Page 21 of Canvas’ Muse

"Echo's already working it. Looking for their lookouts in Millhaven, their safe houses, their supply lines." Phoenix paces now, the restless energy of a man planning war. "They have to have someone local. Someone watching us, reporting back to Demon. We find that person, we send a message."

A lookout in Millhaven. It makes sense. The Vipers have been too informed, too quick to respond. They even knew where my studio was at. Someone's been watching, reporting, coordinating.

"What kind of message?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"The permanent kind." Phoenix stops pacing, turning to face me. "I'm not asking you to be part of it. You're recovering. But I need you to know—things are going to escalate. Fast. And anyone close to the club is going to be in the line of fire."

Including Eden.

"I'll talk to her," I say again. "Make sure she knows what she's choosing."

"That's all I ask." Phoenix moves toward the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth? Saint says she's good. Really good. Kept you alive, stayed calm under pressure, and took directions without argument. The kind of person you want in your corner when shit hits the fan."

"Yeah. She is."

"She's in the last room on the right. Second floor." Phoenix gives me a look. "Don't do anything stupid like try to walk there on your own. You need help, you call someone."

"I'm fine."

"You got shot thirty-six hours ago. You're not fine." But he leaves anyway, closing the door behind him.

I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, processing. Eden stayed. She's upstairs, sleeping, probably exhausted from watching over me for a day and a half straight. The image of her sitting beside my bed, monitoring my vitals, refusing to leave, it does something to my chest that I don't have words for.

I need to see her.

The logical part of my brain knows I should stay in bed, let my body heal, follow Saint's orders. The other part, the part that's been falling for a woman I barely know since the moment she walked into my studio, doesn't give a shit about logic.

I disconnect the IV, months and months of watching Saint work paying off. The needle slides out clean, and I apply pressure with gauze from the bedside table. Once I'm sure it's not bleeding, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Standing is harder than I expected. The room tilts dangerously, and I have to grip the bed frame to keep from falling. My shoulder screams in protest, but I breathe through it, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

One step. Then another. By the time I reach the door, I'm sweating and my shoulder feels like someone's driving nails into it with every movement, but I'm upright. That's something.

The hallway is empty, most of the club probably dealing with the Viper situation or giving me space to recover. I make it to the stairs and seriously consider Phoenix's warning about calling for help. The steps look impossibly steep from down here.

But Eden is upstairs, and I need to see her.

I take them one at a time, using the railing to support most of my weight. By the time I reach the second floor, I'm breathing hard and the edges of my vision are going dark, but I made it.

Last room on the right. I count doors as I walk, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. When I reach it, I pause, listening. No sound from inside. She's probably still asleep.

I should leave her alone. Let her rest. Come back later when I'm not half-dead and bleeding through Saint's stitches. Instead, I open the door as quietly as I can.

The room is small, dimly lit by afternoon sun filtering through thin curtains. Eden is curled up on the twin bed, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that are definitely not hers, probably Nora's or Ivy's. Her long dark hair is spread across the pillow, and even in sleep, she looks exhausted. There are dark circles under her eyes, tension in her shoulders that suggests she hasn't truly relaxed even unconscious.

She stayed. For a day and a half, she stayed by my side.

I move closer, trying to be quiet, just wanting to be near her for a moment. To see for myself that she's okay, that the shooting didn't break something fundamental in her.

My foot catches on something: her shoes, kicked off beside the bed, and I stumble. The sound is small but enough.

Eden's eyes snap open immediately, going from asleep to alert in half a second. Nurse training, probably. She sits up fast, her gaze landing on me, and for a moment, she just stares.

"Davis?" Her voice is rough with sleep. "What are you… You shouldn't be out of bed! You got shot. You need to rest! Oh my god, you're bleeding through your bandage—"

She's up and moving before I can respond, crossing to me in two strides. Her hands go to my shoulder, checking the bandage as her eyes scan my face.

"You're an idiot," she says, but her voice is shaking. "A complete idiot. You should be in the medical room. What were you thinking, walking up here? You could have fallen, torn your stitches, passed out—"