She shines the flashlight into my eyes, her brow furrowing slightly. “Pupils are tracking well. No signs of concussion. But if you feel dizzy or throw up, you call me. Or Knox if East’s not around.”
I nod, swallowing hard, grateful for her thoroughness but also struck by the vulnerability of being cared for. It’s an unfamiliar sensation; one that feels both welcome and unwelcome.
Her hands move lower, pressing along my ribs. I can’t help but flinch when she hits a tender spot, a sharp gasp of pain hissing through my teeth. “Still hurts,” I mutter, wincing.
“Yeah, it’s going to hurt like a bitch for a few weeks,” she replies, her tone matter-of-fact, yet laced with empathy.
She continues her work, and I focus on breathing through the discomfort. Her touch is efficient, almost clinical, yet there’s a kindness in the way she handles me. Next, she examines my wrist, her fingers brushing over the swelling that has become more pronounced now that I’m seated.
“You must have landed on it—or twisted it pulling away from Trent,” she observes, her voice steady. “Mild sprain,” she concludes after a moment. “You’re lucky.”
As she wraps it with a compression bandage, snug but not too tight, I break the silence that stretches between us. “How do you know when it’s safe to stop holding everything together?”
She pauses, her hands stilling for just a heartbeat. Her gaze remains focused on the bandage, avoiding mine. “When someone lets you fall apart without walking away,” she finally responds, her voice soft yet resolute.
I stare at her, at this beautiful, composed woman who seems to have it all together. In that moment, I see it. It’s the same stillness I’ve seen in my mirror. The same armor. She’s a lonely girl, too. She’s hiding a secret. I don’t know what it is, but I recognize the shadow it casts. Just like that, a silent, invisible thread connects us.
I don’t reply because I can’t find the words. The weight of her statement hangs in the air. It’s a tangible force that presses down on me. Sloane zips her bag with a swift motion, the sound sharp against the quiet room. She stands, her posture radiatingpurpose. Before she leaves, she places a small canvas pouch on the nightstand, its fabric soft and worn. “Painkillers, tea, arnica, muscle rub,” she lists, her voice steady. “Use what works for you. The rest? Burn it.”
I glance at the bag, trying for a joke. “Burning things seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? With how often we all get hurt, I might as well open a pharmacy in here,” I say, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the truth is, I’m unworthy of this kindness.
Sloane almost smiles—just a flicker at the corner of her mouth, but it’s enough to see the warmth beneath her cool exterior. “You’d be busy, that’s for sure,” she replies, her tone lightening just a touch. “Girls’ night is coming soon,” she adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Once you’re healed enough to drink and insult men properly, that is.”
Since stepping into the clubhouse, something inside me shifts. A crack in the heaviness that isn’t pain. I take a shallow breath, which makes my ribs twinge, but I laugh a small, rusty sound anyway. “Sounds like a plan,” I reply, grateful for the distraction, but a part of me wonders if I truly deserve to be part of that camaraderie.
Sloane lingers in the doorway, her gaze softening as she looks back at me one last time. “You’re not alone, Darla. Even if it feels that way,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, a promise woven into her words.
Then, with a final nod, she slips out, leaving me wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the canvas pouch a symbol of care and camaraderie—and the possibility of healing, both physical and emotional.
Chapter 18
East
Theridebackfromthe clubhouse is restless, the engines of our bikes a low growl that does nothing to quiet the thoughts storming in my head. The meeting was a necessary evil—plans laid, resources allocated—but every minute away from the house felt like a risk.
As we pull into my driveway, the crunch of our tires on the gravel is the only sound as I kill my engine. Nash kills his right beside me, and Kyle, our new shadow, pulls in behind us. A figure detaches from the shadows of the porch. Rider. The prospect gives a sharp, respectful nod.
“Anything?” I ask, swinging my leg off my bike.
“All quiet, man,” he says. “No cars, no lurkers. Nothing.”
“Good,” I say in a tight voice. “Stay sharp. We’re heading out again as soon as I grab something. You’re with us. Backup.”
“Copy that,” Rider says, giving a single nod before melting back toward the bikes, a loyal shadow waiting for orders.
I take the porch steps two at a time, Nash a heavy, silent presence at my back, Kyle’s nervous energy radiating behind him. The lock turns with a quiet click, and I push the door open, my body tensed, ready for anything. Nash follows me inside, while Kyle respectfully stays at the door, acting as lookout.
The house is quiet, just as I left it. But Darla’s not in the guest room. She’s on the couch, curled into the corner with a blanket drawn around her shoulders, her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the blank TV screen. Her eyes are distant, lost in thoughts I can only imagine. She looks impossibly small, but when her head turns toward me, there’s nothing small about the look on her face. It’s sharp. Waiting.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. “You should be resting.”
“I tried,” she says, her voice low but clear. “The quiet is too loud.” Her gaze is unwavering as she looks past me at Nash. “So, what happened at the meeting?”
My first instinct is to protect, to shield, to lie. “You don’t need to worry about that. We’re handling it,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to my ears.
“No,” she says, the single word sharp as a blade.
She pushes the blanket off and stands, a sharp wince of pain crossing her face as her bruised ribs protest the sudden movement. Her bare feet are silent on the wood floor. The oversized shirt hangs off her frame, but she stands tall, her chin lifted defiantly. The bruise on her cheek is darker now, but her eyes burn with a fire that negates any sign of weakness.
