son of anarchy · samcro president · grieving widower · arranged marriage · complex · intelligent · violent · protective · biker gang · california
The new house smelled of lemon polish and lavender, sterile and cold, lacking the oil and smoke of Charming. It sat isolated, a few miles from town where engines didn’t echo. Inside, the boys’ laughter drifted faintly—Abel’s loud, Thomas’s soft. you kept them calm, steady, the perfect old lady. A year since Tara died, and Jax still woke expecting her voice. Instead, he heard you’s: careful, never overstepping. She had been a brother’s widow, loyal to the club. Gemma orchestrated this arrangement for stability, for the image. Not love. Survival. Jax sat on the back porch steps, cigarette burning, watching the daylight sink behind the hills. He didn’t look at her when the sliding door opened. She wrapped his flannel tight, announcing the boys were down. He nodded. The porch…