His eyes widen with dread, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen true, near crippling fear, so vivid, so capable of crumbling worlds, reflected in his gaze. “Where are they?”
“In the ambulance,” the biker says.
Clay dips his chin in the biker’s direction, lowering his voice, forcing a word through clenched teeth, a word that seems more dangerous than a bullet. “Alive?”
“Yes.”
Clay closes his eyes and exhales.
Then his stare is all over me, detailing my every inch, tears, dirt, legs, stopping on my forehead. Lingering. His pupils expand.
“Over here!” he roars.
Suddenly, a henchman is at Clay Butcher’s side, already rummaging through a half-open white bag. “I need to stitch your abdomen, Boss.”
“Do her fir?—”
“Boss!”
Clay grabs the collar of his shirt. “Do. Her. First.”
“Grab another ambo,” the henchman says to the biker with a familiarity that seems strange.
Biker shakes his head. “They’re all occupied.”
“Fuck,” the henchman bites out.
I whimper. “My babies…”
Clay cups my cheek. “Will have their mother very soon, little deer.Sosoon. They are probably exhausted. Not scared, sweet girl. Just sleeping.”
Lies.
I like them.
As the henchman leans over me, his arms cast twin shadows across Clay’s face. I focus on Sir, ignoring the fact that my forehead is currently being stitched back together.
Clay’s features are blurry, out of focus, and obstructed, but stunning, gazing down on me like an angel of protection. “Kudos, God,” I choke, then close my eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
clay
My little deer—unconscious.
My sons—out of reach.
My Butcher blood howls as I carry her through the double doors and into the emergency room at the District Hospital. I want to throw my fist against a wall. To lose complete control. My fingers twitch with the urge.
But I do not. Cannot. Will not allow myself such a selfish luxury as unhelpful emotional expression. That is not for me. I am controlled. So she can express. I am calm. So she can feel. ButChrist, I want to roar.
To shatter glass. To crush bone. I've learned to tolerate emotions, to acknowledge vulnerability where once I despised its pull, but that doesn't mean I fucking like it.
Pain punches through my abdomen despite the new, somewhat rushed stitches. Matthew didn't extract all the metal—a nice piece of shrapnel—but at least it's closed for now, the bleeding slowed. In a masochistic way, I challenge the pain to hold meaning. A lash, a punishment, for overlooking her needs. For putting a meeting above her…
Fuck.
I should have fucked her in the dressing room, like her sweet, innocent eyes pleaded for. I didn’t. If I had, if I’d taken my time reminding her how special she is, how I worship at her feet, perhaps we would have missed that fucking pile-up.
