Dylan’s voice came closer. “I know a thing or two about horses.”
My eyes opened to slits.
The room was blurry. Shadows. Lamps. Faces. Regan near my shoulder. Edge at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to argue the existence of physics and win.
Dylan stood near the door.
He had changed his shirt.
That registered for some reason.
No blood now.
Or less blood.
His cut was gone too, probably because nobody needed a San Diego rocker glowing under moonlight while smuggling a damaged biker princess through ranch land.
Dylan looked at me when he realized my eyes were open.
Not smiled.
Not exactly.
But something in his face eased.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
I tried to answer.
Nothing came out but a dry rasp.
Regan lifted a cup with a straw to my mouth. “Tiny sip.”
I obeyed because I was too weak to be difficult and too sore to enjoy disappointing her.
Edge moved closer. “I should be with you.”
I looked at him.
His face blurred, and for a second I saw him not as Edge Rourke, not as the man the whole clubhouse feared, but as my father. Just my father. Too big for the room. Too scared for his body. Too full of love he did not know how to make gentle.
“I know,” I whispered.
That destroyed him.
Only for a second.
Then he locked it down.
“You listen to Regan,” he said. “You listen to Doc. You listen to Cal. You do not decide this is the moment to prove something else.”
“I’m out of vehicles to steal.”
Regan made a strangled sound. “Too soon.”
Edge’s mouth twitched like pain.
I loved him so much in that moment it hurt worse than my ribs.
