likelihood of meeting such a man would never happen.

She closed her eyes, taking in his closeness. Their pulses matched. She had no idea how she could tell, but she was aware. And, that awareness went all through her body, consuming her.

He came with his own problems, and she was damaged.

A shuddering breath rolled through Rich, and he moved, kissing her forehead. She blinked her eyes open, expecting him to say something or touch her again. He needed comfort, and she needed him.

He scooped her under her armpits and lifted her from the motorcycle. She wanted to stay here, on top of the world where their problems and individual history couldn't touch them.

"We need to go. I only have enough gas in the tank to get us back." He started the bike.

When he refused to look at her, she climbed on behind him and placed her hands on his sides. He grabbed her wrists and wrapped her arms around him, then patted her clutched hands. Her heart jumped at him not dropping her like a bad memory. She expected nothing after sharing her experience with Roy Jenkins, and Rich more than delivered.

He'd listened, and he never pushed her away.