Chapter 8
JOSIE
Three hours after Isabel disappears out the bathroom window, I’m going out of my mind.
Not because of Isabel—though that’s part of it. Brick is tracking her, Stone has people on alert, and there’s nothing I can do from here except worry.
No, the real problem is simpler and more infuriating.
I’m bored.
The clubhouse is full of people doing things—important things, urgent things—and I’m stuck on this couch like a decorative pillow, forbidden from working, forbidden from helping, forbidden from doing anything except resting.
I hate resting.
Maggie has confiscated my laptop. Ginger has hidden my phone charger. Emma has cheerfully threatened to sit on me if I try to get up again. The Stoneheart MC women have formed a unified front against my productivity, and they’re terrifyingly effective.
So I sit. And I stew. And I watch the clock tick by, minute by agonizing minute.
I’m so bored I decide to call my parents and tell them about the crash. In unsurprising news, they send me to voicemail. About half an hour later my mother sends a text.
Mother
Thinking of you, sweetheart. Get well soon!
My father follows up an hour later asking if this would affect my billable hours. Neither of them offered to come. But I expected nothing different.
By 5 PM, I’ve memorized every crack in the ceiling. By 6 PM, I’ve counted the bottles behind the bar (forty-seven). By 7 PM, I’m seriously considering making a break for it, broken ribs be damned.
That’s when Stone finds me.
He appears in the doorway looking like he’s been running on caffeine and willpower for the past several hours. His hair is disheveled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that hasn’t been there this morning.
That’s when Stone finds me.
He appears in the doorway looking like he’s been running on caffeine and willpower for the past several hours. His hair is disheveled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there this morning.
He looks exhausted, stressed, and unfairly, devastatingly attractive.
My stupid heart does a little stutter-step in my chest, and I have to look away for a second before I can trust my face not to give me away.
Get it together, Bright.
“You look like you’re plotting,” he says.
“I’m plotting your murder. It’s keeping me entertained.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you keep me trapped here much longer.” I shift on the couch, wincing as my ribs protest. “Any news on Isabel?”
“Brick tracked her to a house on the east side of town. He’s watching but hasn’t made contact yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because she went inside and hasn’t come out. He’s waiting to see what happens.”
A house. Back to whoever—or whatever—she’s been so desperate to reach.
“You should let me talk to her again. When she comes back.”
“If she comes back.”
“She will.” I don’t know why I’m so certain, but I am. “Whatever she went there for, she’s not the type to run forever. She’ll be back.”
Stone studies me for a moment, then crosses the room and sits on the coffee table facing me. Close. Too close. I can smell him again—that distracting combination of leather and soap that makes my brain go fuzzy.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“Josie.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’ve been sitting in that exact position for three hours because it hurts too much to move.”
Damn. He’s more observant than I’ve given him credit for.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face is a liar. Don’t trust it.”
His mouth twitches. “When’s the last time you took your pain meds?”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Josie.”
“They make me fuzzy. I can’t think straight on them.”
“That’s the point. You’re supposed to be resting, not thinking.”
“I don’t know how to not think. It’s a design flaw.”
He sighs, and for a moment he looks tired. Not the surface-level tired of a long day, but the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of a man carrying too much for too long.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says quietly. “Pushing like this. Your body needs time to heal.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his expression stops me. He isn’t annoyed or frustrated. He’s worried. Genuinely, deeply worried—about me.
It’s been a long time since anyone has worried about me like that.
“Stone—”
“Just take the damn pills, Josie. Please. For me.”
For me. Two words that shouldn’t mean anything and somehow mean everything.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I reserve the right to complain about it.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
He hands me the pill bottle from the side table and watches while I swallow two tablets with a grimace. The effects won’t kick in for another twenty minutes, but the knot in my chest loosens. It’s not the pills—just the act of giving in. Of letting someone else carry the weight for a moment.
“Happy now?” I ask.
“Getting there.”
“What else do you want? A blood sacrifice? My firstborn child?”
“Just one more thing.”
“What?”
He stands, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s scooped me up off the couch—carefully, mindful of my ribs and cast, but with a firmness that brooks no argument.
“Stone! What the hell—”
“You need to sleep.”
“I’ve been sleeping!”
“You’ve been lying awake staring at the ceiling. That’s not the same thing.” He’s already moving down the hallway, carrying me like I weigh nothing. “You need rest. In an actual bed. Away from distractions.”
“I’m not tired—”
“You’re exhausted. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Put me down—”
“No.”
“This is ridiculous—”
“Probably.”
“I’m a grown woman, I can walk—”
“Your ribs are broken in three places. You’re not walking anywhere.”
I sputter, but he ignores me, shouldering open the door to the guest room and depositing me on the bed with surprising gentleness.
“There,” he says. “Was that so hard?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I actively, passionately hate you.”
“Still no.” He sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Close your eyes.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Close them anyway.”
“Stone—”
“Josie.” His voice softens. “Please. Just try.”
I want to keep arguing. Want to prove that I’m fine, that I don’t need to be coddled, that I’m perfectly capable of managing my own recovery.
But the pills are starting to kick in, spreading warmth through my limbs, and the bed is soft, and Stone is looking at me with those gray eyes that see too much, and I’m so, so tired.
“Fine,” I mumble. “But I’m not going to sleep. I’m just going to rest my eyes.”
“Whatever you say.”
I close my eyes. The darkness is immediate, welcoming, pulling me down toward the soft, quiet bliss of sleep.
I hear Stone move—the creak of leather, the thud of boots hitting the floor.
My eyes fly open. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you stay put.” He stretches out on the bed beside me, on top of the covers, one arm folded behind his head. The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he’s right there—warm and solid and close enough that I can smell leather and soap.
“Stone—”
“Close your eyes, Josie.”
“This is—”
“Rest.”
I should argue. This is inappropriate and unnecessary. I absolutely don’t need a babysitter. But the warmth of him beside me is testing my resolve, and the pills are dragging me under, and I’m so tired of fighting everything all the time.
“Fine,” I whisper. “But I’m not going to sleep.”
“Whatever you say.”
I close my eyes again. The darkness pulls me down, soft and welcoming.
The last thing I feel before sleep claims me is his hand finding mine on the blanket, his fingers intertwining with mine.
I don’t pull away.
I wake to the smell of leather and the sound of steady breathing.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. The light has changed—it’s late evening—and my body feels heavy and loose, the pain meds still working their way through my system.
Then I register the warmth beside me.
Stone.
He’s lying on top of the covers next to me, still fully dressed, one arm behind his head. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep.
He’s stayed.
I lie there, frozen, not sure what to do. He’s right there—close enough to touch, close enough that I can see the individual threads of silver in his hair, the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight part of his lips as he breathes.
He stayed.
The thought keeps circling, picking up weight with each repetition. He could have left. Should have left. He has a club to run, a crisis to manage, a dozen things more important than watching me sleep.
But he’s stayed.
I let myself look at him. The strong line of his nose. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, earned through years of squinting into the sun and, I suspect, the occasional genuine smile. The silver threaded through his dark hair, more distinguished than aging.
You’re in trouble, Bright.
As if sensing my gaze, his eyes open, catching me staring.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice rough with sleep.
“Hey.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to make sure you napped.” His eyes hold mine, warm and steady. “I meant it.”
My chest cracks open. A wall I’ve been carefully maintaining for weeks, months, years—crumbling under the weight of this man and his quiet, stubborn care.
“Stone...”
“You were having nightmares.”
I blink. “I was?”
“You kept making these sounds like you were scared.” His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want to leave you alone with that.”
The dreams come back in fragments. Fire. Screaming. A little boy’s hand slipping out of mine.
“Maria,” I say quietly. “Daniel, her brother. And their mother, Kalisha.”
“Who are they?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I could deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject. I’ve gotten good at that over the years—keeping the ugly parts of myself locked away where no one can see them.
But I’m so tired of carrying this alone.