The others remain standing, creating a protective perimeter.
"Any word?" Ruger asks.
"Not yet."
"Club's here for you, brother. Whatever you need."
I nod, grateful for his presence but unable to form the words.
Ruger understands.
It's why he's a good man.
He knows when to push and when to just fucking be there.
Another hour passes before a doctor approaches, his face carefully composed in that way medical professionals have when delivering bad news.
"Mr. Mercer?" he asks, looking between the bikers uncertainly.
I stand. "That's me."
"I'm Dr. Renyolds. Your wife is stabilized, but it was close. The Narcan reversed the opioid effects, but she experienced respiratory depression for an extended period. We'll need to monitor her for potential complications."
"Is she awake?"
"Semiconscious. She's been asking for 'Blood.' I assume that's you?"
I nod. "Can I see her?"
"Briefly. Room four."
Leah squeezes my arm. "I'll come check on her after my rounds."
I follow the doctor through swinging doors into the emergency department, past curtained areas where other dramas unfold.
Vanna's room is at the end, monitoring equipment beeping steadily beside her bed.
She looks small against the white sheets, oxygen in her nose, IV in her arm.
Her skin has lost the blue tint but remains too pale, stretched tight over her cheekbones.
Her eyes flutter open as I approach. "Blood?" Her voice is raspy, barely audible.
I take her hand, careful of the IV. Her fingers are ice cold. "I'm here."
"You found me again." Her cracked lips attempt a smile. "My dark knight."
"Don't talk. Rest."
She shakes her head weakly. "Need to explain... wasn't trying to die. Just wanted to feel good for a while."
"Vanna—"
"Everything hurts all the time," she continues, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "When I'm straight, it's like I'm suffocating. Like this whole fucking town is sitting on my chest."
I know the feeling.
Morgantown's a city of ghosts—empty mines, empty promises, empty futures.
