Savannah is in the chair beside the bed. Curled so small she looks like a kid. Her head is on the mattress. Fingers locked around mine in a death grip. Even asleep she's shaking. Her eyes are swollen almost shut. Cheeks streaked with mascara and salt. Lips cracked from biting them.
I try to squeeze her hand. Nothing happens at first. My fingers won't listen. Panic spikes in my gut. I focus. Force it. A weak twitch. That's all I can give.
Her head jerks up. Eyes wide and terrified. “Lucky?”
My voice comes out wet and broken. Barely a whisper. “Hey… baby.”
She makes this sound. Half sob, half choke. Tears flood instantly. She climbs onto the bed slow, like she's scared touching me will break something. Avoids every tube. Every wire. Presses her face into my neck. Her whole body is trembling so hard I feel it in my bones.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispers. Voice cracking on every word. “They said… they said you might not… the bullet tore through your lung. You coded twice in the OR. They had to crack your chest open. I thought… I thought I lost you.”
I try to swallow. Tastes like blood and copper. “I’m… sorry.”
“Don’t.” She kisses my jaw. My cheek. My mouth. Soft. Desperate. Like she's trying to pour life back into me. “Don’t you dare apologize. Just… stay. Please stay.”
I lift my hand. It shakes bad. Fingers brush her hair back. Strands stick to her wet face. “Volkov?”
She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You don’t remember?” I shake my head once. Tiny movement. Hurts like hell. She exhales shaky. “He’s gone. Mason put him down. Riot… he found a girl in there. Chained in a back room. Russian. She was terrified. He carried her out and she hasn’t let him go. Keeps whispering thank you like he’s God.”
I try to smile. Lips barely move. “Sounds like Riot.”
She presses her forehead to mine. Breath hitching. “You came home. That’s what matters. You have to come home.”
My throat closes. Vision blurs at the edges. “I will… Just… gotta heal.”
She looks up at me cupping my cheek in her palm. “Damn right you do. You fight, Lucky. You fight like hell. I’m not doing this without you.”
The door opens quietly. Mason steps in. Cut on. Face gray. Eyes hollow. Looks like he aged twenty years since the last time I saw him. “Brother,” he says gruffly.
I manage a nod. Barely.
He glances at Savannah. Then back to me. Voice low. Rough. “You rest now. Club’s handling the fallout, we’re taking care of everything. You focus on breathing. On staying. We need you.”
Savannah squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. “He will.”
Mason gives a chin lift. Jaw tight. Steps back out. The door clicks shut.
She settles beside me again. Careful. So careful. I turn my head. Kiss her temple. Lips numb. “Right now… just want you.”
“You’ve got me.” She curls tighter against my side. Voice soft and fierce against my ear. “Always. You hear me? Always. So you stay. You stay for me. For us. For the four kids we’re gonna have. You don’t get to leave me here alone.”
I close my eyes. Feel her heartbeat slamming against my ribs. It hurts so fucking bad I can barely breathe. But I’m still here. She’s still here. And I’m not ready to let go. Not yet.
TWENTY-TWO
SAVANNAH
I wakeup to the smell of coffee and bacon grease drifting down the hallway. Sunlight cuts through the half-open blinds across the king bed. Lucky’s side is empty but the sheets are still warm, all twisted up like he just rolled out. I stretch slowly, arching my back, feeling the good kind of ache in my muscles. No more waking up with my heart in my throat, checking if he’s still breathing beside me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand the second I open my eyes.
Unknown: He’s not right for you.
Unknown: I’d treat you better.
My stomach drops. I don’t even have to look at the number anymore, I already know that it’s the same damn number that’s been texting me for weeks. One or two messages every few days, always short and enough to make my skin crawl. It’s been weeks of this.
Except for those damn messages. They started a week after he got shot. One week after I sat by his hospital bed watchingmachines breathe for him, one week after the doctor said he might not make it through the night. A random text popped up from an unknown number while I was in the waiting room, numb and coffee-stained. I thought it was nothing, maybe a wrong number, so I ignored it. Then they kept coming. Every few days. Little comments about what I was wearing, where I'd been, how I looked when I smiled. Like someone was close enough to see me fall apart and decided to keep poking.
