Page 13 of Canvas’ Muse

All because she wanted a dragon tattoo.

"Stop it," Eden says, reading my expression. "I can see you blaming yourself. Don't."

"You almost died in my studio."

"You almost died protecting me. There's a difference." She moves to my other side, helping Saint support me. "Now come on. Let's get you to safety before you actually pass out and I have to drag your tattooed ass to my car."

"You couldn't drag me anywhere."

"Want to bet? I've moved three-hundred-pound patients by myself. You're tall, but you're lean. I could absolutely drag you." She's smiling now, and despite everything, all the pain, the destruction, the danger, I find myself smiling back.

She's insane. Completely, utterly insane, and I'm pretty sure I'm falling even harder for her.

Ranger appears in the doorway. "Clear. No bikes, no cars, nothing suspicious. But we should move fast in case they're watching from a distance."

"Let's go." Saint and Eden guide me through the destroyed front room, glass crunching under our feet. My legs are working, barely, but every step sends fresh pain through my shoulder despite the medication.

Eden's blue Civic is parked right where she said, pristine and normal in contrast to the chaos around it. She unlocks it with her key fob, and Saint helps me into the passenger seat. The movement makes me almost pass out, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

"Stay conscious," Eden orders, sliding into the driver's seat. "I know Saint gave you pain meds, but you need to stay awake until we get to the clubhouse. Can you do that?"

"Yeah." Probably. Maybe.

Saint leans down to the passenger window. "Straight to the clubhouse, no stops. We'll ride ahead and behind you. Anything looks wrong, you lay on the horn and we'll handle it."

"Got it." Eden's hands are steady on the wheel, her expression calm, like this is normal, like she drives wounded bikers to secret clubhouses every single day.

Ranger's already on his bike, engine rumbling. Saint jogs to his, and within seconds they're ready to move.

Eden pulls out slowly, avoiding the worst of the broken glass. In the rearview mirror, I watch my studio disappear—windows shot out, door hanging open, everything I built reduced to ruins.

"I'm sorry," Eden says quietly, navigating onto the main road. Ranger is ahead of us, Saint behind, both keeping close. "About your studio. I know it meant a lot to you."

"It's just a building." My voice sounds distant, the pain meds really kicking in now. "It can be rebuilt."

"But it was yours. Your pride. I could see it the moment I walked in, how much care you put into that space." Her hand finds mine on the center console, squeezes gently. "It's okay to be upset about it."

Nobody's ever given me permission to feel things before. The MC teaches you to compartmentalize, to push through, to handle shit and move on. During war, emotions are weakness. Pain is temporary. Get over it.

But Eden's telling me it's okay to be upset, and something in my chest cracks open.

"I built that studio from nothing," I hear myself say. "Every piece of equipment, every frame on the wall, every fucking light fixture, I chose it. I made it mine. And they destroyed it in less than a minute."

"I get it." Her voice is soft, understanding. "And we'll make them pay for it."

"We?"

She glances at me, and there's fire in those blue eyes. "You think I'm just going to sit at this clubhouse and do nothing? After what they did? After they tried to kill us?"

"That's exactly what you're going to do. Stay safe, stay out of the way, let us handle the Vipers."

"We'll see about that."

"Where does that come from?" I ask, watching her profile as she drives. "That courage. That refusal to back down even when you should."

Eden is quiet for a moment, her hands steady on the wheel as she follows Ranger's bike through downtown Millhaven. Saint's headlight is still a constant presence in the side mirror behind us.

"I was bullied a lot as a kid," she finally says. "For being chubby. For having curves when other girls were still stick-thin. They called me names, excluded me from everything, made my life hell from about fifth grade through sophomore year of high school."