A sound like somewhere under the drugs and shock, she had heard him.
And hated herself for it.
That snapped me out of whatever dark spell had fallen over the yard.
“She needs Doc,” I said.
Edge’s eyes opened.
The father was back.
“Move.”
The clubhouse doors flew open before we reached them. Women crowded the entrance, faces tight and pale. Shaniqua was there, hair wrapped up, eyes already wet but spine straight as steel. Amber. Skye. A few old ladies I didn’t know. Every one of them looked ready to help, fight, pray, or kill depending on what Destiny needed first.
A gray-haired man with a medical bag shoved through the crowd.
“Upstairs,” he ordered. “Now.”
Nobody argued.
We moved fast.
The inside of the clubhouse smelled like beer, smoke, leather, and panic. Men flattened against walls to give us space. Nobody spoke. Nobody made eye contact with Edge unless they had a death wish. Destiny’s breath rasped against my cut, and every time she made the smallest sound, Edge’s control got thinner.
At the stairs, he stopped me.
“I’ll take her.”
This time, his voice wasn’t a threat.
It was a plea wrapped in iron.
I looked down at Destiny.
Her fingers were still curled in my shirt.
I shifted carefully. “Destiny.”
Her eyes opened a sliver.
“You’re home,” I said. “Your dad’s got you.”
Something moved across her face. Fear. Shame. Relief. All tangled up until none of it had a name.
“My bike,” she whispered.
Edge went very still.
Regan choked out a laugh that turned into a sob. “Your bike? Baby girl, you are bleeding all over the place and worried about the bike?”
Destiny’s eyes filled.
“His bike.”
Edge’s face did something I didn’t know how to read.
Then he reached for her.
