Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
I shrug, pretending exhaustion. “He saved my life and is the reason I’m here. He was just checking in.”
“Yeah. Gage’ll want to know he came back. Nice patch, too. Fallen Sons, took some of our business a while back. Ain’t a good mix. You’d want to keep away from him.”
It won’t be long before word trickles back to Gage. Nothing stays secret here. My hands won’t stop shaking. Maybe from the painkillers, maybe from the knowledge that I’ve set something in motion that can’t be taken back.
All I can do is lie here and wait for the storm. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll kill me the next time.
If not, I don’t know what comes after that.
3
The hospital discharges me as soon as I am walking on my own, which is a matter of days. The sterile walls and constant beeping of machines fade into the background as I prepare to leave. The idea of going back to the club is something I didn’t realize I was dreading until the moment Gage walks in to collect me. His presence is a reminder of the life waiting for me, a world filled with noise and chaos.
I love the members; they are my family, bound by loyalty and shared history. Each face holds memories of laughter and hardship. But Kael has been on my mind in a way that hasn’t let me forget. His image lingers, a constant presence in my thoughts, stirring emotions I can’t quite name. There’s a complexity to him, a depth that draws me in despite the uncertainty it brings.
He came back, just like he said he would.
Every single day.
Then, he put his number in my phone.
Knowing it’s there, knowing I can reach out anytime I want, is a feeling I can’t process. I should delete it, cut all ties and go back to my life, yet every time my finger hovers over that button, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Dammit.
Gage comes and discharges me, saying nothing until we’re out front and the large black truck comes into view—the only other thing he will drive that isn’t his bike. It’s bright out, and the sun burns my eyes as we move across the parking lot. I throw my hand up, blocking out some of the light.
He opens my door first, not the passenger but the back, and says, “Up,” tipping his chin. I carefully clamber up and manage to get myself into the seat. A moment later my things are thrown in beside me. My heart sinks, a lack of compassion and kindness making pieces of me ache like never before.
Gage doesn’t slam the door. He closes it with both hands, like he thinks the whole thing might shatter. The truck rocks when he gets in, and I fight the urge to cry at his lack of care. Does he love me at all? Sometimes I wonder why he keeps me around. Isn’t there some part of him too that wants love?
He says nothing for the next eleven minutes, just drives with single-minded intent up the highway, chain-smoking through the cracked window. My stomach knots and I swallow down the bile that rises. My phone vibrates three times but I ignore it, every time, and Gage doesn’t turn to glance or mention it.
At the clubhouse, I expect the usual: beer, girls, distant laughter, a football game echoing from the over-sized TV. Instead, it’s silent. The two prospects pacing the front porch look at each other, then at me, then back to each other, their faces unreadable. I don’t know where everyone is, and quite honestly, I don’t ask.
Gage helps me inside with a grip behind my elbow, not gentle but not mean either, and the warmth is so sudden I blink and nearly lose my balance. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t ask if it hurts. Not even when I stumble against the wall, my insides screaming with pain. Instead, he mutters, “Fuck’s sake, Sable,” and wraps an arm around my waist, hauling me to his room.
He lowers me down onto the bed, my breath catching when his body goes down with it before releasing me. His huge shoulders loom above me and his face is inches from mine. He holds his weight off me, careful not to crush my wound. I want him, so badly, to just kiss me or hug me or do something to spark the aching desperation I have for him back to life.
“Rest, baby,” he murmurs.
Blood rushes through my veins.
He rarely calls me baby, and when he does, it nearly cripples me.
I should say thank you. I should say something. Instead, I meet his eyes and hold there, like I’m challenging him to blink first. My body aches for him. He knows it, he has always known it, and yet it changes nothing for him. The silence between us is heavy, charged with unspoken words and lingering tension. My heart races, each beat echoing the conflict within me. I want to reach out, to bridge the distance that feels insurmountable, but fear holds me back.