And I’m not a doctor.
“I can’t do surgery,” I state, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my hands shake behind my back. “I’m a nurse. I can assist. I can stabilize. But removing a bullet, that is above my skillset.”
The president’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you better learn quick.”
A man on the couch laughs. “Hell, she done it before.”
“No,” I state, because that’s not what happened with Miles and they’re twisting it on purpose. “I didn’t remove anything. I stopped the bleeding. I cleaned and dressed the wound. Basic stitches.”
“That’s what you’re gonna do,” the president says, and his voice hardens on the last word. “But removing the bullet first.”
He turns his head slightly, and one of the men steps forward, holding up a phone.
On the screen is a photo of my grandfather.
Not the same one as before. This one is closer. More recent. The pajamas he wore just yesterday.
His face fills the frame. His eyes look wide, scared, confused. The angle is wrong, like it was taken quickly. My heart drops into my shoes. “What did you do?” I whisper.
The president watches my reaction like he’s tasting it. “Otherwise,” he says softly, “I kill your grandfather and you, and no one even misses you.”
The words burn.
Not because they’re true now—God, I know they aren’t true now—but because there was a time when they would have been close enough to truth to make me flinch in a different way. A time when Grandpa and I were just two people in a small town trying to survive, invisible unless we caused trouble.
Back then, the only person who would have noticed fast would’ve been Josie.
Now—Now there’s Miles.
There’s Raff and Josie and their kids. There’s a whole mess of people who somehow wove themselves into my life, making it bigger without asking permission.
The thought of Miles worrying hits me like a punch. It makes me sad and furious at the same time.
Because he’s out there somewhere, riding roads with his heart in his throat, and these men are using me like bait in a war I never agreed to fight.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice up through the fear. “You’re making a mistake,” I say. “If you hurt my grandfather?—”
The president laughs cutting me off, low and ugly. “You gonna do what?” he asks. “Call the cops?”
A man near the hallway lifts his gun slightly, just enough to remind me what reality we’re in. The president steps closer until he’s right in front of me. He squats down so our faces are level. His eyes are cold, but there’s something almost pleased in them.
“You’re gonna do it,” he instructs. “You’re gonna keep our brother alive if you want to live to fuck your Hellion again.”
The sentence is obscene in his mouth, and it makes my skin crawl. My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. “I’m not—” My voice cracks. I force it back together. “I’m not your tool.”
His smile disappears. “Wrong answer.”
He reaches out and grips my chin, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough that I feel the strength in his fingers. “Otherwise,” he says, voice flat now, “I’ll put the bullet in you myself and find someone else.”
My breath catches. My whole body goes cold, like fear is draining the heat out of me.
I stare at him, trying to keep my eyes steady, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Think smart.
Stay alive.
What can I do?
