Page 8 of Canvas’ Muse

"You can barely move." I position myself between him and the doorway, scanning the room for anything I could use as a weapon. A stool. The tattoo machine, too small. The rolling cart, I could throw it.

"Canvas?" A male voice calls from the front. "You back here?"

Davis sags with relief. "Saint. Back room."

Two men appear in the doorway, and my first instinct is to put myself more firmly between them and Davis, which is insane because these are supposedly his people. But I'm running on adrenaline and fear, and thirty minutes of watching a man bleed, so rational thought isn't exactly my strong suit right now.

The first man is tall, lean, with dark hair and features that are almost unsettlingly handsome, the kind of face that would look right at home on a movie villain. He's wearing an Iron Phoenix MC cut and carrying a large black duffel bag. His eyes sweep the room before landing on Davis's shoulder.

"Shit." He crosses to us in three strides, dropping to his knees and setting the bag down. "Through and through?"

"Yeah." I force myself to stay calm and professional. "Entry posterior shoulder, exit anterior. Heavy bleeding, but I've applied pressure and packed both wounds. He's showing early signs of shock. Elevated pulse, slightly altered mental status, temperature dysregulation."

The man—Saint, apparently—looks at me with new respect. "You a doctor?"

"Nurse. ER at Millhaven General." I don't move from Davis's side. "You're the medic they mentioned?"

"Former paramedic. Seven years before I joined the club." He's already pulling supplies from the bag—IV kit, fluids, proper bandaging materials, antibiotics. "I can handle this, but I need space to work."

The second man steps forward. Older, maybe late thirties, with short dark hair. "Ranger," he introduces himself, extending a hand. "I'm here for security while Saint works. Make sure no one comes back for a second round."

I shake his hand, still watching Saint prep an IV line. He's fast, efficient, and clearly knows what he's doing. But Davis is my patient now, and I'm not leaving him.

"Eden." Davis's voice is weaker now, and that scares me more than anything. "It's okay. Saint's good. He'll fix me up."

"I'm staying." I don't look away from Saint's hands as he finds a vein and slides the needle in smoothly. "I'm not leaving until I know you're stable."

Saint glances at Ranger, then he nods. "Fine. But let me work. I need to clean these wounds, check for arterial damage, stitch what needs stitching."

I move back slightly, giving him room but staying close enough to monitor Davis's vitals. My hands are shaking now that the immediate crisis is passing, now that someone more qualified is here. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving behind the reality of what just happened.

We were shot at.

Multiple shooters. Automatic weapons. Sustained fire designed to destroy everything in the front room.

This wasn't random. This was a message.

"Who were they?" I ask, looking at Ranger. "Do you know?"

Ranger's expression is neutral. "We have suspicions."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give you right now." He moves to the doorway, scanning the destroyed front room. "Canvas, your studio's totaled. Front windows gone, display case destroyed, half your equipment damaged. They did a thorough job."

Davis closes his eyes briefly. This studio is his pride, his life's work. I saw that the moment I walked in, the care in every detail, the way everything was organized and displayed with intention. And now it's gone, shot to pieces by people who may or may not come back to finish the job.

"We'll rebuild," Saint says without looking up from where he's examining Davis's shoulder wound. "Club will help. We always do."

"The club," I repeat slowly. "The Iron Phoenix MC."

Saint's hands pause for just a second before continuing their work. "That's right."

I'm not stupid. I know what motorcycle clubs are, what they do, what they're involved in. Millhaven isn't that big, and the Iron Phoenix has a reputation. They seem to protect the community, keep to themselves, but they're still bikers. Still dangerous.

Still the kind of men I swore I'd never get involved with.

And yet here I am, covered in Davis's blood, watching his MC brother stitch up a gunshot wound in the back room of a destroyed tattoo studio, refusing to leave until I know he's okay.