Having made it to the lecture on human anatomy, I quickly found a seat at the back of the lecture hall as the professor droned on and on about the circulatory system. My heart still hammered from the rush across campus, but I forced myself to focus on the faintly glowing PowerPoint and the professor’s steady, monotone explanations of arteries and veins. Around me, the low hum of whispered conversations and the soft clatter of laptop keys filled the vast room, but I kept my eyes trained on the front, hoping the lecture would pass quickly. Taking out my laptop, I settled myself and tried to pay attention. I was here to learn, to become something useful that my family could count on.
Just thinking about them made my heart ache.
The sterile scent of antiseptic and ink was my preferred perfume. It clung to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of the path I’d meticulously carved for myself. Loyola University’s medical campus was my true sanctuary, a labyrinth of echoing hallways, hushed lecture halls, and fluorescent-lit laboratories where the promise of healing held sway. Here, amidst the meticulous diagrams of the human circulatory system and the hushed murmurs of anatomy dissections, the chaotic undercurrents of my life were pushed to the periphery, muted by the sheer weight of my ambition. At twenty-five, I was more than just a diligent student; I was a force of nature,fueled by an insatiable curiosity and an unwavering dedication to understanding the intricate machinery of life.
My days were a rigorous ballet of late-night study sessions, punctuated by the insistent chime of my alarm clock at ungodly hours. Textbooks, dog-eared and underlined, formed precarious towers on my desk, their pages filled with the arcane language of medicine. I devoured them with an intensity that bordered on obsession, the complex interplay of cells, organs, and diseases a fascinating puzzle I was determined to solve. The future I envisioned was one of sterile gloves and the gentle hum of life-support machines, of providing solace and mending what was broken. It was a future built on knowledge, compassion, and an unshakeable belief in the power of science to alleviate suffering.
But even within the hallowed halls of academia, the echoes of a different world sometimes seeped in. A news report on a distant television screen, a hushed conversation overheard in the student lounge about gang violence, or the distant wail of sirens on the Chicago streets—these were fleeting reminders that the world I was striving to protect from illness and injury was also a world steeped in darkness and brutality. It was a stark contrast to the quiet dedication of my studies, a world where the scalpel was wielded for life, not for death.
My adoptive family, the Golden Skulls MC, was a paradox unto themselves. They were a brotherhood forged in leather and chrome, their lives etched with the kind of stories that made for hushed whispers and wary glances. Yet, within the confines of the sprawling clubhouse, a haven tucked away from prying eyes, I found an unconditional love and a fierce protectiveness that had been absent from my earliest memories. They were my shield, my anchor, the rough-hewn edges of their lives softened by an unspoken pact to keep me safe, to nurture the bright flame of my intellect and spirit.
My adoptive father, Leeroy Franks, a man known in the biker world as “Moonshine,” was a towering presence, his face a roadmap of a life lived hard, but his eyes held a surprising gentleness whenever they fell upon me. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He’d ensured my education was paramount, the rumble of his Harley a familiar sound as he’d occasionally drive me to class, his imposing silhouette a clear message to any potential trouble that I was under the protection of the Golden Skulls MC. He’d seen the spark in my eyes, the yearning for something more than the life that had threatened to swallow me whole before I’d even truly begun to live it. He recognized the fierce independence that burned within me, a trait he admired and guarded with a ferocity born of his own past.
Then there was Jackson, my brother. He was older, with a restless tide that mirrored my own drive, though channeled into different pursuits. He was the first to defend my honor, the first to share a late-night pizza during my marathon study sessions, his easy camaraderie a welcome balm to the pressures of my demanding coursework. He never questioned my dedication to medicine, his amusement at my scholarly pursuits tinged with a deep respect. He saw the woman I was becoming, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and he was fiercely proud. He’d often tease me, calling me “Doc,” a playful moniker that held a kernel of genuine admiration. He understood the unspoken world the family inhabited, but he also understood my desire to transcend it, to forge my path in a world that offered different battles to be won.
My adoptive mother, Roxy, a woman whose beauty was as striking as her past was mysterious, was the silent guardian of my emotional well-being. Her own journey had been one of resilience, a testament to finding love and purpose in unexpected places. She had a knack for knowing when Ineeded a quiet presence, a listening ear, or simply a comforting embrace. It was Roxy who had first noticed my fascination with the complexities of the human body, encouraging me, providing me with books on biology and anatomy long before I’d even considered a career in medicine. She understood the quiet yearning in my soul, a desire to bring order and healing to a world that often felt chaotic. As a doctor herself, I remembered helping her, learning, absorbing everything she taught me. I admired her diligence, her tenacity, her strength and wanted to be just like her.
These were the people who had scooped me and Jackson up from the fringes of a life I couldn’t remember, who had given me a name, a home, and a future. Their world was one of loyalty, of unspoken codes, and of a brutal pragmatism that often masked a surprising depth of love.
They were outlaws, yes, but to me, they were my salvation. They had provided me with the stability and support I craved, allowing me to build a life founded on knowledge and the aspiration to heal, a life that stood in stark opposition to the violence and darkness that had once threatened to consume me. My sanctuary wasn’t just the university campus; it was the unconditional acceptance and fierce protection of the Golden Skulls, a family built not on blood, but on an unshakeable bond of love and loyalty. It was a fragile peace, a delicate balance I navigated with grace and determination, forever grateful for the haven they had created for me, a stark and beautiful contrast to the unknown shadows of my past. The scent of antiseptic was my present, the embrace of my family my protection, and the future of healing, my unwavering hope.
“Ms. Scott!”
My head snapped up as I noticed every eye in the lecture hall, including the professor, all staring at me. Shifting in my seat, I cleared my throat and said, “Yes.”
“Can you tell me the fundamental difference between the body’s nervous system and the circulatory system?”
Swallowing, I tried to shake off the lingering memories and focus on the present. “The fundamental difference,” I began, “is that the nervous system transmits signals throughout the body using nerve cells, allowing for rapid communication and control, while the circulatory system transports blood, nutrients, and oxygen using vessels, supporting the body’s tissues and organs.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt, but I saw the professor nod and a few students glance my way with something almost like respect. For a moment, I could almost feel Jackson’s encouragement echoing from hundreds of miles away.
As the professor moved on to the next question, my heart slowed to a manageable thud. I realized that, despite the ache of homesickness and the sharp contrast between my past and this new world, I was capable of holding my own. Maybe, just maybe, the resilience I’d learned in that mountain clubhouse was enough to carry me through the toughest days here. Each minor victory, like answering a question in class, became another brick in the foundation I was building for myself, one that honored where I came from but was undeniably my own.
When the lecture eventually ended, I gathered my things, wanting to make a quick escape, when the professor called out my name from the side door. “Ms. Scott. My office. Now.”
I hesitated, pulse quickening all over again. The other students streamed out, casting me sympathetic or curious looks as they passed, but I squared my shoulders and made my way to the side door. The hallway felt colder, quieter, with each step echoing in my ears. For a brief second, I thought about turning back, but that stubborn ember inside kept me moving forward—after all, if I’d learned anything at the Golden Skulls’ clubhouse, it was never to back down from a challenge.
Chapter Four
Miranda
The professor’s office was tucked into a quiet corner, its walls crowded with overstuffed bookshelves and the faint aroma of coffee lingering in the air. The muted tick of a clock and the soft click of the closing door added to the hush, making the space feel even more removed from the bustling hallway outside. The leather chair beneath me creaked as I perched on its edge, the cool, worn texture of my bag’s strap digging into my fingers—a small anchor as anxiety prickled beneath my skin.
Professor Delgato gestured for me to sit, his expression unreadable. As he moved to settle himself on the edge of his desk, I gripped my bag tighter, pulse fluttering. “Ms. Scott,” he began, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. “Do you enjoy my class?”
I hesitated, glancing down at my knuckles white against the faded canvas. Did I? The material was fascinating, but his presence always left me unsettled, searching for the right answer instead of my honest thoughts. I forced myself to meet his gaze, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Yes, Professor Delgato.” The words felt practiced, safer than the truth—but I hoped he couldn’t see beyond them.
“I understand you are from East Tennessee. Is that correct?”
My body froze, a chill prickling across my skin as the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, filling the tense silence. My eyes narrowed, focusing on the professor as my heart thudded—each beat echoing in my ears. “That’sright,” I replied, the rough texture of the chair’s arm digging into my palm, grounding me as I wondered where the hell he was going with this line of questioning.
He smirked, then leaned forward. A faint creak escaped from his desk as he shifted, and I caught the subtle musk of his cologne—cloying and invasive. Something akin to lust glittered in his eyes as he took his time responding, the air between us heavy and stifling. “I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Ms. Scott, and I must say, you have extraordinary potential, but it’s being wasted on that boyfriend of yours.”
Boyfriend? The word hung in the air, sharp and out of place. I didn’t have a damn boyfriend.
“Pardon me?” I managed, my voice a little raw, as he leaned closer. The warmth of his breath brushed against my cheek, and the sound of his tongue flicking across his lips set my nerves on edge.
“You need to concentrate more,” he murmured, reaching for a loose tendril of hair. His fingers—cool and dry—gently stroked the strands, lingering for a beat before brushing against my cheek. The touch was electric and unwelcome, making my skin crawl.
I fought the urge to flinch, instead forcing myself to meet his gaze—steady, unblinking. My breath caught in my throat, the taste of anxiety bitter on my tongue as a thousand warning bells rang in my head, the dim tick of the office clock punctuating the charged stillness.
