Inherent

From the now opened curtains, warm sunlight filters in along with a slight, cool morning summer breeze. I inhale the fresh air and relax into the sheets. This is probably where Harry would want me to stay too, to rest. Yes, it would be so nice to stay here all day like he is set on doing. Or at least for a good long while—it would be a welcomed change from the business that I’ve grown used to. Even after my last semester ended, it felt like there was absolutely no time to have for myself, to just relax like right now.

And it’s nice, though the only reason I’m not incessantly calling the detectives on my case and trying to get something done with the house is because of Harry. After all that has happened, I just want this one day for us. We need it. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

It actually takes everything in me, resisting the urge to go home and try and salvage whatever can be saved. I want to scrub at the spray painted wall until layers of the saturated drywall come off with the horrid black and red paint. I want all the glass swept and discarded, all the broken furniture tossed, I want absolutely zero trace that anything negative ever took place there, in Grandma’s house, except for maybe the missing furniture, television, and the photographs with missing frames.

Truthfully though, I don’t know if I can even step foot in the place, let alone set about cleaning the disaster.

So it’s quickly and wearily decided that no, it isn’t too much to ask to just have today. But with my luck and how things have been going as of late, the premise of taking a day off to relax, heal, appreciate Harry… it sounds like some long awaited respite. Too good to be true. As I think of all this, laying here in his bed, it reminds me of home.

I think of how I miss it, but not its current state. The untouched one. And I tear up over it, over the fact that it doesn’t even feel like my home any longer; that a malevolent, dangerous mark has been placed on it, tainting all the good memories I have inside those walls, beckoning more evil to come inside.

Harry and I took many steps there—leaps and bounds. We broke past the countless obstacles we came across in finding our way to each other. And then, of course, there are all the memories growing up, with Grandma and Caleb. Mostly happy memories, memories from the earlier years when we were younger and Caleb was happy. Or at least not as sad and sick as he was before he died.

Those can never be taken from me, but now it feels like nothing good can ever come out of that house again. Without Grandma and my brother, and now this… I swallow hard, eyes smarting with the effort of holding back useless tears.

Thinking about all this only makes me angry, and the tears I keep from being shed turn from grief-filled to burning with an anger I’ve never quite felt so fiercely. It was the one safe place that I came to love and think of as home after Dad, after being uprooted from New York as only a small, vulnerable, and sick child.

Someone so easily took that, ripped it right out from under me, and for the first time I feel an insatiable fury for this fact rather than the fear and sadness that previously overwhelmed me. More than anything I want to find the person that did this. I want to ask them how they could do such a thing and why, ask them if they are proud of themselves as a person. As a horrible snake of a person.

I want justice. I want Dad’s rings and Grandma’s jewelry box, and I want my home back. I want to turn back time and stop this all from happening—if I could, I’d go back to over a month ago, before the fallout with Harry occurred at The Castle, and I wouldn’t have run, and I would’ve sat him down and told him that I was hiding things, too, and that for right then it was okay that he didn’t want to share whatever was happening or had already happened in his life.

So, so many regrets in such a short amount of time. It puts things into perspective, and now I suppose all that can be done is move on. With Harry for support, it will be easier.

All of this leads me to remember my phone, to see if Alex replied or if there has been any word at all yet from the detectives. After another peaceful moment curled in the blankets I slowly and carefully sit up and slide off the bed, much more relaxed than I was minutes ago when all that was running though my half-conscious mind were fears of being late to work. Simmering with unquenched thirst for justice perhaps, but otherwise calm.

Now I start to wonder where Harry could have put it last night after he stole it from my pocket through his unique, seductive charm.

Unsurprisingly—but still a little jarring—it utterly eludes me. I can’t for the life of me remember what happened to it. Warily, I glance toward each night table that sits on either side of his bed, wondering with a slight frown how intrusive it would be to give a quick peek inside, just to see if my phone might hidden inside.

Quickly it is decided against after considering that I wouldn’t want other people going through my own drawers… then again, though, I realize it wouldn’t apply to Harry. He could go through my underwear drawer if he felt so inclined, and I would most likely get through it with nothing more than a raging blush.

At odds with myself, I swivel toward the open door and contemplate just going out and asking him. The smell of bacon wafts in from all the way out in the kitchen—his breakfasts are always to die for, and I know he must be busy with it. Since his home is still very new to me, I feel too uncomfortable to go rifling through his personal belongings just yet. Just as I’m heading toward the door, however, I have the sudden recollection of Harry’s pants.

If my phone was anywhere, it would be stuffed in the pocket of his jeans sat in the bathroom hamper. I would have recalled him putting it anywhere else, I am certain of it. Before going back into the bathroom, I give the room another once over just to be sure it isn’t anywhere in plain sight, then pad in to the hamper, searching through my clothes at the top before feeling the rough material of his jeans near the bottom. I pull them up by the waistband but furrow my brows when I feel a significant weight to them. First I find my phone in the front pocket, just where I guessed it to be, but the jeans still feel unusually heavy.

I pull them out of the hamper fully to get a better look—while Harry has mile-long legs, there’s no way the material could be this heavy. Cautiously I shake them, aware that he has his own phone with him out in the kitchen, and notice that it is most weighted at the waist. Being ever curious, of course, I can’t help but to investigate, turning the jeans inside out to get a better look.

Not for long, though—my heart stutters and the pants are dropped as if they’ve personally offended me. I gasp loudly as I peer at the object now on clear display on top of the jeans rumpled on the floor, only feet from me.

A gun.

A handgun; large, silver, and deadly, it sits there looking totally harmless, maybe even a little affronted itself that I dropped it so suddenly. It sits somewhat concealed in a holster that looks like it is discreetly attached to his belt, ensuring it wouldn’t fall out of place.

All rational thought leaves me in this instant. In fact, not a single comprehensive thought runs through my mind. I can’t even understand the very clear, very real fact presented right before my eyes—that Harry carries a gun.

Harry has a gun.

For nearly a minute my body remains frozen in place, absolutely thoughtless and reeling, and I don’t even hear Harry enter the bedroom or call out my name. When he appears in the open doorway, I snap my head up and stare at him wordlessly, wide-eyed.

“Jules…” he trails off, seeing how shaken I am, and only clues in when he glances down, catches his jeans crumpled on the floor with the gun easily visible on top. On full display.

I don’t know what to do, not in this initial panic, when he is right here and the discovery has only just been made. Harry—this Harry, the thoughtful, caring man who always manages to be so soft and gentle with me despite his rough edges, owns a weapon. Takes it with him. It’s impossible to understand, and I fail again at trying to wrap my head around it.

Why on earth does he have such a thing? Now, I have no idea what to think, where to start, or even how to act with him. Is this the same Harry in front of me or was there someone else all along underneath that, someone much darker and dangerous, someone capable of bringing harm to someone?

“Jules,” he says again, slow and quiet, holding his hands up in a non-threatening gesture, aware of just how terrified I am. When there is no sign on my part of acknowledgment, however, he takes a measured, cautious step forward. With an abrupt gasp that mingles with a shocked yelp—the first sound I’ve emitted since my discovery—I teeter backward and away from him. He halts instantly, eyes clouded in such a way that leaves it difficult to read his emotions, but his small frown and pinched brow make it obvious that he is anxious.

“Don’t, don’t,” I gasp out. It suddenly pains me to put distance between us, when up until now it was easy to seek and find nothing but comfort and protection in his closeness. Now it feels as though he might be bringing the danger to me.

Freshly knocked from my initial shock I shakily point at the weapon, speaking in a fearful stammer. “What… what the hell is that?”

“Please, Jules,” he speaks softly, paused a healthy distance away from both me and the gun. It hits me that I wish it wasn’t anywhere near us, that I don’t want him to have it even though despite the shock I can’t so much as imagine him using it against me.

But I most certainly don’t want to go near it either, so I fitfully glance toward it, as if to reassure myself it is still there and it won’t harm either of us then look back up to him, watching him and his movements closely.

He notices, peers back at me with new hurt sort of sadness in his own eyes, finally letting his careful mask slip. Oh, now I feel guilty, but have no other choice but to hold my ground. There’s nothing about this situation that is my fault; I’ve done nothing wrong except for maybe making this discovery in the first place.

Harry is the one who owns a freaking gun, I remind myself. But that most certainly isn’t a very reassuring thought, either.

“Just, please stay calm. There’s an explanation for this, I promise you.”

“You have a gun, Harry.” My voice is shrill, his vague, cryptic answer not helping very much at all. “How—you—did you have that with you all day? Yesterday.”

Slowly but surely the dots have been connected, or at least the ones that I am aware of. If it was in his jeans from last night, he must have had it with him from the very start. From the moment he found me in the living room. As all of this comes to me in a split second, I become more and more hysteric. How didn’t I know? It seems like it should have been glaringly obvious that Harry was toting around a deadly weapon right next to me. Even around the police.

Oh, god.

Looking at the holster it is secured in, however, it appears to be designed for total concealment, like it would be perfectly hidden beneath the waistband of his jeans.

His silence as he stands there, probably searching for an answer to explain this all away, is enough confirmation for me. Yes, he did—all day. He stood right next to me in possession of a gun and acted utterly normal.

I swallow, feeling stuck, almost trapped. Not by Harry but by the gun on the floor. It is solid, concrete proof that things aren’t as okay as I’ve so desperately wanted to believe.

From the looks of what is presented before me, with a gun between us and Harry guilty and remorseful yet not surprised, his world not totally shaken like mine, things have never been okay.

That, too, I always suspected: especially after that night at The Castle.

“I haven’t always carried it. Only lately… after, after you left.” It’s hard for him to talk about—to talk about with me. And it’s even harder for me to hear.

Almost too overwhelming, I blink slowly and bite back tears, tense and trembling. But I need to hear it from him, he has to tell me something, his silence unnerving more than anything else. Alex’s warning jabs at the back of my mind and now I wonder, somewhat hysterically, if any of it is true.

What else is there left for me to think with such compelling evidence sitting right in front of me?

Feeling faint already I shake my head and skittishly skate around Harry’s pants with the damned gun sitting on top of them, and give him a wide berth as I exit the bathroom. It surprises me that he lets me brush past him, but I can’t even bear to look at him, to see if he reaches out for me, because now I’m hurt and scared and I need him, but what am I supposed to do? Run into his arms after this? I can’t. I can’t, and that hurts more than anything.

“Julia,” he calls after me, sounding pained. I ball my hands into fists and hold them tightly at my sides, focussing on digging my nails into my palms to keep from crying.

Quickly I whirl around to face him, needing more distance between us and that gun. I might really pass out if I’m forced to look at it again. Harry is right behind me, and it’s impossible to step back and put distance between us, even now. So I stand my ground. Jaw clenched in an effort to maintain at least a little composure. “Just—just tell me why you have it.”

“It isn’t that simple. Just sit down, please. This is what I wanted to discuss with you earlier. You can’t go.”

“No,” I all but snap, but my trembling tone destroys any of the feigned strength I might have been trying to convey. “It was a simple question. Please, Harry. Answer it.”

How could I sit down at a time like this? I need answers, and I need them before I absolutely freak the hell out. Just what the hell is going on?

It doesn’t escape me that I’m being just a bit of a hypocrite, either, seeing as I am the master of having complicated answers to the simplest of questions. Time and time again I have evaded Harry’s questions, kept my past buried and my heart to myself—but this is so very extreme in comparison. There’s no more hiding that gun, and the reason he has it.

It might be unfair to demand answers straight away, without any pause to calm down, but he has a gun. And my mind is jumping to wild conclusions that could very well be true. That’s what scares me the most, too, has me looking toward the closed bedroom door for escape. I hastily attempt to piece more of this situation together, but it proves impossible. I’m in the dark about so much—the only person I know who could be connected is Lucy. From her visit to yesterday’s burglary to how on earth Harry could be possibly connected to any of it.

Connected enough, dangerous enough to carry a gun.

I feel myself sway, my heart lurches, and my vision blurs. Harry, as always, is much more aware of my body’s reaction to this stress than I am, and he calls my name in quiet panic. I barely hear him.

In the next instant of my awareness I hear him swear before I feel his gentle, cautious hold at my waist, and he is leading me over to the bed. Soon the soft sheets are felt underneath me, and he keeps on hand poised at the small of my back. With my line of sight still blurred and clouded, I lean into him for support.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Jules.” I don’t know what he is apologizing for, but he sounds angry. Angry at himself. He traces his fingers along my jaw, stirring a little more awareness in me, brings me back, and I can’t help but to let him.

Despite all that has unfolded there’s no denying that the mere sound of his voice brings me out of my hazy, swimming mind, and farther and farther away from unconsciousness. I know that if I fainted two days in a row, I would probably be admitted to the hospital. For observation.

“I—I’m okay,” I say before he can ask. Okay in the sense that my consciousness isn’t going to slip again. Most definitely not okay in any other sense of the world. At all.

“This is my fault,” he sighs, chewing his lip, more remorseful than ever. “You’re already hurt. You don’t need this added stress—shit, I’m sorry.”

Now, before I have the chance to say anything at all in reply he continues, rushed yet firm. “I’ve never done anything to hurt you, and I never will. You know that right?”

It is with this, with the remembrance of yesterday, how I saw the burglar’s retreating figure clad in baggy jeans, white sneakers and a black hoodie just before Harry showed up, that proves to me he is innocent when it comes to the burglary. He arrived on his motorcycle from the total opposite direction, not even more than a minute later.

With an inner sigh of much needed relief, I realize that my worst fear—that he might be behind any of this—is utterly impossible. I knew, I had suspicions that he may not be squeaky clean… god, it’s obvious he wasn’t, and that was confirmed the night at The Castle. With Lucy’s warning just days ago. I knew there might have been a dark part to Harry that I have never seen, and all along I was ready to accept it whenever he opened up to me.

But the way it happened today, just now, has left me with such a reeling shock when I have already been so on edge from all that has already gone wrong, and I reacted with what could only be a rattled, hysteric fear. This is the first time I’ve ever even been close to a gun, let alone unknowingly touching it in an innocent search for my phone. It takes huge effort to calm down slightly, and everything within me is screaming to react the way my panicked mind wants me to, but I don’t. No, Harry can’t be involved in any of this. Yesterday’s theory that Vivian conjured up keeps running through my head on repeat. It seemed absolutely bogus and impossible at the time… but today, today… I am terrified at the possible implications one simple object could have over my life, over my life with Harry.

There’s a gun in the bathroom. Harry’s gun, which he carries with him.

“Jules,” he pleads, well aware of my racing thoughts. Anyone with any amount of sense would be thinking the same things. “I would never hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you. You must believe me. Please.”

“I—I don’t know.”

Only in retrospect do I realize how bad that sounds, because I’m not in my right mind right now and that wasn’t a direct reply to his pleading and clearly rhetoric question. I just don’t know anything, and that’s all that can come out of my mouth in this second.

A sharp, shaky inhale is taken through my mouth, and I only now feel the moisture on my cheeks—with the inability to look him in the eye, I quickly swipe away the evidence of my fear, disappointment and sadness, and make for the bedroom door.

“You can’t leave.” The loud demand sounds more like a desperate plea than an order, but Harry swiftly lodges himself between the door and me, blocking any possible exit. “Please, Julia. You can hate me, you can yell at me all you want. You don’t even have to look at me. Just—you can’t leave.”

The apprehensive lilt on each of his words tells me that this isn’t for some obscure selfish benefit of his, but for another reason entirely and with some rationality I sigh, run a hand through my hair, and finally look up at him.

I don’t really know what I was planning on doing, anyway. Or where I would go, or even if I wanted to leave the apartment at all. When such panic comes over me, however, it’s my first instinct to run. To create some space between myself and the huge, looming issue. Right now I feel trapped, and I need some space.

But I realize that I don’t want to leave, because it feels as though I would be walking into something much, much worse than what has been thrust in front of me here. Something much more dangerous, because there is a reason Harry has that gun, and there’s also a reason my house was broken into, and none of it looks very good for me. At all.

More than anything, all I want is answers, but Harry seems hesitant to give them. When he reaches for me I flinch back, heart breaking as I catch the hurt resurface in his eyes. “Why not?” I ask quickly, trying to cover my reaction as best I can. “Why can’t I leave?”

He sighs, mirroring my actions and running an agitated hand through his hair before looking me in the eye. There’s honesty in his green depths, and the sight is calming. “Because you’re safe here.”

It’s obvious what remains unsaid. That I’m not safe anywhere else. Now his persistence in my staying here until the house is sorted makes more sense, though I honestly hadn’t questioned it before anyhow, having been okay with the plan. Now I don’t know what to do. Not yet.

This man with a gun is telling me I’ll be safe with him… but I can’t break him down that much. This is my Harry, the rough yet sensitive man with a past he has tried to keep as hidden as I have with my own. And he, for some reason, feels threatened enough to carry with him a weapon, a weapon to hurt someone else with. To defend himself, most likely. It would be selfish and cruel of me to just leave during such a time.

As much as of a shock it is to find such a thing here, in our little safe haven where everything feels okay and like none of the dangers of the world outside can touch us, evidence of just how wrong things are—that’s what that gun is—I’m positive that Harry is no threat to me. Not now, not yesterday, not ever.

Now is not the time to break down or run away, either. Now is the time to seek answers, to listen.

“Explain,” I say quietly, still tense but no longer quite so on edge, blocking out the fact that there’s an object sitting in the next room that can take a person’s life away in the blink of an eye, before they can even comprehend that their life has been stolen from them. With another thick swallow, I watch him closely and ignore my fluctuating heartbeat. I’m calming, now, no reason to worry about fainting. Harry would easily see what was happening again and intervene before it got that far, anyway. So, deciding to do for him what he’s done for me so many times before now, I slowly turn and retreat to sit on the edge of the bed, doing as he earlier asked.

I will wait for him to find the words to say, because I know firsthand what a difficult task that alone can be. I get the same feeling from him as I myself had just last night, before I broke down and told him of my heart. This terrifying dear mixed with dread that whatever he’s about to say could break our relationship, that’s what he is feeling. And even when I don’t know even a quarter of the story, I don’t want that to happen. Even with a gun standing between us, I honestly don’t believe there’s anything he could possibly say that would make me leave. While fearing the ultimate worst, I make the decision not to run. Not to leave him.

Cautious, he approaches and sits next to me, a small amount of distance between us—which shows how careful he is being not to spook me, because usually he wedge himself so close to me that we can feel each other’s breathing. In his lap, his large hands fidget, one on his thigh while the other thumbs the blanket that practically hangs off the bed. He sighs and angles his body to look me in the eye, his knee brushing against my leg in the process. “Do you remember, not long after we met—I told you I moved to the states when I was eighteen?”

I do. I easily recall it, when we were at The Uptown. Sat on one of its highest balconies overlooking the entire theater, we talked. He hinted at his rough upbringing in England, left me to assume the gist of how and why.

I nod, as slowly and carefully as he enunciated his quiet question. Back then when we hardly knew each other and we were sharing the wonderment of being in such a place, with each other, it had been enough. At the time, I was surprised he shared as much as he did about himself so quickly. At The Uptown, it was like he shut out the rest of the world, and there with me he could talk about those things, things that were obviously painful for him.

“Well, that’s the start of it. I never wanted to tell you more than that, more than my life here, because once people know… they tend to become almost as tangled up in it as I am. Or was.”

Such a foreboding claim chills me, and I do remember how after that he didn’t share much about his past aside from the moment he moved to Chicago three years ago onward. Anything past that was left for me to guess—and of course, being so withdrawn myself, since I know how hard it is to reveal such sensitive things about oneself only because someone is prying, I never pushed him for more. I figured that maybe he would come to me when he was ready, but this… today… certainly hadn’t been within the realm of possibility either. Maybe it was wrong to assume he was like me in that way, and maybe I should have pushed him more, like that night at The Castle. I know it was wrong to leave back then, but maybe I shouldn’t have let that go. Maybe I should have pushed harder.

“My father. He took me in. I hadn’t heard from him for years, and it was no more than a week after my birthday that he called. Made me an offer,” he pauses uneasily, jaw twitching and eyes cast downward as he recalls such a pivotal memory with disgust. “He said he would take me in. For a price.”

“A price,” I echo the ominous words, frowning as the pit in my stomach doubles in size. That man doesn’t sound like very much of a father at all.

“Yes. I had to work for him. Said I’d make enough money to support myself and my mum at home.”

Things, for a long moment, come to a standstill. Harry falls silent, the implications of his admission hanging thickly between us. It takes all of the courage I have in me to force the next question past my chapped lips. “What… what kind of work was it?”

Truthfully, I don’t even want to ask. It’s as if somewhere in the back of my mind I already know, or at least could make an educated guess. The sick, churning feeling bottoms out in my stomach. But Harry has more to say first, more to explain before he answers, and I choose to listen attentively.

“She was on the verge of losing the house.”

“Your mother?”

He nods solemnly. So their problems had been financial. My sympathy for him grows, and so does my understanding for why he gave in to his father. “Didn’t help that I wasn’t exactly the model son, either. Back then, at the time… it seemed like a good deal. I was young, stupid, and reckless. And more desperate than anything. Hell, I didn’t even know what I had gotten myself into until I was actually there. He wouldn’t tell me until I was in Nevada, sitting in front of him and the club.”

“The club?” When I hear the phrase normal innocent things come to mind, like maybe a book club or something of the sort. Then, however, our conversation with the detective yesterday comes back to me quickly and with striking force. It’s a memory that causes me to stiffen. “Like—like an outlaw motorcycle club?”

That’s what the detective said yesterday. Except he used the term ‘gang’ instead of something as casual as ‘club’, but it’s quite obvious that Harry is choosing his words carefully in an effort not to needlessly set me off.

But he isn’t hesitant in the slightest to give me my answer, however, and lends even more to just how sincere he is. “Yes. That’s what it is.”

“A gang… The Rogues.” I say it flatly, refusing to sugar-coat it. He sighs through a nod, and I can’t keep it in any longer. I lurch off the bed, one hand on my forehead in pure panic while the other is held out from my side. Harry watches me, painfully, knowing that if he tried to touch me right now, it would be useless—I would only flinch away again, unable to take my usual comfort in him like I so want to. Or rather, it’s more that I can’t let myself. Not yet.

“Tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with my house being broken into?” It hurts to ask, to even accuse Harry of such a horrid crime. But he’s already said so, that he has been involved with the very gang whose tag is spray painted on my living room wall. What the heck else am I supposed to assume, after having this dropped on me?

“No,” he denies it instantly, fiercely, jolting as if even the notion of hurting me in such a way pains him physically. He almost leaps from the bed too but restrains himself, fisting the sheets in his hands as he huffs intensely, restraining himself. I know, however, that he isn’t restraining himself from me. He is restraining himself from the vile excuse for a person who tore apart my home yesterday, the person who planted such doubts about him in my mind. “No, Julia. I swear to you. I haven’t been involved—I’ve been out of the club for over a year now.”

I believe him. I do. The only time he has ever withheld information from me was that night that tore us apart in the first place, weeks ago, and even then he refused to lie. About any of this. He didn’t even deny it. He wouldn’t lie to me about this. If he really wanted to do that he could have denied any involvement with the club in the first place. But he didn’t—he owned up to it, told me the truth, so I believe him and his promise that he is out. Now it just leaves a hundred more questions, and without any answers. Answers that perhaps not even he can give me.

Slowly Harry stands, and his eyes meet mine intensely as he speaks. I see the sincerity there too, the truth. My shoulders slump some in both relief and defeat but I shake my head, fear rapidly growing in my chest at what this could all mean. If he’s been out of their clutches for so long, what could they want now? The possibilities are terrifying.

“Why—why did they do that, then? Are they after you? Are they after me?” With each question I become more and more hysteric, frantic. And Harry can’t hold himself back any longer—from me, from soothing me in ways that only he can.

“I’ve got someone looking into it. I promise, baby, no harm will ever come to you. I’d protect you with my life. Come here.”

Before I can move he’s already pulling me close, pressing his fingertips into the small of my back and sighing into my hair. I resist, only for a second, because with so much panic fueled adrenaline flowing through my system my body refuses to relax. And I don’t know the full story yet, if there’s more, if I should trust all that he says. As I slowly ease into his embrace, however, a split second yet defining decision is made: I’m not leaving.

His past is terrible, dangerous, and utterly terrifying, but that hasn’t been his life for over a year. Then the man, the Harry involved with a law-breaking deadly motorcycle gang isn’t the Harry that I fell in love with. He wasn’t that man when we met. And though that time in his past is and always will be a part of him, it doesn’t define his entire being.

If I let it, it would be the same as allowing my own heart to define me. On a much more intense scale, of course, but it is with this reason that I absolutely cannot turn my back on him. I don’t think it was ever really a possibility, anyway. My house may be trashed and the last pieces I have of my father stolen, but Harry’s past is to blame. Not the Harry here, in front of me, the man holding me tight and silently begging me to stay.

Now, I suppose it’s a matter of whether or not I can swallow the fact that he was—or is— capable of such things. I trust his word that he has changed. There is solid evidence throughout these past months that we’ve been together that he has, but there still remains so much mystery, questions he still has to answer before I can even begin to accept all of this... but I can. I’m confident of at least that much.

And it’s with this that I sigh softly, locking my arms around him and resting my head against his chest. He’s still shirtless, but he doesn’t see, concerned about that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Jules. I don’t know why this is happening yet, but I’m going to find out.”

He sighs, too, holding me tighter, constantly trying to pull me closer as though he is unwilling to ever let me go again. “I’ll protect you. I promise you.”

Finally my rushed, shallow breathing starts to slow and deepen. I tighten my hold around him and close my eyes, nodding. He’s scared, I can tell; not of the danger I have only just discovered, but scared that I will leave.

But I’m not. Maybe some others in my position would, but I’m not just some random person, and Harry certainly isn’t someone who can be cast away without a second thought. No, he isn’t, has never been that person to me. He gave me his love and acceptance when I needed it most, and perhaps didn’t even deserve it myself; now it’s my turn to do the same for him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him quietly and try to pull away to reassure him, but he only pulls me closer. “I barely know what’s going on, but this—this isn’t going to make me leave.”

These are brave words in the face of such uncertainty, but I mean every last one of them. Harry himself pretty well said the very same to me not so long ago. He kept that promise, and I’m going to keep this one too.

“Are you sure? Julia, I—I know I should have told you. But you’d have been safer if the club… if none of that existed in our life. I’m past it, have been, and I thought it best that you didn’t have any possible connection to it whatsoever.”

“I know.” It’s clear why he kept it from me. I understand, having used a similar sort of reasoning when I chose to keep my heart secret. Back then I didn’t want to hurt him, couldn’t bear the chance of having it come between all that we built together. We both kept things from each other, and both of us are wrong for it.

From here on, I decide, we will only move forward.

“It looks like we don’t have much of a say in the matter now. They obviously feel… very strongly, about me.” My voice shakes, but I refuse to show any more fear than that. Now is the time to be strong, not to cower.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he says firmly, pulling back now to gaze into my eyes steadily. “And I know that is their mark on the wall, but something about this doesn’t feel right. I don’t think it’s anyone acting on behalf of the club, Jules. That’s not how they operate.”

“Who else could it be?” At the sound of this being more complicated and twisted than originally thought, I begin to all but cling to him, eyes wide as hands clamouring to hold onto him. One ends up clutching him around his waist while the other rises to his shoulder, urging him closer.

Swallowing, Harry continues to peer at me intensely, as though trying to decide how much to tell me. I’ve already gathered that he probably won’t give me specifics, won’t even chance it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try. “I’m not sure yet. But the club doesn’t prey on or steal from the innocent—it’s one of their written rules. And you’ve done absolutely nothing to force their hand, so I think someone is trying to make it look like the club is behind all of this. When in fact they’re not.”

“So—someone is trying to frame a gang. I can see that working out really well for them.”

My sarcastic attempt at humour actually causes him to chuckle softly, but I can see the darkness beneath that. The anger, the fury at such a close brush with danger that I came to. I can see that he wants to hurt whoever caused all of this damage, and I can see that he wants justice. Revenge. While I don’t breach this subject now, I file it for later.

Right now, though, I try to slowly absorb all the information he has been nothing but forthcoming with so far. I wonder if he would have told me this yesterday as soon as it happened, if I hadn’t fainted and hit my head. If all of this really could have been avoided.

“But why? I just don’t understand why they’re doing this.” There’s a desperate pleading note to my questioning, which took a sharp turn from the light tone I just used to joke with. He doesn’t have that answer for me, though, because he doesn’t know yet himself.

“I’ll know soon. It won’t be long before this is sorted. I won’t let anyone even near you—you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Even when faced with a dangerous gang from his past which has apparently targeted us both, Harry is utterly selfless and thinks only of my safety. I feel reassured by this, that he hasn’t morphed into some unrecognizable, dangerous, violent man. The Harry holding onto me is still the man I fell in love with except a few wrinkled, dark parts of his past have been pieced together—but still the same man.

My trust in him is rapidly regaining. Because after all, there was a completely different way this all could have gone. Upon the gun being discovered he could have shut down much like he did that night weeks ago. He could gotten angry, shouted, and he could have pushed me away again. He didn’t though; he completely opened up to me, and through that my love for him has only grown too.

It’s funny, now that there are no more unknown variables in our relationship I feel closer to him than ever. We’re stronger, stable. We know every last piece of each other, the parts of ourselves we have never shared with anyone else. And that’s a beautiful thing, I think. To love each other so much, that not even mass amounts of danger could tear us apart.

I’m staying. And though I don’t think even that was ever up for debate that doesn’t mean I don’t still have questions, though. Questions that need to be answered.

“Julia,” Harry murmurs my name quietly, calling my attention. My eyes meet his, his gaze intense and serious. “Please tell me if you feel faint. This is why I wanted to sit you down and explain this bit by bit. I couldn’t keep it from you any longer,” he breathes a soft sigh, shaking his head at how this all managed to unfold so gracelessly. It can only be described as a mess—a mess, that is slowly being cleaned. Gently, he leads me back to sit down at the bed, much closer this time and keeping his hand in mine.

“Because at this point it’s safest for you to know. This way, it’s all out in the open.”

Of course, there is yet another way Harry could have said this, that I would have been in more danger had I gone on being left in the dark, but he obviously is choosing his words quite carefully again so as not to upset me any more than this all already has.

I see the full magnitude of this situation. Very clearly. I take a deep, steadying breath. Now it’s my turn to pick what I say with the same caution.

“But you have to tell me, Harry—” He can’t just leave me to my own wild conclusions. Taking my hand in a gentle hold, he nods in encouragement. “What—what did you do, for the club?”

“I…” he pauses, collects himself for just a moment, gaze weary but truthful. “I was, as that detective would call me—the enforcer. If anyone had a debt to pay to the club or went against them, it was my job to set them straight.”

The blood can be felt quite literally draining from my face as I comprehend this, knowing very well what he means by the gingerly worded ‘set them straight’. Instantly, I glance down to his hand laid on my lap which cradles my own lightly. I trace over his knuckles, picturing them bruised and bloodied from inflicting pain upon others. It takes everything not to cry at such volatile thoughts, at things which I never even imagined were a possibility.

“You hurt people, right?” he chews on his lip again, surely making it sore with so much stressed attention, but shows no sign of discomfort for his own wellbeing.

“I did. At the time it didn’t feel like that. I was filled with nonsense from the club. I thought they deserved it, because of what terrible people they actually were, but it still wasn’t right. When I realized that is when I left.”

A younger, angrier, much more violent image of Harry comes to me now. A Harry who maybe valued the opinion of his father more than he let on, an angry Harry who thought he was doing some sort of good in setting other straight, a Harry who only wanted to provide for his family and didn’t realize how terrible it all was until much later. And god, I have sympathy for him. Because he’d been so young and desperate and he tried to find some good in all that he had to do. His father took advantage of his son, who at eighteen was still a boy—that much is clear. And now it’s even harder for me not to cry, not to take him into a long and tight hug and tell him that it’s okay, that I understand.

Instead, I try to clear the air a little more first. “And you haven’t been involved since? For a year now?”

I need him to repeat it, to know without any doubt that the man I met was the real Harry, the one I know he is past all of this, and not that of a violent biker.

“I haven’t done any work for them since then. I’ve been managing the club and investing, and that’s it. I swear to you.”

The sincerity reflected in his clear green gaze is enough proof for me, and not even through a forced, narrowed gaze do I find any semblance of a hole in his words. All I detect is honesty, desperate honesty, and with the slumping of my shoulders I collapse into him. It’s instinctual for him to pull me closer, us both finding more comfort in each other than we could ever describe.

“I believe you,” I mumble, nose all but buried in the crook of his neck and my mouth brushes against his collarbone while I speak.

As his thumb draws circular patterns at my side, he continues. “If anything, I think that might be why this is happening. Someone doesn’t like that I got out without any consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” I ask shakily. This scares me, perhaps more than I am scared for myself. I cling to him, near hysteric again now that the possibility of harm coming to Harry is so real, and I am defenceless. There’s no way I could protect him, not from a gang—and he wouldn’t let me, anyway.

He hushes me as soon as he feels me panic, and easily lifts me onto his lap with soft words of reassurance. I loop my arms around his neck and hold him tightly. “It’s alright. I’ll be okay, you’ll be absolutely fine too. That I can guarantee.”

“I know,” I say softly. Holding him here, now, feels safe, but it’s fleeting and we can’t hide away here forever. “I’m just scared.”

Almost like an intense, outraged heat, I can feel the anger radiate from him as if he sweats it from his very pores. He is furious, yet keeps calm, keeps it all together with a soft, gentle touch to my back to press me closer and sigh.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he promises, calm and confident, not allowing any doubt to seep through. “This will be fixed, and you won’t be involved with any of it ever again.”

“I’m worried about you, though.” I am just a bystander in all of this, really. Harry is the main target, and I feel sick at such a thought. Someone wants to hurt him, and we don’t even know who it could be or why. We don’t know anything, and that might be the scariest part of all.

“Don’t,” he orders sharply, pushing me back to look in in my eyes, a hardened storm brewing in his own. “I will take care of myself. You are my first priority. Your safety comes first.”

Before his. I want to argue so badly; now is when I want to shout at him, tell him he is out of his freaking mind. Whatever this person wants, it isn’t me. They might be trying to scare him or frame the club but in any case there is a huge chance he will get hurt. And here he is, worrying about me. It’s insane, and just so very Harry. I don’t know why I expected any less.

It takes a long begrudging moment for me to agree, and even then it is with pursed lips and pleading eyes. “Okay,” I finally cave and only because I’m taken off guard by his fervour, but it will prove impossible not to worry over him. Day and night.

“It was different for me, anyway. My father knows he can trust me, he knows I would never give the club away. My involvement with them was never supposed to be permanent. He gave me the option of getting out a long time ago, and it was last year that I decided to take it.”

Nodding, I try to find some comfort in that. This new information once again creates another question, one I can’t keep silent. “Your father, is he an important member of the club?”

Harry smiles wryly. “You could say that. He’s president of the Nevada chapter.”

Good god. That is kind of terrifying enough for me to go into hiding for a few years in hopes that it will blow over on its own. For the moment though I try to take comfort in it because, while he sounds like an entirely sketchy and untrustworthy man, he might be on our side.

He refuses to let go of me still, and draws me closer to press a soft kiss to my forehead before engulfing me back into his protective embrace. “I keep thinking of what could have happened yesterday. If you had gotten home a little earlier than usual, or if I didn’t get there in time…”

I feel a slight shudder ripple through him, and his grip around my waist strengthens. Right now he needs comfort and reassurance that things are okay… or that I’m okay, and so I only push myself closer too. “This is my fault, and I’m going to keep you safe,” he repeats fearlessly.

“They could have hurt me if they wanted to,” I muse, and he stiffens as such a hard truth. The fury builds within him again, fury at the premise of any harm coming to me, fury at him not being there to prevent it. It’s true, however. The intruder must have heard me arrive home, because they were sprinting off through the backyard by the time I knew what was happening. If they wanted they could have stuck around. They could have hurt me. And I don’t even feel all too scared about that—in fact, it’s a comfort to know that harming me physically isn’t what they set out to do.

But then it only begs the question of what the heck their motive is in the first place.

Quickly I continue, afraid to upset him anymore. I need him calm just as much as I need to be calm myself. “That’s why I don’t think that was ever their intention. I think they did it just to scare me. Or you.” A small shiver runs through me now, thinking of how much damage they inflicted upon my house and how easily they could have done the same, if not worse, to me. “Something about it just doesn’t make sense.”

If Alex owed money that Caleb didn’t repay before his death, and it was The Rogues’ money, wouldn’t Harry be aware of that? I know Harry doesn’t like Alex, but I don’t think the hatred for him runs that deep or for such a serious reason. No, none of this is making any sense.

Harry remains tense, his anger clear but controlled, and he at least attempts to put thought in my theory while in such a state.

“At The Castle,” he begins, contemplative. “Lucy was there to give me a warning, that the club wants me back. She’s a part of it.”

Panic and fear flood me rapidly, and now it’s my turn to stiffen as I try to clamour from his lap. He holds me here, however, frowning and following every one of my slightest actions with concern. My reaction to Lucy’s name is obvious, and he zeroes in on it within seconds.

“What’s wrong?” Still, he asks this calm and soft.

“I—Lucy.”

“What about her? Jules.” His brushes his palm against my jaw, tries to get me to focus. But I’m almost totally unresponsive, stuck on the terrifying recollection of just a few days ago.

Now I’m afraid to even mention it. Her involvement in all this looks like it might be much more than I first thought. Damn, she is in the freaking club.

“On Wednesday… she was in my house. When I got home from work.”

He reacts instantly, and after quickly though carefully pushing me from his lap onto the bed, he stands with narrowed eyes and whirls to face me. I can only watch, the memory of Wednesday repeating itself over and over. “She what? Did she hurt you? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Oh, he’s angry, but it isn’t clear yet how much of it—if any—is directed toward me. At least a bit, I have to guess, judging from his intense response.

For just a moment I temporarily forget my panic and level him with a deadpanned look. “Well, Harry, you have to admit we weren’t on the best terms at that moment. Neither of us were really sharing all that was going on in our lives, were we?”

It isn’t meant to be a jab at all that’s happened or the fact that he kept his past hidden—just a simple truth. We both kept things from each other, and it’s easiest to lightly argue about it than to dwell on it for too long.

He pauses in his semi-meltdown to peer at me questioningly, and then he cracks a small disbelieving smile. “Okay, I understand. But this is important, Julia. Did she try to hurt you?”

“No, no,” I say tiredly. “She said she only came to talk to me.”

To ‘meet’ me, is what she said exactly, but that quickly turned into an ominous warning and an apology before she abruptly left. She warned me much like she did with Harry that night, but I omit that in fear of firing him up even more.

Still more pieces of this twisted puzzle are being put together, and I realize why Lucy knows so much about Harry. It’s because she has been in his life, probably much longer than I have, and worked with him. Closely.

“And then what? What did she say? I swear, if she threatened you—”

“She didn’t threaten me,” I clarify, but then pause. “At least, I don’t think so.”

My confusion doesn’t help Harry calm down much, so I hurriedly move on. “At first all she said was that she wanted to meet me. But before she left… she said that I would need you.”

And then apologized, out of the blue, when at the time she hadn’t done a single thing to me personally—other than give me really bad vibes. Maybe she did have something to do with the burglary, even though I know she wasn’t the one who trashed my living room yesterday. It was clear that the creep running away was a man. But anyone can see her ‘friendly’ visit, which was really a break-in itself, as insanely suspicious. Enough to make her the number one suspect.

Now that warning makes sense. I did need Harry, just as she said I would.

Harry turns around and swears loudly, running his hands through his hair before turning back to me, frowning with a darkened gaze and mouth in a thin, unimpressed line. “That was when you called me, wasn’t it? After Liam made me leave the book store.”

I nod silently and with a tense huff he sits down next to me again, head in his hands for a moment before he sits straight, weary.

“It was after, after she left,” I mumble out, recalling how terrified I was, how much I needed him, and that he had been there for me. On that first ring, he picked up, acted as if nothing was wrong between us. Because he cared for me, loved when things were still so wrong and he probably shouldn’t have. “I panicked and called you.”

Though clearly overwhelmed with anger, he takes my hand and rests it in his own lap. He leans to press a kiss to my knuckles, the contact stirring tingles all throughout my body, and we both calm slightly. Already I can see the gears in his complicated mind are turning. Rapidly.

“Do you think she has something to do with this?” I force myself to ask quietly.

“Most likely.”

“If I told you sooner, could all of this have been prevented?”

He doesn’t answer right away. A cold chill rushes straight through me, and suddenly all of this feels like it is my fault. Like I could have stopped all this from happening, if only I hadn’t so stupidly kept that event to myself.

“No, honestly. I think that if not this, then they would have done something else,” he reasons, always having an answer that helps me feel better. And this does subdue some of my worries, but he was right. I should have told him about Lucy the moment she left.

“Should I have told the police about her? They said—”

“No,” he interrupts, the one word ringing out clearly in the large room. The words in my mouth instantly disappear. “If I involve the police with this any more than they already are, I doubt my father will be too pleased.”

Another bout of dizziness involuntarily comes over me as I think about his father, the president, a man who probably has ultimate say in which lives continue to live and which lives die. Harry squeezes my hand, sees my fluttering eyelashes and bowed head, and pulls me closer. “Jules, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Now that we know where the threat is coming from, it can be dealt with. This will all be over soon.”

I take a quick choppy inhale, grasping his forearm while leaning to bury my head in his chest. It’s easy to take comfort in his words, even while knowing that if they were uttered by anyone else it would send me running far, far away. But not with Harry—in fact, I only tug at him in an effort to bring him closer.

“This is just—this is really scary.” It’s all I can think of to say, because it’s the truth. In this situation I feel utterly useless. There isn’t a single thing I can think of that would help.

He releases a long exhale at my admission before leaning back, taking me with him so his back rests on the bed and my body sprawls the length of his, my legs resting between his. At his sides my hands meet his smooth, toned hips and I lean into him farther, revelling in this brief moment of being so close to him.

“It’s okay to be scared, but you don’t have to be. Yesterday was the closest they’ll ever come to you. I’m going to fix this.”

Still, I worry. Even if I don’t see or hear anything more from The Rogues, I will still worry for Harry. It would be impossible for me not to.

“So no police?” I ask once more, not hopeful but I have to try. How nice it would be, to let them handle this and know that we are safe. But I start to think that not even the police could stop this gang if they really wanted to hurt us. Yesterday, it was obvious the detectives had no leads on the case. They’re at a dead-end.

“I’m afraid they wouldn’t be much of a help anyway, Beautiful.”

Finally I accept this fact, wishing more than anything that The Rogues never existed, or at least that the person behind this didn’t. And once past that, I find myself blushing at his sneakily inserted endearment.

“So it’s just us, then.”

Against possibly an entire homicidal, corrupted motorcycle gang. The odds here don’t seem to be in our favour, but we don’t yet know all the details. I have hope for us, perhaps more than ever. And while the realization of what we might be up against inflicts mass amounts of panic, I don’t run—I only press myself closer to Harry. We are in this together, and I don’t have any plans of letting him go.

“We’ll get through this together, but we aren’t alone. I have friends here, friends who will help me in situations such as this.”

That too is comforting, but then I wonder if his friends are safe, if they can be trusted.

“Is it going to be dangerous?” My question is posed with dread, his answer obvious, and I sneak a timid glance at his expression.

He stares up at the ceiling, gaze distant. “I’d be lying to you if I said it won’t be.”

Perhaps it’s because of all the shock endured over the past twenty four hours, maybe the fact that this is all so very overwhelming, but it’s at this point that I start to cry again. Harry doesn’t notice until one of my tears slide down my cheek and onto his bare chest, and he does a double take on me at the sensation.

“Oh, baby,” he sighs, voice thick as one arm comes around my waist and pulls me closer. He wipes the overflow of tears from my stained cheeks, and I suck in a shaky breath before releasing it through an equally jittery sigh. “Please don’t cry. Please.”

I can’t stop. Not when all I can think of is that it’s going to be dangerous, that he is going to be in danger, that he will risk his own life in order to protect me. It all overwhelms me so much that I release a strangled sob, squeezing my eyes shut and clinging to him. And I think it might be from witnessing me like this, absolutely broken at just the thought of losing him—that he leans up farther on his elbows, forcing me to sit up with him and open my eyes to stare at him pleadingly. And thankfully, he settles.

“I’ll be careful, Jules. I promise you won’t lose me. But I will protect you no matter what.”

It’s not what I want, not really. If I could have what I wanted this would be nothing more than a regular Friday morning, and the most worrying thing on our minds would be the cold breakfast currently sitting on a tray on top of the dresser. But coming from Harry, in this situation… I suppose that’s all I can ask.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, the tips of his fingers never pausing as they run soothingly up and down my spine. “Thank you for listening to me, Jules. Thank you for staying.”

For a while we lay there silently, and I focus so much on his sudden emotional words that I stop crying entirely. After pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek, I smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes

Hoooooly. Was this totally unexpected for you, because it was for me?!

Julia found his gun, folks. And they dealt with it maturely! Wow. Harry actually opened up to her too which is long, long overdue. As overdue as her telling him about her heart was. She knows and she stayed! Damn. They handled that pretty well, imo. Maybe they're finally learning from their past mistakes haha.

This chapter changed forms about fifty times before it came to this, and I still don't know if I'm satisfied with it :/ Please, if you have a moment to spare, comment and share your thoughts! So much happened and I had to be very careful about how it all occured. I just hope you guys liked it :)

Okay, the next chapter will be in Harry's POV! We'll have a cute moment with Jules before he goes off to figure things out and maybe even crack a couple skulls. Some of the boys will be making an appearance too... so it will be a very eventful chapter. And I promise it won't take a too long to get it posted either!

That's all I have for you today. I really hope this chapter didn't disappoint, and I'd love to hear what you think! To the anon on tumblr who might not have had the best day, I hope you read this and that it helps you feel a little better!

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