Page 55

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say automatically, the nurse’s reflex kicking in: downplay, reassure, manage the observer’s reaction. But the words sound hollow even to me, and Mia’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it gets worse, her eyes filling with a brightness that means tears are close.

She crosses the room in quick strides, dropping to her knees in front of the couch, her hands hovering near mine like she wants to touch but is afraid of causing more damage. “What happened? Mom said she got a call and just… She ran out without…”

Not a second later, the door bursts open again. This time it’s a flood of them—Ryan, Trenton, Zach, and others, their faces grim. The room, which had felt large moments before, is suddenly crowded with angry, leather-clad men.

Their eyes go straight to me, cataloging all of my injuries. Their collective fury is a physical presence, filling the room until there’s no air left that isn’t soaked in it.

“It’s okay, Mia.” Myra’s voice is steady, grounding. She resumes wrapping my right hand, her movements unhurried despite the interruption. “Trixie’s going to be fine. I’m taking care of her.”

Mia’s gaze drops to my bandaged hands, then to the blood still drying on my cheek, giving way to something harder, angrier. “Who did this to you?”

The question hangs in the air, weighted with a fury that seems too big for her slight frame.

I glance at my mother, then back at Mia, and I see it, the same protective rage that runs through my family, through Carter, through every person in this room who’s looking at me like I’m something worth fighting for.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” I say, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “What matters is that I’m here. I’m safe.”

A muscle jumps in Mia’s jaw. She looks like she wants to argue, wants to demand names and details, but the clinical reality of the moment, of Myra’s hands working methodically, the blood, the bruises, keep her silent. She settles back on her heels, watching her mother bandage my knees.

The tremor in my hands hasn’t stopped. I can feel it in my bones now, a deep, structural tremor that makes my teeth want to chatter. Myra finishes with the gauze and presses a clean compress against my scalp, holding it in place with gentle pressure.

“You need to rest,” she says, her voice leaving no room for argument. “An adrenaline crash is coming, and when it hits, you’re going to feel it. I want you lying down within the hour.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking so hard the couch is vibrating.” Her eyebrow arches, the look she gives patients who are being difficult. “This isn’t a negotiation, Trixie.”

My mother squeezes my shoulder. “She’s right, baby. Let us take care of you.”

I want to argue. I want to stand up, walk to that back room, and find Carter. I want to see his face, feel his hands on mine, hear his heartbeat under my ear. But my body is betraying me, the adrenaline that’s been holding me together since the alley is finally—inevitably—draining away, and the exhaustion hitting in its wake is so profound it makes my vision blur at the edges.

“Okay,” I whisper. The word feels like surrender.

Myra nods, satisfied, and begins packing her supplies back into the medical bag. Mia stays on the floor in front of me, her hand finding mine carefully, so carefully over the bandaged gauze.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, her voice small but intense. “Water? Tea? I could make tea.”

The offer—simple, domestic, achingly normal—makes something crack behind my ribs. I squeeze her fingers gently, feeling the tremor in my own hand transfer to hers.

“Tea would be nice,” I say.

She’s on her feet in an instant, moving toward the small kitchenette at the back of the main room with the determined energy of someone who needs to be useful. I watch her go, and the distance between us stretches like a held breath.

My mother settles onto the couch beside me, close enough that our shoulders press together. Her arm slides around my waist, and she pulls me against her side with a surprising, wiry strength. I let my head drop onto her shoulder, and the contact—warm, solid, familiar—loosens something in my chest that I’ve been holding tight since the first hand closed around my arm.

“They caught them,” my mother says quietly. Not a question.

I close my eyes, letting my head rest on her shoulder. I breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume, something floral and warm that has meant safety since I was a child.

“He called you his ole lady,” my mother continues, her voice carefully neutral. “In the alley. I heard him.”

The words land differently now than they did in the heat of the moment. In the alley, surrounded by adrenaline and fear. They felt like armor, something solid and warm wrapped around the raw, shaking thing I’d become. Now, sitting in the quiet of the clubhouse with my hands bandaged and my body betraying me with every tremor, they feel heavier. More permanent.

“He did,” I say.

My mother is quiet for a moment. I can feel her thinking, her silence measured as she chooses her words with precision. “You know what that means in our world. What it means to him.”

“I know.”