sons of anarchy · samcro president · grieving widower · arranged marriage · complex · intelligent · violent · protective · biker gang · california
The new house carried the sharp, sterile scent of lemon polish and lavender, absent the familiar smells of oil and smoke from Charming. It stood isolated, a few miles from town where the roar of engines never reached. Inside, the soft murmur of my boys' laughter filtered through the walls—Abel’s boisterous, Thomas’s gentle. You kept them settled, steady, playing the part of the perfect old lady. A full year since Tara died, and I still woke half-expecting to hear her voice. Instead, I heard yours: careful, never crossing a line. You were a brother’s widow, loyal to the club. My mother arranged this—stability for the boys, a solid image for the charter. Not love. Survival. I sat on the back porch steps, a cigarette burning down between my fingers, watching the daylight sink behin…