“Hawk,” Ghost says again, more insistently this time.
I let him pull me back. One step. Two. The door swings shut behind us, and suddenly I’m standing in the hallway outside the medical room, doing nothing. Waiting.
Which somehow feels worse than the moment I thought she was dead on that kitchen floor.
My hands drag through my hair, still covered in her blood.
“Fuck,” I breathe, the word escaping like a whisper of despair.
Riot leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, his expression grim. Diesel paces the hallway like a caged animal, barely able to contain his energy. Ghost stands beside me quietly, tension radiating from him.
For a long time, no one speaks. Then Diesel finally breaks the silence.
“That guy at the house,” he says, his voice low. “Dead for sure.”
I nod once, the image of Emma’s knife buried in his throat flashing through my mind.
“She did that,” Ghost says quietly, his tone surprisingly respectful.
My head lifts in surprise. “What?”
Ghost crosses his arms, his expression serious. “Knife wound in the throat. Deep.”
My chest tightens, a strange feeling twisting in my gut—pride, fear, respect—all tangled together.
“She fought,” I say roughly, admiration creeping into my voice.
Ghost nods. “Yeah.”
I close my eyes briefly, trying to process everything. Emma isn’t fragile. Never was. Even bleeding on her own kitchen floor… she still fought.
A door opens down the hallway, and one of the brothers jogs toward us. “The cleaners finished at the house,” he says. “Body’s handled.”
Ghost nods once. “Good.”
Another pause hangs in the air, thick with tension. Then Riot speaks up again. “We found his cut.”
My head lifts, curiosity piqued. “What club?”
Riot’s jaw tightens. “Black Reapers.”
My stomach drops. That name again.
Ghost exhales slowly, the weight of realization settling in. “Then this wasn’t random.”
No. It wasn’t. My fists clench, anger coursing through me.
Because someone sent that man. Someone wanted Emma dead. And if they think they’re getting away with that—
The medical room door opens, and all of us turn instantly. Reaper steps out, his expression weary and grim.
My heart pounds violently in my chest. “How is she?” I demand, desperation clawing at my throat.
Reaper looks tired, the toll of the night evident in his eyes. “She’s got cracked ribs, a concussion, and severe bruising around her throat,” he says, his tone flat.
My stomach twists at his words.
He continues, “She took a hell of a beating.”
