Princess Wrapped in Leather

Chapter 8

Sam

The text from my dad comes at 8 PM.

Come to the shop. We need to talk.

No explanation. No context. Just that.

I stare at my phone for a long moment, my stomach twisting. This is it. Either he's going to tell me the truth, or we're about to have

another fight.

I grab my jacket and keys and head out.

The drive to the shop takes fifteen minutes, but it feels longer. My mind races through possibilities—what could he possibly say that would explain everything I saw last night? The meetings, the go-bags, Knox's constant vigilance, the way everyone shifts when I get

too close to certain conversations.

When I pull into the parking lot, I see a row of bikes lined up outside. More than usual. Bobbie's is there. Knox's. A few others I recognize.

My heart pounds as I walk to the door.

Inside, the shop floor is empty and quiet. The overhead lights are off, but I can see light coming from the office in the back. I head toward it, my footsteps echoing in the silence.

The office door is open.

I step inside and stop.

My dad is standing behind his desk. Bobbie is leaning against the wall to the left, arms crossed. Knox is sitting in one of the chairs

facing the desk, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. There are three other guys I know—Marcus, Javi, and Rook—standing near

the back wall.

Everyone looks at me when I walk in.

The air is heavy. Serious. This isn't just a conversation—this is something bigger.

"Sam," my dad says. His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Come in. Close the door."

I do, my pulse racing. I stay near the door, looking around the room. "What's going on?"

"Sit down," he says, gesturing to the empty chair next to Knox.

I hesitate, then move to the chair and sit. Knox doesn't look at me. His jaw is tight, his gaze fixed on the floor.

My dad takes a breath, then looks at me directly. "I owe you the truth. I should've told you a long time ago, but I was trying to protect you. I thought I could keep you separate from this part of my life. But you're too smart for that. You've already figured out that something's going on."

I nod slowly. "Yeah. I have."

He glances at Bobbie, then back at me. "What I'm about to tell you is serious. It's dangerous. And once you know, you can't unknow it. But you deserve to understand who I am. Who we are. And why we do what we do."

My throat feels tight. "Okay."

He pauses, then says, "The shop is real. The business is legitimate. But it's also a cover for something else. Something we've been doing for years."

I wait, my hands gripping the armrests of the chair.

"We rescue people," he says. "Women and children who've been taken. Sold. Trafficked."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

I stare at him, trying to process. "Trafficked?"

"Yes." His voice is calm, measured. "We work with local law enforcement. They notify us when they get reports of missing people,

or when they hear about activity on the black market. We find the victims. We get them out. We bring them home—or to a safe place

if they don't have a home to go back to."

I can't speak. My mind is racing, trying to reconcile what he's saying with everything I thought I knew about my dad and his friends.

"We deal with other motorcycle clubs," he continues. "Clubs that traffic drugs, guns, and people. We go to auctions where human beings are sold like property. We intervene. We extract. And we make sure the people responsible don't do it again."

I look around the room. Bobbie's expression is serious. Marcus, Javi, and Rook are watching me carefully, waiting to see how I'll react.

And Knox—Knox is still staring at the floor, his hands clenched together.

"Why..." My voice comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's dangerous," my dad says. "Because I didn't want you anywhere near this. I wanted you to have a normal life. I wanted you to be safe."

"But Knox is here," I say, looking at him. "He's younger than most of you. Why is he part of this?"

The room goes quiet.

Knox's jaw tightens. He doesn't look up.

My dad glances at him, then back at me. "That's his story to tell. If he wants to."

I turn to Knox. "Knox?"

He's silent for a long moment. Then he takes a slow breath and lifts his head—but he doesn't look at me. He stares at the wall behind my dad's desk.

"I was fifteen," he says quietly. His voice is rough, like the words are scraping their way out. "My parents were gamblers. They owed money to the wrong people. A lot of money."

I hold my breath.

"They sold me," he says. "To pay off the debt."

My stomach drops.

"I was passed around for two years," he continues, his gaze fixed on the wall. "Different places. Different people. I don't remember

all of it. I tried not to."

His hands are shaking slightly. He clasps them tighter.

"When I was seventeen, your dad and the crew found me. They pulled me out of an auction. Brought me here. Gave me a place to stay. A job. A family."

He finally looks down at his hands, his voice barely above a whisper. "They saved my life."

The silence in the room is suffocating.

I can't breathe. I can't think. I just stare at Knox, at the way his shoulders are hunched, the way he won't look at me, the way his hands are gripping each other like he's trying to hold himself together.

"Knox..." I whisper.

He shakes his head slightly, still not looking at me. "I'm here because I know what it's like. I know what those people go through. And I'll do whatever it takes to make sure no one else has to."

Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back, my chest tight.

My dad lets the silence sit for a moment, then speaks again. "We operate by three rules. They're not suggestions—they're law. We

don't break them. Ever."

I drag my gaze away from Knox and look at my dad.

"Rule one," he says. "Women should always feel safe and appreciated. No exceptions."

"Rule two: Children should always be protected. No matter what."

"Rule three: Nothing is ever as simple as it should be. Always be prepared for everything."

He leans forward, his hands flat on the desk. "This is what we do, Sam. This is who we are. It's why we have late-night meetings. Why some of the guys sleep here with go-bags. Why Knox watches you the way he does."

I glance at Knox again. He's still staring at his hands.

"He knows what can happen," my dad says quietly. "He knows how fast things can go wrong. And he's not going to let that happen to you."

My throat is so tight I can barely speak. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Twenty years," my dad says. "Since before you were born."

Twenty years.

I sit back in the chair, trying to absorb it all. My dad—the man who taught me how to ride a bike, who made me breakfast every morning, who showed up to every school event—has been rescuing people from trafficking for two decades.

And Knox—Knox, who spins me around at parties and teases me and watches me like I'm something fragile—was one of those people.

"Why now?" I ask. "Why are you telling me this now?"

My dad's expression softens. "Because you're not a kid anymore. You graduated yesterday. You're going to college in a few months. And you're too smart to keep in the dark. You were going to figure it out eventually. I'd rather you hear it from me."

I nod slowly, my mind still reeling.

"I know this is a lot," he says. "And I know you probably have questions. But I need you to understand something."

I look at him.

"This work is dangerous," he says. "The people we go up against—they're not just criminals. They're organized. They're violent.

They don't hesitate to hurt anyone who gets in their way. That's why I've kept you separate from it. That's why I've been so protective."

"And that's why Knox has been watching me," I say quietly.

My dad nods. "He knows what's at stake. We all do."

I look around the room again—at Bobbie, at Marcus, Javi, and Rook. At Knox, who's finally lifted his head but still won't meet my eyes.

These men—my dad's friends, my extended family—they're not just mechanics and bikers. They're rescuers. Protectors. They've been saving lives while I thought they were just working late.

"I don't know what to say," I admit.

"You don't have to say anything," my dad says. "Just... take some time to process. And if you have questions, ask. I'm not keeping secrets from you anymore."

I nod, my chest still tight.

Knox finally looks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, his expression raw. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For not telling you. For keeping it from you."

"You don't have to apologize," I say, my voice shaking. "You don't owe me your story."

"I do," he says. "Because you deserve to know why I... why I care so much. Why I watch out for you."

The weight of his words settles over me.

He cares. He watches out for me. Because he knows what it's like to not be protected.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure. "Thank you," I whisper. "For telling me."

He nods once, then looks away again.

My dad stands up. "That's enough for tonight. Sam, go home. Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow if you want."

I stand on shaky legs, my mind still spinning.

As I head toward the door, Bobbie steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. "You're a strong kid, princess," he says quietly.

"You're gonna be okay."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

I walk out of the office, through the shop, and into the cool night air.

I sit in my car for a long time, staring at the steering wheel, trying to make sense of everything I just learned.

My dad rescues people.

Knox was trafficked.

Everything I thought I knew about my family was just the surface.

And underneath—underneath is something so much bigger, so much more dangerous, so much more real than I ever imagined.

I start the car and drive home, my hands gripping the wheel, my mind racing.

I don't know what comes next.

But I know one thing for sure:

I'm not the same person I was when I walked into that office.