Chapter 16 Bones
BONES
I’m halfway through framing a wall when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail—probably spam, or someone asking about construction estimates—but something makes me pull off my gloves and answer.
“Yeah?”
“Is this Bones?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, with an edge of urgency that immediately puts me on alert.
“Who’s asking?”
“This is Patricia from the Stoneheart Community Center. Emma’s hurt. She’s asking for you.”
My blood goes cold. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. She collapsed during her class. Won’t let us call an ambulance, won’t go to the hospital. Just keeps saying to call you.”
I’m already moving, grabbing my keys, my cut. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I hang up and yell to Felix—my supervisor and Poppy’s brother—that I have an emergency. He waves me off without question and I’m in my work truck before I can think too hard about what collapsed might mean.
The drive to the community center takes four minutes. Feels like four hours.
I find her in the dance studio, sitting on the floor with her back against the mirror wall, right ankle draped in one of those blue gel ice packs. A dozen kids are clustered around her, and Patricia—a woman in her sixties who runs the center—is trying to shoo them away.
“Emma.” I’m across the room in seconds, dropping to my knees beside her. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” she says immediately, but her face is pale and there’s sweat beading at her temples. “Just twisted it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not buying it.” I gently move her hands and the ice pack away to look at the ankle. It’s already swollen, angry and red. “How bad does it hurt?”
“It’s fine—”
“Swan. How bad?”
Her eyes meet mine and the facade drops. “Pretty bad.”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t need—”
“Not negotiable.” I look at Patricia. “Can someone take over the class?”
“Already done. Her sub will be here in ten minutes.”
“Good.” I turn back to Emma. “I’m going to pick you up. Just let me do it and don’t try to help or put weight on it.”
“Bones, I can walk—”
“No, you can’t.” I slide one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lift her as carefully as I can. She hisses in pain anyway, and guilt twists in my gut. “Is this a freak accident or is there more to your ankle problems than you’ve let on?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Emma.”
“It’s been going on a while,” she admits as I carry her outside. “Since before I came back at Christmas. That’s why I wasn’t in the holiday production—I was supposed to be resting it.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t happen.”
“No. Dancing helped me process everything that was going on, you know? I kind of doubled down.”
“Jesus, swan.” I’m trying not to lose my shit while these kids are watching through the windows, but the anger is right there, sharp and hot. “You’ve been dancing on a fucked-up ankle and didn’t think to tell anyone how serious it was?”
“I was handling it—”
“You collapsed. That’s not handling it.”
She goes quiet, and I feel like an asshole, but we’re doing this conversation later. Right now I need to get her to a doctor.
The ER waiting room is as depressing as every ER waiting room I’ve ever been in. Fluorescent lights, uncomfortable plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic and desperation with a little moaning and complaining thrown in for good measure.
Emma’s been taken back for scans. I’m left stewing in the waiting area, trying not to think about worst-case scenarios and failing miserably.
My phone buzzes.
Lee:
Heard Emma got hurt. She OK?
Me:
At the hospital. Don’t know yet.
Lee:
Need me to come?
Me:
No. I’ll update you.
I set the phone down, run my hands through my hair.
She’s been in pain for months and didn’t say a damn thing. Just kept teaching, kept smiling, kept pretending everything was fine until her body finally gave out.
Stubborn woman. And I can’t do a thing about it. Can’t force her to take care of herself. Can’t make her listen to her body instead of muscling past every warning sign.
I feel fucking powerless.
The tracker helps with the shit I can stop—bad neighborhoods, wrong cars, men who think they can take what’s mine. I can protect her from all that.
But it can’t save her from herself.
That’s the part that’s killing me. Because as much as I want to shield her from every threat, even I couldn’t have prevented this.
This wasn’t danger she walked into. This was pain she refused to acknowledge.
Limits she wouldn’t accept. Her body screaming at her to stop, and Emma just . . . ignoring the damn alarm.
And now she’s paying the price.
Because Emma doesn’t rest. Doesn’t admit weakness. She just keeps pushing until something breaks.
So now I’m sitting here, useless, waiting for someone else to fix what she tried to hide—even from me.
Every instinct I have is screaming to fix this. Make her slow down. Make her heal. Force her to stop hurting herself just to meet some impossible standard she thinks she owes the world.
But I’m starting to wonder if that’s even something I can do.
“Mr. Bones?”
I look up to find a doctor in scrubs, clipboard in hand. “Just Bones.”
“I’m Dr. Hines. Ms. Armstrong asked me to come talk to you.”
“How bad is it?”
“The scans show significant inflammation in the ankle joint, and we’re concerned about possible tendon damage.
I’ve ordered an MRI to get a better look, but based on what I’m seeing and what Emma’s told me about her symptoms .
. .” She pauses. “This isn’t a simple strain.
This is chronic overuse that’s been ignored for too long. ”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s going to need surgery. Possibly multiple surgeries depending on what the MRI shows. And even with surgery, there’s no guarantee she’ll be able to return to professional dance.”
My gut twists. “You’re saying she might not be able to dance again?”
“I’m saying she’s done significant damage that may not be fully repairable. At minimum, she’s looking at six months of recovery. More likely a year.” Dr. Hines’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“Does she know?”
“I told her. She’s . . . processing.”
“Can I see her?”
“Room 3. Down the hall, second door on the left.”
I find Emma sitting on an exam table, still in her dance clothes, staring at her swollen ankle like it’s personally betrayed her. Which, I guess, it has.
“Swan.”
She looks up, and the sight of tears on her face makes my chest ache.
“They’re going to cut me open,” she says, voice small. “Multiple times, maybe. And even then, they can’t promise I’ll dance again.”
I cross the room and pull her into my arms, careful of her ankle. She buries her face in my chest and I feel her shoulders shake.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I should have said something sooner. I should have—” Her voice breaks. “I knew something was wrong. I just thought if I kept going, was careful of it, then it’d get better on its own.”
“Hey.” I pull back enough to cup her face. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Yes it is. I did this to myself.”
“No. You were doing what you’ve been trained to do since you were a kid—push through the pain, keep performing, don’t show weakness.” I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “That’s not your fault. That’s what they taught you.”
She closes her eyes, fresh tears spilling over. “What am I supposed to do now? I was happy to come home, stop performing. But dance is all I am. And if I can’t dance anymore, then what am I?”
The question breaks my heart because I know exactly how she feels. When Stone stripped my rank, I felt the same way. Like I’d lost my identity, my purpose, everything that made me who I was.
“You’re Emma,” I say firmly. “Dancer or not, professional or not, you’re still you. And you’re still the most incredible person I know.”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me, and I get it. I remember losing my rank. Feeling like without that patch on my cut, I was nobody.
But here’s what I learned: You’re not what you do. You’re who you are when everything else is stripped away.
And Emma without ballet? She’s still the woman who fake-fell down my stairs. Who always called me first with news—good or bad. Who fights for what she wants even when she’s terrified.
Ballet didn’t make her fearless. She brought that wildness to ballet. And she’ll bring it to whatever comes next.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“It’s true.” I kiss her forehead. “You are a force to be reckoned with, and no ankle injury is going to stop you. We’ll beat the odds.”
There’s a knock on the door and Stone walks in.
Emma tenses slightly beside me—old instinct, expecting a fight.
“Emma.” Stone’s face is tight with concern. “Lee called me. What happened?”
“My ankle gave out,” Emma says, swiping at her eyes. “I need surgery.”
Stone’s expression shifts through several emotions. “Surgery? For a sprain?”
“It’s not just a sprain, Dad. It’s an injury on top of an injury on top of an injury.”
“Jesus Christ, Emma—”
“I know, OK?” She’s getting defensive now, pulling away from me. “I know I should have said something sooner. I know I fucked up. You don’t have to—”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Stone moves closer, his voice gentler. “I was going to say that it sucks. That I know how important dance is to you.”
Emma blinks, surprised. “Oh.”
Something in her posture softens. Like she’s seeing a side of her father she forgot existed.
“I know I haven’t been the best at . . .” He trails off, looking uncomfortable. “At being there for you. At being a real father instead of an MC president who happens to share your DNA. But I’m trying, Em. I want to do better.”
The room goes quiet. Stone and Emma just looking at each other until he takes a breath.
“What can I do?” he asks. “How can I help?”
“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “I don’t even know what I need right now.”
“That’s OK. I’ll talk to your doctor and we’ll figure it out.” Stone looks at me. “Bones, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
Emma’s eyes widen slightly, but I squeeze her hand. “I’ll be right back.”
In the hallway, Stone leans against the wall and scrubs a hand over his face. He looks tired in a way I’ve never seen before—not physical exhaustion, but emotional.
“She’s going to spiral,” he says quietly. “When she processes this fully, she’s going to fall apart.”
“I know.”
“And you’re going to want to fix it. To protect her from the pain.” Stone meets my eyes. “But you can’t. Not this time.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?” He pushes off the wall. “Because I’ve been watching you for weeks now, Bones. Watching the way you hover. The way you try to anticipate her needs before she even knows she has them. The way you’re still trying to be her protector instead of her partner.”
The words sting because they’re true.
“She needs to feel this,” Stone continues. “She needs to grieve what she’s losing and figure out who she is on the other side of it. And you need to let her do that without trying to save her from it.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Neither do I, if I’m honest.” Stone’s smile is wry. “But Josie’s been helping me figure it out. Teaching me that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone you care about is to just . . . be there. Not fix it, not solve it. Just be present.”
The words settle heavy in my chest.
Just be there. Don’t fix it.
I’ve spent thirteen years fixing things for Emma. Showing up when she was in danger. Tracking her movements. Anticipating problems before they happened.
Being her protector was my entire purpose. My identity.
And Stone’s telling me to let that go. To just . . . watch her hurt and not do anything to try and take it on for her.
I know that’s what she needs. That I don’t even have the power to fix this for her. But how the fuck am I supposed to accept that?
I glance through the window at Emma and let out a sigh.
“You and Josie seem close,” I say, more as a distraction than anything.
Stone’s ears go slightly red. “She’s been . . . helpful. With club stuff. And other things.”
“Other things?”
“Drop it, Bones.”
I grin despite everything. “Yes, sir.”
After Stone talks with Dr. Hines, we head back inside and find Emma looking slightly less devastated, though still shaken. Stone takes a seat next to his daughter.
“The doctor says you’ll need to schedule the surgery soon,” Stone says. “I can help with that. Make some calls, get you in with the best surgeon.”
“I don’t even know if I want the surgery,” Emma says. “If there’s no guarantee I’ll dance again, what’s the point?”
“The point is, you’re in pain,” I say, moving to her other side. “The point is fixing what’s broken so you can at least have a normal life, whether that includes dance or not.”
She looks between me and Stone, chewing her bottom lip.
“OK,” Emma says finally. “OK. I’ll do the surgery.”