Riley turns to me, squeezing my arm with what strength she has left.
“I know I’m safe,” she says. “Because he’s here.”
My heart fucking splits open, and every name of every dead Marine that it had held onto all these years spills out in this freeing burst of pain that erupts from my throat. As I shake, as the pain leaves me, Riley puts her arm around me in a gentle hug.
“You did it,” she says. “You can let it all go.”
The paramedics guide us toward the ambulance, one on each side, but Riley never lets go of my arm. Not until they have toseparate us so they can treat us. As we reach the ambulances, I climb into the back, lowering myself onto the gurney with a hiss of pain.
The paramedic takes one look at me — blood-soaked, bruised, shaking — and asks, “Do you want something for the pain? Morphine?”
A slow grin spreads across my face, raw and exhausted, and I release a gentle laugh. “Do you even need to fucking ask?”
Riley giggles from where she’s being tended not far away, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
For the first time in my life, despite the blood, the pain, the wreckage…
I can see a future free from it all. Something bright, something happy.
Something with her.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Riley
The first thing I notice is the antiseptic smell, sharp and chemical, slashing through the fog in my head. It’s so clean it feels wrong, as if my body’s been forcibly sterilized of the past forty-eight hours — of the sweat, blood, filth, and terror that still cling to my mind. The second thing is the pain, a dull, sourceless ache at first, then an ever-brightening constellation of agony: ribs, jaw, wrists, neck, the deep bruises on my back and head. Every breath tastes like swallowing glass. I try to move, to make sense of where I am, and a strangled sound tears out of my mouth before I can stop it.
A shadow stirs at the edge of my vision. Then that shadow splits into four shapes, and four women descend on me like feral mother hens.
Claire gets to my bedside first, her cool palm pushing hair out of my eyes with surprising gentleness. Molly looms over her shoulder, arms crossed, freckles sharp with worry. Bianca comes in next, her expression soft but fierce, and Alessia slips in last, lipstick perfect, eyes on fire.
Bianca leans in, expression so raw and open it knocks the air out of me. “You’re safe,” she says, and then she’s brushing my cheek with the back of her hand, as if confirming it’s real. “You’re really, really safe.”
“Jesus, kid,” Molly says, arms crossed, tears shining in her lashes. “You had us all shitting bricks.”
I’m trying to nod, trying to smile, trying not to fall apart. I fail; a sob rips out of me — loud, ugly, shaking — and Alessia takes my other hand in hers, squeezing like she’s anchoring me to the earth. “We’re not leaving you alone for a second,” she says, voice low and fierce. “Not until you tell us to your face that you never want to see us again. Even then, tough shit — we’ll probably just stalk you, anyway.”
I make a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob — and then I’m crying for real. All four of them react at once and I’m surrounded by warm hands, murmured voices, and then the blanket gets tucked in tighter.
“It’s okay,” Claire whispers. “You can let it out.”
Claire leans down, wrapping her arms around me with surprising tenderness for someone who rules a motorcycle club with an iron spine.
I let it all out; I cry for the basement, for the chains, for the fear. And for Breaker. Oh god, do I cry for Breaker.
The panic finally ebbs, receding like a tide. I can breathe again, shallow and ragged, but real. I’m alive. I survived.
They let me have a minute. Then, as my wits return, so do the questions. My body hurts everywhere, but his name is the only pain that matters.
“Breaker?” I croak, and the air in the room thins.
All four women look at each other, the same thought passing between them like a live wire: who’s going to tell her?
“Alive,” Claire says at last. “He’s alive, Riley. He took a beating, but he’s alive.”
Molly grimaces. “He lost a lot of blood. But he’s impossible to kill, apparently.”
“He’s been asking for you,” Bianca says, squeezing my arm. “He tried to get out of bed, and they had to sedate him twice.”
