Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Livie
The familiar weight of Greyson's arm drapes across my waist, his body curved around mine as we lie in his bedroom at the clubhouse.
Xavier had spent hours patching us up, cleaning Greyson's head wound, wrapping my ankle, and cataloging our various cuts and bruises with clinical efficiency.
The painkillers he administered have dulled the sharp edges of discomfort, leaving me floating in a hazy twilight between wakefulness and sleep.
Exhaustion had claimed Greyson almost immediately after we'd been settled into his bed, his body finally surrendering to the trauma it had endured. I'd followed soon after, lulled by his steady breathing and the knowledge that we were surrounded by men who would die to protect us.
A creak penetrates my consciousness, the sound of the bedroom door opening. Before I can fully register what's happening, Greyson explodes into motion. His arm sweeps me behind him as he rolls, his other hand emerging from beneath the pillow with a gun that he levels at the doorway.
"Jesus Christ!" My father's voice cuts through the tension, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just me, son."
Greyson doesn't lower the weapon immediately, his body coiled tight as a spring, breath coming in harsh pants. I place a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremors running through his muscles.
"Greyson," I murmur, "it's okay. It's just Dad."
The wildness in his eyes recedes gradually, recognition dawning as he lowers the gun. "Wilder," he says, voice rough with sleep and adrenaline. "Sorry."
Dad steps into the room cautiously, his gaze moving between us. "My fault. Should have knocked." His expression changes as he takes in Greyson's stance. "Just wanted to check on you both."
Greyson runs a hand through his hair, the movement revealing fresh blood on the bandage at his temple. "We're okay." He glances back at me for confirmation, his eyes still haunted. "Right?"
"We're okay," I agree, though the lingering fear in his gaze tells me neither of us truly believes it yet.
Dad pulls a chair closer to the bed, settling into it with a heavy sigh. "Club's on lockdown. We've got men stationed at every entrance, and Torch has set up motion sensors around the perimeter." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "No one's getting to either of you again."
"Volkov won't stop," Greyson says, setting the gun on the nightstand but keeping it within easy reach. "Not until he gets what he wants."
"And what exactly is that?" Dad asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I explain about the recordings, about Diane's lies, about Volkov's conviction that I'm somehow involved. As I speak, Dad's expression grows increasingly grim.
"So, this Volkov thinks you have evidence that could bring down his operation," he summarizes. "Evidence that Diane stole then tried to pin on you to save herself. She sent you recordings of Richard, but there is nothing on there about the mob. So, I have no clue what it is."
"That's about it," I confirm, leaning against Greyson's solid warmth.
Dad is quiet for a long moment, his thoughts clearly turning inward. Finally, he looks up, decision made. "We're moving against them tonight. Full force, both clubs."
"It's too dangerous," I protest immediately. "These aren't some local thugs, Dad. They're organized, well-funded—"
"And they hurt my daughter," he cuts me off, voice like steel. "They took you from right under our noses. That cannot stand."
Greyson shifts beside me, his body language changing subtly as he enters the conversation, not as my protector, but as a club president. "What's the plan?"
"Trenton's got a line on where Volkov's crew is operating from, a warehouse on the edge of town. Looks like they've been using it as a base for weeks." Dad's eyes harden. "We hit them hard, fast, and with overwhelming force."
"And Diane?" I ask quietly.
Dad's expression softens slightly when he looks at me. "If she's there, we'll get her out. But, Livie…" He hesitates, clearly weighing his words. "You need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she might not be alive anymore."
The truth of his statement settles heavily in my chest. I'd been trying not to think about what Volkov might have done to Diane after she failed to deliver me to him.
"I understand," I say, though the words taste bitter on my tongue.
"Get some rest," Dad says, rising from the chair. "We move at midnight."
As he reaches the door, Greyson calls after him. "Wilder. I'm coming with you."
Dad turns, his gaze assessing the bandages, the exhaustion evident on his face. For a moment, I think he'll refuse. But then he nods once, a gesture of respect between equals.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he says simply, before closing the door behind him.
The moment we're alone, Greyson pulls me into his arms, his face buried in my hair. "I don’t want to leave you," he whispers, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "Not after what happened."
"You have to," I tell him, though everything in me screams against it. "You're the president. They need you."
"You need me more." His hands frame my face, his eyes searching mine desperately. "What if something happens while I'm gone? What if they come for you again?"
"I'll be surrounded by prospects, ole ladies, and enough firepower to start a small war," I remind him, forcing a smile I don't feel. "Besides, Xavier said I shouldn't put weight on this ankle. I'm not going anywhere."
He doesn't look convinced, his thumb tracing the outline of the bruise that's bloomed across my cheekbone. "I can't lose you, Livie. I won't survive it."
The raw honesty in his voice breaks something open inside me. I lean forward, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tastes of fear and desperation and love so fierce, it hurts.
"You won't lose me," I promise against his mouth. "But you need to do this. For both of us. For Diane, if she's still alive. For everyone Volkov might hurt if he's not stopped."
Greyson rests his forehead against mine, conflict evident in every line of his body. Finally, he nods, the decision visibly costing him. "I'll go. But I'm leaving Zach and two prospects outside this door. You don't leave this room without them, understand?"
"I understand." I curl against him, savoring the solid warmth of his body against mine. "Just come back to me."
"Always," he vows, his arms tightening around me. "Nothing in this world could keep me away."
As we drift back toward sleep, clinging to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, I try not to think about all the things that might prevent him from keeping that promise. Instead, I focus on the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, the rhythm that has become the soundtrack to my life.
* * *
The next morning, I wake to find Greyson already dressed, his expression grim but relieved as he tells me they found the warehouse empty. It appears Volkov and his men had cleared out, leaving nothing but bloodstains and spent shell casings behind. No sign of Diane.
When Xavier arrives to check my ankle, Greyson hovers like a shadow, scrutinizing every movement as the doctor unwraps the bandage.
"Looking better," Xavier murmurs, probing gently at the swelling. "But you need to stay off it for at least another day."
"I'll make sure of that," Greyson says, his tone brooking no argument.
Xavier raises an eyebrow at him but continues his examination. When he reaches for a fresh bandage from his medical bag, Greyson steps forward.
"I've got it," he says, taking the supplies from Xavier's hands.
"Greyson," I protest, embarrassed by his behavior. "Xavier knows what he's doing."
"I know," he acknowledges, but proceeds to wrap my ankle himself anyway, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the tension radiating from him. "I just… need to do this."
Xavier watches this display with knowing eyes. "She's going to need to move around a bit, Greyson. Keeping the joint immobile too long isn't good either."
"I'll help her," Greyson replies immediately.
True to his word, when I need to use the bathroom, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms, carrying me despite my protests that I could manage with his support. He waits outside the door, then carries me back to bed, arranging pillows beneath my injured ankle with meticulous care.
As morning bleeds into afternoon, the clubhouse fills with members coming to check on us. Mason arrives with breakfast, his usual teasing manner subdued as he takes in the bruises on my face.
"Hey, squirt," he says, setting a bag of pastries on the nightstand. "How're you holding up?"
Before I can answer, Greyson steps between us, his body language subtly shifting. "She needs rest," he says, his tone cordial but firm.
Mason's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't challenge the obvious display of territoriality. "Right. Just wanted to drop these off." He leans around Greyson to catch my eye. "Love you, Liv. Call if you need anything."
When Tiana and Cassandra arrive an hour later, Greyson's instincts kicks into overdrive. He positions himself at the edge of the bed, eyes tracking their every movement as they approach.
"We brought you clothes," Cassandra says, holding up a duffel bag. "Figured you might want something besides those bloodstained ones."
"Thanks," I say, reaching for the bag, but Greyson intercepts it.
"I'll check it first." He unzips the bag and methodically examines each item before passing it to me.
Tiana shoots me a look that clearly says, What the hell? but I just shake my head slightly. After what we've been through, I understand his paranoia, even if it seems excessive.
When my father arrives with lunch, Greyson finally relaxes marginally, allowing Dad to sit on the edge of the bed while he takes up his position by the window, still watching.
"How's she really doing?" Dad asks Greyson directly, his concern evident.
"Better," Greyson replies, his eyes never leaving me. "But she shouldn't be moved yet."