Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Livie
The doorbell rings just as I'm pulling a brush through my tangled hair. I hear Greyson's heavy footsteps below, followed by the murmur of male voices. Taking a deep breath, I head downstairs to meet this doctor who's apparently seen enough MC injuries to make house calls.
"Livie," Greyson says as I enter the living room, "this is Dr. Bowling. I tried to get Xavier, but he wasn't available, or Konrad from your dad's club, so Xavier recommended him."
The doctor is younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with wire-rimmed glasses and a carefully neutral expression. He extends his hand with a practiced smile.
"Ms. Bennett. Heard you had quite the ordeal yesterday."
"That's one way to put it," I reply, shaking his hand.
Dr. Bowling gestures to the couch. "Why don't you have a seat so I can take a look at those injuries?"
I sit, suddenly self-conscious as the doctor sets his bag down and pulls out a stethoscope. Greyson hovers nearby, arms crossed over his chest, watching every move.
"I'll need to examine your throat first," Dr. Bowling says, fingers already reaching for the bruises circling my neck.
The moment he touches me, pain radiates outward. I can't help the sharp gasp that escapes me, my body instinctively flinching away.
Greyson is across the room in an instant, his hand clamping down on the doctor's wrist with enough force to make the smaller man wince.
"Easy," Greyson growls, eyes flashing dangerously. "You're hurting her."
"I need to assess the damage," Dr. Bowling says calmly, though I notice a slight tremor in his voice. "Strangulation injuries can be serious, potentially life-threatening even days after the incident."
Greyson doesn't release his grip. "Then find a way to check her over that doesn't cause her more pain."
The tension crackles between them, Greyson's rage filling the room like a physical presence. Dr. Bowling seems to shrink under his glare, but to his credit, he doesn't back down completely.
"Mr. Reed," he says carefully, "I understand your concern, but I can't properly examine her if you're going to intervene every time she shows discomfort."
"It's okay," I say quickly, placing my hand on Greyson's arm. "He needs to check, Greyson. I can handle it."
Greyson's jaw works as he reluctantly releases the doctor's wrist. "Fine. But be gentle."
Dr. Bowling nods, adjusting his glasses with slightly shaky fingers. "Of course. Ms. Bennett, I'm going to palpate your throat again, but more gently this time. Please tell me immediately if anything feels particularly painful."
I nod, bracing myself. Greyson moves to sit beside me, his hand finding mine and squeezing reassuringly.
The examination continues, with Dr. Bowling carefully checking my throat, ribs, and the various cuts and bruises covering my body.
Each time I wince or make the slightest sound of discomfort, Greyson tenses beside me, his expression darkening to something that makes the doctor work even more carefully.
"Your larynx seems intact, though bruised," Dr. Bowling says, stepping back and reaching for his bag.
"The hoarseness in your voice should improve over the next few days.
I'm more concerned about the ribs on your left side, there's significant bruising and swelling consistent with at least one hairline fracture. "
"She needs X-rays," Greyson states flatly, not a question but a demand.
"Ideally, yes," Dr. Bowling agrees, pulling out a prescription pad.
"But given her overall condition and the nature of the injury, I'm comfortable treating it as a fracture without confirmation.
Rest, ice, anti-inflammatories." He scribbles something on the pad.
"I'm prescribing a mild painkiller as well, nothing too strong. "
As the doctor continues his examination, moving to the cut on my forehead, his fingers press slightly too hard against the tender skin. I can't help the sharp intake of breath, my eyes watering involuntarily.
Greyson is on his feet, looming over the doctor with barely contained fury. "That's enough," he snarls, physically inserting himself between us. "You're done."
"Mr. Reed, I still need to—"
"I said you're done." Greyson's voice drops to a dangerous tone that raises goosebumps on my arms. "Give me the prescriptions and get out."
Dr. Bowling looks like he might argue for a moment, then thinks better of it. He tears off the prescription slips and hands them to Greyson with remarkable steadiness given the circumstances.
"She needs rest," he advises, packing his bag with quick, efficient movements. "The rib should heal in four to six weeks, but she needs to be careful not to aggravate it. No strenuous activity." His eyes flick between us meaningfully. "Of any kind."
Greyson's expression doesn't change, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. "Anything else?"
"Watch for signs of concussion—dizziness, nausea, sensitivity to light. And if her breathing becomes labored or painful, take her to the ER immediately." Dr. Bowling snaps his bag closed. "I'll see myself out."
The moment the front door closes behind him, Greyson turns and kneels in front of me.
"You okay?" he asks, his hands hovering over me as if afraid to touch me now.
"I'm fine," I assure him, though the throbbing in my ribs suggests otherwise. "You didn't have to scare him like that. He was just doing his job."
"His job doesn't include hurting you," Greyson mutters, still visibly agitated. "The club pays him well enough that he should know better."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "My hero," I tease gently, trying to lighten his mood. "Defending me from the big, bad doctor."
He doesn't return my smile, his eyes dark with something that looks like guilt. "I should have been there sooner yesterday. Should have protected you better."
"Hey," I say, reaching out to cup his face. "You came for me. You found me. That's what matters."
He turns his face to press a kiss to my palm. "I'll always find you, Livie. Always."
The fierce certainty in his voice wraps around me like a blanket, warm and secure. For all his intimidating presence, all the danger he radiates when provoked, there's something profoundly comforting about knowing Greyson Reed has claimed me as his to protect.
"So," I say, changing the subject before his eyes make me forget all about my injuries and the doctor's orders, "what was that about 'no strenuous activity of any kind'?"
A reluctant smile finally breaks through his serious expression. "That was the good doctor's subtle way of telling us not to have sex until your ribs heal."
"Six weeks?" I groan, flopping back against the couch cushions, then wincing as pain shoots through my side. "That's practically forever."
Greyson's smile widens as he moves to sit beside me, careful not to jostle me. "I think the doctor was being cautious. Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my stomach flip, "there are plenty of ways to be… together… that won't strain your ribs."
Heat rushes to my face. "Is that so?"
"Mmmhmm." He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear. "And I intend to explore every single one of them. When you're ready."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I check it, surprised to see Aunt Brittany's name on the screen.
"Everything okay?" Greyson asks, noticing my expression.
"It's my aunt. She wants to know if I'm still planning to start at the salon on Monday." I bite my lip, suddenly uncertain. "I completely forgot about work with everything that's happened."
Greyson's expression turns serious. "You don't have to decide right now. No one would blame you for taking some time off after what you've been through."
"But I want to work," I say, surprising myself with how true it is. "I need normal, Greyson. I need to feel like my life is moving forward, not just… recovering from trauma."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Then you work. I'll drive you to and from the salon until you're comfortable driving yourself again."
"You don't have to do that," I protest. "I'm sure you have club business—"
"Nothing more important than you," he interrupts, his tone making it clear this isn't up for debate. "Besides, I like the idea of the whole town seeing us together. Removes any doubt about where things stand."
I raise an eyebrow. "And where do things stand, exactly?"
His eyes hold mine, serious and intent. "You're mine, Livie Bennett. And I'm yours. Everything else is just details we'll figure out along the way."
The simple declaration makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with fear or pain. There's something so fundamentally Greyson about it—direct, uncompromising, yet oddly gentle in its certainty.
"I like the sound of that," I admit, leaning into him carefully.
His arm comes around me, mindful of my injuries. "Good. Because I meant what I told your father—this isn't casual for me. This is real. This is…"
"Everything," I finish for him, understanding perfectly what he's trying to say.
His smile is devastatingly beautiful. "Everything," he agrees, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple.
As we sit there, his solid presence beside me a counterpoint to the aches and pains still radiating through my body, I realize something profound.
For the first time since coming home, I'm not thinking about LA.
Not wondering if I made a mistake in returning.
Not feeling trapped or restless or uncertain.
Instead, I'm exactly where I want to be, with exactly who I want to be with. And for now, that's more than enough.
My phone buzzes again, and this time it's a call. I glance at the screen and feel my stomach drop. It's Diane. Again.
"You should talk to her," Greyson says quietly, nodding at my phone. "You'll never have peace until you do."
I know he's right, but that doesn't make it any easier. With a deep breath, I answer.
"Hello?"