King nodded but said nothing more.
Smiling, I simply replied, “Thanks.”
Heading upstairs, I could feel the tiredness in my bones. My wounds still ached, and while I knew King had just put fresh bandages on them, I desperately needed a shower. Opening the door at the end of the hallway, I walked into a fairly large room with a king-sized bed, dresser and nightstand. There was a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall and a desk in the corner under the double window. A large bathroom adjoined the space, with a spacious walk-in shower, a clawfoot tub and a double vanity. I knew this room was reserved for visiting club presidents, and I wasn’t sure why King let me have it.
God knows I didn’t deserve it.
The scent of antiseptic and stale sweat clung to the air, a stark contrast to the clean, crisp mountain air I’d grown accustomed to. The room was sterile, impersonal, a place devoid of the life and warmth that had once filled it. King’s words, a gruff offer of sanctuary, echoed in my mind.“Stay as long as you need. I will handle Reaper. You need a few more days to let those wounds heal.”
But healing for me wasn’t a matter of bandages and rest.
It was a relentless pursuit, a burning need to find Karlyn, to pull her from the shadows that had ensnared us both.
The water in the shower was almost scalding, a futile attempt to wash away the grime and the phantom ache that resided in my bones. Each scar, a map of battles fought and narrowly won, felt like a brand, a constant reminder of the life I couldn’t escape. King had offered a room, a temporary respite, but my mind was already racing, plotting, calculating.
The Silver Shadows were at war, their resources stretched thin, and my presence here, a walking target, only added to their burden. But I couldn’t leave without a plan, without ensuring Karlyn was safe. The thought of her, alone and vulnerable, was a fire that burned hotter than any wound.
I wrapped the towel around my waist, the cool air of the room a shock against my still-damp skin. The quiet was deafening, punctuated only by the distant rumble of engines and the unspoken tension that permeated the compound. My gaze fell on my saddlebag, packed with essentials for a life on the run—a life I was still learning to navigate. The lessons of the forest, of survival, were etched into my very being, but they were also a constant reminder of the world I had tried to outrun, a world that seemed determined to pull me back in.
Karlyn. Her name itself was a silent prayer, a desperate hope that I could still reach her before the storm of my past consumed us both.
Needing fresh bandages, I headed back downstairs when Cash stopped and took a good look at me. Shaking his head, he simply said, “Patch is in the infirmary. He will have what you need.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, heading toward the back of the clubhouse when I passed King’s office and he yelled out, “If you’re hungry. Eat. There is plenty of food. Maureen is in the kitchen.”
I nodded but said nothing.
The antiseptic sting of the infirmary was a familiar sensation, a pungent counterpoint to the metallic tang of lingering fear. Patch, a grizzled man whose hands moved with an unsettling blend of gentleness and practiced efficiency, changed my dressings with a quiet competence that spoke of countless nights spent patching up broken bodies. He said little, but his eyes, when they met mine, held a depth of understanding that transcended words. He saw the weariness etched into my bones, the raw pain that refused to be masked by a false bravado.
“King’s got your back, you know,” Patch said, securing a fresh bandage around my ribs. His voice was a low rumble, like the hum of distant thunder. “He’s a good man. Don’t let his temper fool you.”
I grunted in acknowledgment, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through me. King had indeed offered a temporary sanctuary, a place to lick my wounds before I plunged back into the maelstrom. But sanctuary was a fleeting illusion in my world, a mirage that always dissolved into the harsh reality of the chase.
As I left the infirmary, the scent of coffee and frying bacon wafted from the kitchen, and my stomach grumbled. The second I entered, I spotted two beautiful women. One was heavilypregnant; the other looked as if she should be on a billboard somewhere. But as beautiful as they both were, they did nothing for me as my thoughts went to my memories of Karlyn.
“Can I help you?”
I cleared my throat, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach. My knuckles were white where I gripped the worn fabric of my pants. My voice, when I spoke, sounded a little rougher than I intended. “Ma’am, King said to come see you about some food. I know it’s past lunchtime.”
I looked at the striking, heavily pregnant woman, her belly a testament to a life blooming within. She scoffed, a sound that scraped against my nerves, as if having a stray brother walk in, a stranger from who-knows-where, was nothing new.
“Nonsense, have a seat.” She puttered around the kitchen, each step deliberate, heavy. I watched the sway of her hips, the way her hand instinctively went to her belly, and a wave of something akin to guilt washed over me.
Looking at her swollen belly, a thought, a good intention, an ingrained politeness surfaced. “I can make something myself. You should sit.”
I blinked fast as the woman spun around, her eyes narrowing, a fierce glare that felt like a physical blow. “Excuse me? Do I look like an invalid?”
Idiot, what the fuck did you just do? She offered. How many times did Stella get on you about letting a woman do as she pleases when she offers a helping hand?
“N-no, ma’am.” I quickly shook my head, my heart hammering against my ribs. My gaze darted around the kitchen, searching for an escape, a way out of this rapidly escalating disaster. I’d been around plenty of hot-headed women in my life, women whose tempers could flare faster than a struck match, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, I’d crossed some invisible, volatile line. From the look she wasgiving me, I was pretty damn sure I had just taken my life into my hands.
“Is there a reason you think I am not capable of making you food?” The woman crossed her arms over her chest, resting them on her protruding abdomen, a defiant gesture that broadcasted her indignation.
DON’T ANSWER THAT!a voice shouted in my head.She thinks you’re accusing her of being weak. You know better. You know what it’s like to be underestimated. Why did you do that?
“Mom, be nice,” a younger woman’s voice, sharp and clear, chastised from the doorway. She entered the kitchen, her presence a welcome, yet also somehow complicated, relief. “Can’t you hear his accent? He’s a Southern boy, Mom. Not a Neanderthal from Boston who thinks women are weak. He has manners.”
The younger girl winked at me—a shared understanding, a secret acknowledgment—and I felt a foolish grin spread across my face, even as I lowered my eyes.
