"For today, it is," Dice replies, moving to my side. His eyes widen when he sees the blood seeping through my shirt. "Jesus, James. What happened?"
"Long story," I manage, relief making my knees weak. "This is Rebecca. She saved my life."
Rebecca still stands close behind me, her hand now on my arm, supporting me as much as seeking support.
Maddie approaches, her gun still trained on the Walsh men while others from the MC disarm them. Her eyes flick to Rebecca, assessing, then back to me.
"You look like shit, James," she says, but her voice is gentle. "Let's get you out of here."
Dice slides his arm around me, taking my weight as Rebecca steps back. "The van's on the service road. We're rushing to the clubhouse. You'll be safe there."
I nod, suddenly exhausted now that the immediate danger has passed. "What about these guys?" I nod toward the Walsh enforcers.
"We'll have a chat with them," one of the other MC members says, a cold smile on his face.
I want to argue, tell them it's too dangerous, that Walsh is clearly more connected than we realized. But darkness is creeping into the edges of my vision, the adrenaline fading and pain taking its place.
"Rebecca comes with us," I manage to say. "She's in danger now too."
Dice nods, looking at her with newfound respect. "Anyone who saves my brother's life is family. We'll protect you."
Rebecca seems overwhelmed, her eyes moving from face to face, but she nods. "Thank you."
As Dice and Maddie help me toward the waiting van, I look back at Rebecca, following close behind. Our eyes meet, and despite the pain and danger, despite the uncertain future ahead, I feel something I haven't felt in a very long time.
Hope.
My brother found me. My best friend came for me. And somehow, in the middle of chaos, I found Rebecca, or she found me. Whatever comes next, we're not facing it alone.
For now, that's enough.
Chapter 6 - Rebecca
Everything is happening too fast.
One moment, James and I are facing death at the hands of Walsh's men in a forest clearing. The next, we're surrounded by leather-clad bikers with guns, and I'm being ushered toward a black van parked on the service road.
The transition from hunted to protected happens so quickly it leaves me dizzy. Or maybe that's the adrenaline crash after hours of sustained fear.
"Easy," a female voice says beside me as I stumble slightly on uneven ground.
It's the woman who burst into the clearing with a gun—Maddie, James called her. She's got one arm supporting James while his brother Dice takes most of his weight on the other side, but she reaches out to steady me with her free hand. "We're almost there."
I nod, unable to form words. My medical training screams at me to check James's wound, to make sure his stitches haven't torn again with all the movement, but I feel suddenly like an outsider. These people know him, care about him in ways I can't claim to after just a few hours together.
And yet, those few hours feel like a lifetime.
The van comes into view—large and black with tinted windows. A tall man with a full beard and the same leather vest as the others stands guard beside it, shotgun in hand. His eyes track our approach, then widen slightly when he sees James's condition.
"How bad?" he asks as we reach him.
"Bad enough," Dice answers grimly. "We need to get him to the clubhouse now."
The man nods, opening the van's side door. "I'll ride behind with the others. Make sure you're not followed."
The inside of the van is surprisingly comfortable. Not the stripped-down vehicle I expected, but something with cushioned bench seats. They help James in first, laying him across one bench. I follow immediately, kneeling beside him to check his wound.
"Let me," I say, gently lifting his shirt. The bandage is soaked through with fresh blood. "The stitches have torn again."
