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Torch catches my elbow.

“Easy.”

“I'm fine.”

“That's why you're leaning on me?”

I straighten immediately.

“I'm testing your reflexes.”

“How'd I do?”

“Acceptable.”

His hand remains at my elbow until we reach the door.

I could complain, but my head still aches, and I'm not eager to collapse in front of another audience.

Inside, the clubhouse is unexpectedly busy.

Men wearing leather vests move between the main room and a hallway. A long bar occupies one wall, and the smell of coffee drifts through the air.

Several people acknowledge Torch as we pass. He answers with a nod or a few quiet words.

Nobody seems surprised when he tells one man he'll deal with something later.

They simply accept it.

Authority comes naturally to him.

So does expecting everyone else to obey.

Razor leads us into a medical room with an examination bed and cabinets full of supplies.

“Sit,” he says.

“Does anybody in this club know how to ask nicely?”

“Please sit before Torch starts pacing.”

I glance over my shoulder.

Torch is standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

“I don't pace.”

Razor looks at him.

“Sure, brother.”

For once, I decide against adding anything.

Razor checks my pulse and breathing, then asks about my remaining symptoms. The nausea is gone, but my head still hurts.

“You're improving,” he says, “but we still don't know what caused this. If you become confused again, your dizziness gets worse, or you have trouble breathing, we're getting emergency help immediately.”

“Understood.”