Chapter Twenty-Nine
NITRO
The hospital smells like antiseptic and death.
I hate it with every fiber of my being.
But I can’t leave.
I won’t leave.
Not while Queenie lies in that bed, her tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical precision because she can’t breathe on her own.
The ventilator hisses and clicks, counting out seconds that feel like an eternity.
Each breath it forces into her lungs is a reminder of how close I came to losing her.
How close I still am.
The burns on my arms throb beneath the bandages the nurses wrapped earlier. They wanted to admit me, run tests, and check my lungs for smoke damage.
I told them to fuck off.
Well, not in those exact words, but close enough.
They settled for treating me in Queenie’s room, hovering with their equipment while I refuse to move from her bedside.
My throat is raw, every breath tastes like ash and char. My eyes sting, watering constantly from the smoke exposure. The doctor mentioned corneal irritation and gave me drops I haven’t used because I can’t be bothered to care about my eyes when Queenie can’t breathe without a machine.
I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair they brought in, and they periodically give me oxygen treatments for the smoke inhalation that Sin was right about me having because my carbon monoxide levels were high.
Whatever the fuck that means. And I am currently hooked to an IV for fluids because I have to keep hydrated.
My hand wraps around hers. Her skin is paper-thin, translucent, showing every vein and age spot. Her fingers are cold despite the warm blanket tucked around her.
Too cold.
The monitor beeps steadily, tracking her heartbeat, but it’s weak. Thready, the doctor called it, like her body is giving up, too tired to keep fighting.
Pneumonia is likely setting in.
The words echo in my head, delivered in that clinical, detached tone doctors use when they’re preparing you for bad news without actually saying it.
The smoke inhalation damaged her lungs. She’s eighty-six, her immune system isn’t what it used to be, and the stress of the trauma…
Basically, they’re telling me my grandmother might die.
And there’s nothing I can do except sit here and watch her fight a battle I can’t help her win.
The door opens quietly, and I don’t look up. I don’t care who it is unless they’re coming to tell me Queenie is getting better.
“Brought you a coffee.” Sin’s voice is low, respectful of the sterile quiet.
I finally drag my gaze from Queenie’s face to find my president standing there with two cups from the cafeteria. Victoria is with him, her eyes red, suggesting she’s been crying.
“Could’ve brought something stronger,” I rasp out, my voice barely working.
“Drink it anyway, brother.” Sin sets one cup on the small table beside me. “You’ve been here for eighteen hours. You need something.”
Eighteen hours.
Has it really been that long?
Time doesn’t work right in hospitals. Seconds stretch into hours, and hours collapse into moments, all of it blending into one long nightmare of beeping machines and terrible antiseptic smells.
“How is she?” Victoria asks, moving to the other side of Queenie’s bed.
“The same.” I swallow, and it feels like broken glass. “Pneumonia is setting in. They’re pumping her full of antibiotics, but…”
But she’s eighty-six.
But her lungs are damaged.
But I might lose the best mother I’ve known.
Because some psycho ex-boyfriend decided to burn down a retirement village.
What kind of lowlife does something like that?
“We’re all outside,” Sin offers, settling into the chair against the wall. “Ghost, Bear, Koa, Deek, everyone. They’re not going anywhere.”
I nod because I can’t speak past the lump in my throat.
My brothers.
My family.
They’ve been holding vigils in the waiting room since we got here, taking shifts, making sure I’m not alone even when I barely register their presence.
It’s what we do.
What family does.
“Victoria called Marley,” Sin says carefully, watching my reaction.
My chest tightens. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You need her, Nitro,” Victoria states like it’s an obvious fact.
“She’s pissed at me. She asked for space—”
“And she’ll want to know about this.” Victoria’s voice is gentle but firm. “Trust me. Whatever anger she’s carrying, it’s not bigger than this.”
I want to argue.
I want to tell them that Marley shouldn’t have to see me like this, broken, helpless, and covered in soot.
That I’ve already fucked things up enough without dragging her into my nightmare.
But the selfish part of me, the part that’s been aching for her since she walked away, wants her here so badly it physically hurts.
“W-when?” My voice cracks on the word.
“An hour ago. She’s on her way.”
I close my eyes, fresh burns of pain lancing through them as moisture leaks out.
I don’t know if it’s from the smoke damage or something more profound.
The minutes crawl by, and Victoria talks quietly about something, the club, logistics, I don’t know. I tune it all out. My world has narrowed to Queenie’s hand in mine and the hiss-click of the ventilator.
Then the door opens again.
And I feel her presence before I look up to see her.
Marley.
Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun, face free of makeup, wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. She looks as if she got dressed in thirty seconds and ran out the door.
She’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Our eyes meet across the room, and whatever anger or hurt was between us evaporates. Just dissolves like it never existed in the first place.
All that’s left is her, and the way she’s looking at me as though her heart is breaking.
“Oh, Nitro,” she whispers.
Victoria and Sin slip out quietly, giving us space, and then Marley crosses the room. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask if it’s okay. She pulls up the other chair and sits beside me, her hand finding mine where it rests on Queenie’s.
“I’m here,” she says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m supposed to be this strong, tough biker. I don’t mean for it to happen. I’m not a crier. But something about Marley being here, her hand warm and solid over mine, her presence filling the empty spaces… it completely shatters me.
A sob tears out of my damaged throat, raw and ugly, and then I lean forward, my forehead pressing against our joined hands on the bed rail. My shoulders shake. My breath comes in ragged gasps that hurt my smoke-damaged lungs.
And Marley doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay or offer empty platitudes. She holds my hand tighter and lets me fall apart.
“I almost lost her,” I choke out between sobs. “The building was collapsing, and I thought… I thought I was too late.”
“But you weren’t.” Her free hand moves to my back, rubbing slow circles. “You got her out, Nitro. You saved her.”
“She can’t breathe on her own. The pneumonia—”
“She’s a fighter. Anyone who raised you would have to be.”
Despite everything, a broken laugh escapes me. I lift my head, swiping roughly at my face. My eyes are swollen, my face probably a disaster, but Marley looks at me with so much compassion it makes my chest ache.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “For everything. For lying to you about—”
“Stop.” She squeezes my hand. “That doesn’t matter right now. None of it matters except Queenie getting better and you taking care of yourself.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to.” She glances at Queenie, her expression soft. “Tell me about her, about your lives growing up?”
A slow smile crosses my lips, and I gently nod.
I tell her about how she’d sit with me for hours while I practiced my flute, never complaining even when I hit the same wrong note fifty times in a row.
How she taught me to cook, to be kind, to understand that strength isn’t about how hard you can hit but about how much you can endure and still choose love.
Marley listens to every word, her thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand.
“That sounds amazing,” she says when I finish.
“It was. She’s the best person I k-know.” My voice breaks again. “She can’t die, Marley. She just can’t.”
“Then we’ll believe she won’t.” She leans her head against my shoulder. “We’ll sit here and believe it together.”
Time passes.
I don’t know how much.
A nurse comes in to check vitals, adjust Queenie’s IV, remove mine, and make notes in the chart. She doesn’t ask Marley to leave, probably because we must look like exactly what we are, two people clinging to each other in a crisis.
Eventually, my breathing steadies. The panic that’s been clawing at my chest since the fire loosens its grip.
Just a fraction.
Then the door opens again, and I turn to see Sage popping her head through the opening.
I widen my eyes in awe that she is here while she looks at me with a warm smile.
“Hey, big man, I came here with Marls, just wanted to check in on you both. Make sure you weren’t either ripping each other’s hair out or clothes off…
though, I was kinda hoping I would walk in on the latter. ”
Somehow, I snort out a laugh. “Thanks for being here, Sage. I really do appreciate the support.”
She smiles at me again. “Hey… that’s me, the sarcastic support. But also, there are so many hot bikers out in that waiting room, so I am not complaining… at all!”
Marley grins at her. “A lot of them are single, you know?” She waggles her brows at her bestie.
Sage’s face lights up with mischievousness. “Oh, I know. I’ve already been doing the rounds, asking all the questions. Ghost is such a hard one to crack, though. I have everyone out there laughing except for him. But don’t worry, I’ll wear him down.”
I let out a heavy exhale. “I bet you will.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you guys be. But I’m just out here with all the muscles, tattoos, and beards that I keep imagining rubbing between my thighs if you need me.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath.
“I adore you,” Marley chimes in contrast.
“Right back at you, babe.” Sage blows Marley a kiss, then closes the door quietly, leaving us back to the hiss and hum of Queenie’s monitors.
I sink back into my chair, my thoughts taking a turn to darkness after the lighter conversation with Sage.
Marley seems to notice instantly as she reaches to take my hand. “Hey… where’d your mind go right now?”
I hesitate to tell her. But I have learned my lesson about keeping things from Marley.
“I saw him,” I say into the quiet. “At the fire.”
“Who?” Marley asks, clearly confused.
My lip curls as I have to fight the bile back rising in my throat. “Derek.”
Marley goes rigid against me. “What?”
“After I got Queenie out. I saw him in the shadows, watching. He was there, Marley. He set the fire.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Oh my God, Nitro, I…” She pulls away, and when I look at her, her face has gone pale. Guilt is written all over her features, stark and devastating.
“What?” Dread pools in my stomach.
“I called him…” The words tumble out fast, panicked.
“That night after you told me about who you really are, after we fought. I was drunk and angry, and I called Derek. I told him everything. About you being Damon Blackwell, about the lies, all of it.” Tears stream down her face.
“This is my fault. Queenie is in this bed because I—”
“No.” I cut her off, my voice firm despite the rasp. “This is on him. Not you.”
“But if I hadn’t told him…”
“He would’ve found another way to be a vindictive piece of shit.
” I cup her face, making her look at me.
“You didn’t know what he’d do with that information.
You were hurt and needed to vent. That’s normal, Marley.
What’s not normal is burning down a retirement village full of older people because you’re a psychotic asshole. ”
“People died,” she whispers. “Because of me.”
“Because of Derek.” I lean my forehead against hers. “You didn’t light the match. You didn’t set the fire. That bastard did. And I swear to God, we’re gonna prove it.”
She nods against me, but I see the guilt still eating at her. We sit like this for a long moment, forehead to forehead, breathing together.
A sharp knock interrupts us. The door swings open, and Ghost steps in, his laptop under one arm and his expression grim. “Turn on the TV,” he says without preamble. “Channel four.”
I fumble for the remote on the side table, my hands still shaking. The screen flickers to life, and my heart drops into my stomach.
My face fills the screen. Not Nitro the biker, but Damon Blackwell, the CEO.
It’s a professional photograph from some corporate event, me in a suit, clean-shaven, looking nothing like the man I am now.
But it’s unmistakably me.
The headline runs across the bottom.
BILLIONAIRE CEO EXPOSED AS OUTLAW BIKER
“… Sources confirm that Damon Blackwell, owner and CEO of Blackwell Entertainment Group, is actually a member of the Las Vegas Defiance Motorcycle Club, where he goes by the road name ‘Nitro,’ ” the reporter says, her voice dripping with manufactured scandal.
“This shocking revelation comes on the heels of a devastating fire at Sunset Manor Retirement Village, which claimed the lives of multiple residents.”
The screen cuts to footage of the fire, flames pouring from windows, emergency vehicles everywhere.
My stomach turns, my breathing quickens as Marley’s hand tightens in mine.
“Mr. Blackwell’s grandmother, Clara Blackwell, a resident at Sunset Manor, is currently hospitalized in critical condition. Sources tell us that Clara Blackwell has a substantial life insurance policy with Damon Blackwell listed as the sole beneficiary.”
“What the fuck?” I mumble.