Dawn crawls across the clubhouse with fingers of pale light that do nothing to warm the chill settled deep in my bones. I've been sitting in the same spot at the bar for hours, an untouched whiskey gathering dust in front of me. Sleep isn't an option. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—broken, hollowed-out, a ghost wearing Cara's face.
Thirty-six hours since we pulled her from that container. Thirty-six hours of avoiding the room where she's recovering. Thirty-six hours of my mind replaying five years of hatred and hurt, rewriting the narrative I'd built to make her absence bearable.
She didn't leave me. She was taken.
The thought circles like a vulture, picking at the corpse of the man I became after she disappeared.
"You look like shit," Doc says, his weathered boots scraping against the floor as he approaches. His medical bag hangs from one shoulder, eyes tired behind wire-rimmed glasses. He's been working nonstop since we brought the women in.
"Thanks," I mutter, pushing the whiskey away. "How are they?"
"Recovering. Physically, at least." Doc settles onto the stool beside me, his knees popping in protest. "The mental healing will take longer. Always does."
I nod, jaw clenched tight. "And..." I can't bring myself to say her name.
Doc doesn't need me to. "She's awake. Asking questions." He studies me with eyes that have seen too much over his seventy years. "Smart woman. Resilient. She's already trying to walk."
Something like pride flickers in my chest before I smother it. I don't get to feel that anymore.
"She asked about you," Doc adds carefully.
My fingers tighten around the empty glass. "What did you tell her?"
"That you haven't slept since they brought her in. That you've been pacing outside her room half the night."
"Christ, Doc," I growl, shoving away from the bar. "She doesn't need to know that."
"Doesn't she?" He raises an eyebrow. "Look, I don't know what she was to you before, but?—"
"She was everything," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Then she was nothing. Now she's..." I trail off, unable to find the right word.
Doc nods slowly. "Complicated."
"Yeah." I run a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's nearly a beard now. "Complicated."
The clubhouse door swings open, and Vulture strides in, his cut impeccable despite the early hour. Our president has always been the picture of control, even in chaos. Maybe especially in chaos. His eyes narrow when he spots me.
"Brother," he says, the word carrying a weight of authority. "We need to talk."
I recognize the tone. It's not a request.
"Take a shower first," Doc suggests, standing with a grunt. "You smell like a distillery." He claps me on the shoulder as he passes, a reminder of the father I never had.
I follow Vulture to the chapel—our meeting room, named with the kind of dark humor that defines the Saints Outlaws. The heavy oak table dominates the space, carved with the names of fallen brothers. My fingers trace the newest addition as I sink into a chair.
"You gonna tell me what's going on with the woman?" Vulture asks, closing the door. "The one from the container who recognized you."
I stare at the table, finding patterns in the wood grain. "Her name is Cara Mitchell."
"And?"
I take a deep breath. "Five years ago, she was my old lady. My fiancée."
Vulture's eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline. "The one who walked out on you?"
"That's what I thought." My laugh is hollow, bitter. "Turns out she didn't walk. She was taken."
Understanding dawns in Vulture's eyes. "Jesus."
