"Damn. King really spares no expense when it comes to taking care of his people," Chaos chuckles.
Luna herself appears in the doorway, her blue eyes sharp as she takes in my condition. She's small but commands respect. The club queen in every sense of the word.
"Sit," she orders, pointing to the table. "Shirt off."
I comply without argument, peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from my shoulder. The movement pulls at the wound, and I taste copper as I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
Luna doesn't waste time with sympathy. She examines the injury with clinical efficiency, her hands gentle but firm.
"Through and through, like you said," she confirms. "Missed the major arteries, but you're going to need stitches. This is going to hurt."
"Always does."
She gives me a look that suggests she understands more than I'd like. Then she starts cleaning the wound, and yeah, it fucking hurts. But pain is just information. A signal that I'm alive, that I survived another day.
That I made a different choice this time.
"The women you rescued are all being checked over," Luna says as she works. "Most of them are dehydrated and malnourished, but nothing that won't heal with time and care. I’ve heard that one of them—Rachel—is being difficult."
"She has reason to be."
"I'm sure she does. But she also needs medical attention, and she's refusing to let anyone examine her."
Of course she is.
"She doesn't trust anyone," I say, wincing as Luna starts stitching. "Can't blame her for that."
"No, but I can't help her if she won't let me." Luna pauses, meeting my eyes. "She seems to have fixated on you. Kept asking Chaos questions about you while you were walking in."
That surprises me. "What kind of questions?"
"Who you are. Why you're so quiet. Whether you always throw yourself in front of bullets for strangers." Luna's expression softens slightly. "She's trying to figure you out, Shadow. Trying to decide if you're a threat or..."
"Or what?"
"Or something else."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the idea that Rachel —prickly, defensive, clearly damaged Rachel—might be thinking about me as anything other than another biker to distrust.
"She should stay away from me," I finally say. "I'm not good for anyone."
"Maybe." Luna ties off the last stitch and starts bandaging my shoulder. "Or maybe you're exactly what she needs. Someone who understands what it means to survive something that should have destroyed you."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" She secures the bandage and steps back, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes.
"If you do, then you know I'm the last person Rachel should trust."
"I know you're someone who carries guilt like a second skin. Who punishes himself for surviving when others didn't. Whothinks he doesn't deserve happiness or connection because of choices he made in impossible situations." She crosses her arms. "Sound familiar?"
Too fucking familiar.
"What's your point?"
"My point is that sometimes the people most damaged by life are the ones who understand each other best. Rachel needs someone who won't push her to heal on anyone's timeline but her own. Someone who won't expect her to be grateful or happy or anything other than exactly what she is right now."
"And you think that's me?"
