Heavy footsteps sound in the hallway, and Saint’s overpowering presence is the final nail in the coffin. He steps around Sin to my side, towering over Pixie in a way that I can’t.
He’s in charge. He’s powerful. And he’s smarter than the rest of us. It’s why he’s the boss.
Pixie trembles slightly as she looks up at him, meeting his eyes with respect but determination.
Saint’s muscles bulge with restraint as he cocks his head to the side. “Pix, tell me what’s wrong with my wife.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“There’s nothingwrongwith your wife. If you’re concerned, you should really ask her.”
Saint shakes his head. Sin curls his lip in a silent snarl. Fire burns in my chest at the deflection.
“Every time I try, you get between us, divert, distract.” It’s getting harder to keep my anger in check. It stems from worry, but it’s still not safe.
“Heaven forbid any of you give her a moment to breathe. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be a woman in a club full of alpha men.” Her narrow eyes soften.
The words hit deeper than I expect. Guilt flickers before I can stifle it.
Are we smothering her? That wasn’t a problem before. Has she changed her mind about us now that Grant is no longer a threat? Or did something change inside her instead?
Sin practically growls, and Pixie realizes her mistake.
“That’s not—” She shakes her head. “She loves you guys. That’s not what I meant.”
But fear compounds the worry we’re already swimming in.
Tremors take over Pixie’s shoulders as she appeals to Saint again. “You trust me. Don’t you?”
Her voice is so small. Weak. It’s been years since I’ve heard her like that, but it strikes me differently. Pixie is not a timid woman. She can throw down with the best of them.
When the silence spreads, she pulls in a shaky breath, but her mouth clamps again. Defiant. She’s always been that.
I deliver Pixie a final warning. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll assume the worst-case scenario medically.”
My mind is already sprinting through possibilities I don’t want to name.
Pixie crumbles a little but still holds out. Wren should be proud that she’s got such a good friend, but her devotion is to the club as a whole? Not good. It can’t just be Wren. This kind of divide is what breaks trust. Gets people killed.
“What’s going on?” Wren’s voice has us turning. She pushes past Sin, swatting at his hands as he wraps an arm around her middle. It takes one strong“no”for him to let go of her. Hurt is clear in the flash of his eyes.
Wren presses herself between Saint, me, and Pixie, holding her hands out to get us to step back. “Leave her alone…”
Her sentence trails off halfway through a breath. She tries to shove me back, but it’s weak. Her eyes unfocus and her head tilts as if she’s dizzy. Breath comes a little too rapidly as sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip.
Wren sways, arms still out to keep us at bay. Protecting her friend from us as if we’d ever hurt one of our own. Not like this.
Her eyelids flutter, and I have just enough time to catch her under the elbows as she wobbles.
Tachycardia. Pallor. Diaphoresis.
Wren still tries to push me away, but Pixie is scrambling to keep her up.
We settle her on the floor, tipped against my chest for support, and I feel her pulse—rapid, unstable.
“Fuck,” Sin curses behind me.
Saint goes white as a sheet. Something breaks in his eyes.
