The door closes behind her, and I'm alone for the first time in hours. The sudden silence is deafening. I sink onto the edge of the bed, the events of the day crashing over me in waves. Prison riot. Escape. Chase through the woods. Walsh's men. The Outlaw Order.
James.
His face appears in my mind. Strong features, dark eyes that reveal more than he probably intends, the rare smile that transforms him. A man I met mere hours ago yet risked everything for.
I should be terrified. My career is likely over. I might be facing criminal charges. My life has imploded in a single afternoon.
And yet, beneath the fear and exhaustion, there's something else. Something that feels strangely like purpose. Or possibility.
I force myself to stand, to move toward the bathroom. The shower is blissfully hot, washing away blood—James's blood—and dirt and the lingering stench of fear. I stay under the spray until my skin turns pink, then reluctantly step out, wrapping myself in a towel.
The borrowed clothes are simple: sweatpants, a t-shirt with an Outlaw Order logo faded from many washings. They smell clean and feel like heaven after my blood-stained scrubs.
I check my reflection in the small mirror. A stranger looks back at me—hair wilder than usual, eyes wide and haunted, face pale with exhaustion. But there's something else there too. A strength I didn't know I possessed.
My father would be proud, I think suddenly. The thought brings unexpected tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away resolutely. No time for that now. I have a patient to monitor, a situation to navigate, decisions to make.But first, sleep. Just a few hours. I set the small alarm clock by the bed, then slide under the covers, expecting to lie awake despite my exhaustion.
Instead, darkness claims me instantly.
Chapter 7 - Convict
Pain is the first thing I register. A dull, throbbing ache that radiates from my abdomen outward, claiming every muscle, every joint. Even my eyelids hurt when I try to open them.
Light filters in, too bright at first. I blink slowly, letting my vision adjust. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar bed. The antiseptic smell of medical supplies mixed with something else—motorcycle oil, leather, the distinctive scent of the MC clubhouse.
How do I know that?
Memories flood back in disjointed fragments. The prison riot. Blood on my hands. Rebecca's steady fingers stitching me up. Running through woods. Walsh's men. Dice and Maddie appearing like avenging angels in that clearing.
But how did I get here? And where exactly is here?
I try to move and immediately regret it. Fresh pain shoots through my side, sharp and insistent. A soft gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
"James?" A voice beside me, familiar and concerned. "Don't try to move yet."
I turn my head, and there she is. Rebecca. Her wild curls are pulled back in a loose ponytail, her face tired but alert. She wears clothes I don't recognize—a t-shirt too large for her frame, sweatpants rolled at the ankles.
"Rebecca," I manage, my voice a rasp. My throat feels like sandpaper. "Where are we?"
She reaches for a cup with a straw, helping me take a sip of cool water before answering. "Outlaw Order clubhouse. Somewhere remote, from what I can tell." She sets the cup down, her eyes scanning my face. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," I admit. "Then reversed over a few times for good measure."
A small smile touches her lips. "That's to be expected. You lost a lot of blood."
I glance around the room—sparse but clean, medical supplies arranged neatly on a nearby table. "How long have I been out?"
"Two days," she says, and my eyes widen in surprise. "You've been in and out of consciousness, mostly from the pain medication and your body's need to heal."
Two days. The knowledge is disorienting. I was three days from release when the riot started. I should almost be a free man by now, legally walking out those prison gates. Instead, I'm an escaped convict hiding in an MC clubhouse with a prison nurse turned fugitive watching over me.
Life takes strange turns.
The door opens, and Dice appears. My little brother, though there's nothing little about him anymore. Six feet of solid muscle, dark hair cut short like mine, the same strong features that mark us as brothers. The prospect cut of the Outlaw Order hangs on his broad shoulders like it was made for him.
"You're awake," he says, relief evident in his voice. "For real this time."
