Chapter 27 Cece #2
I bite my lip, torn between wanting to help and respecting Brayden's wishes.
“I can handle it,” Brayden insists, though the way his jaw tightens when he tries to sit up straighter tells a different story.
I exchange a glance with Big, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “Guys, can you give us a minute?” I ask.
Wrecker raises his eyebrows, but Big is already heading for the door. “We'll be right outside,” he says, dragging Wrecker with him. “Holler if you need us.”
When the door closes behind them, I turn back to Brayden. His face is pale beneath the bruising, a sheen of sweat on his forehead betraying how much pain he's really in.
“You don't have to pretend with me,” I say softly. “Not after everything we've been through.”
He closes his eyes briefly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I hate feeling weak,” he admits. “Especially in front of you.”
“You're the strongest person I know,” I tell him, carefully taking his hand. “Letting me help you doesn't change that.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his battered face. “You're not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance. So pick your poison. I help you, or I go grab Wrecker. Your choice.”
“Definitely you,” he says, the ghost of a smile pulling at his split lip. “At least you'll appreciate the view.”
I can't help but laugh, even though my face is still damp with tears. “That's the only reason I offered.”
I carefully untie the hospital gown, letting it fall away from his shoulders. The bruising on his torso steals my breath—angry purple blooms spread across his ribs, stark against his tattooed skin. I trace my fingers just above the worst of it, not quite touching.
“Jesus, Brayden,” I whisper.
“Looks worse than it feels,” he lies, watching my face.
“Bullshit.” I grab the sweatshirt first, bunching it up to make the neck hole wider. “Arms up—slowly.”
He obeys, grimacing as he raises his arms just enough for me to slide the soft fabric over his head. I guide each arm through the sleeves with gentle movements, trying not to jostle his injured ribs.
“Almost done,” I murmur, tugging the sweatshirt down over his torso. The hospital logo stretches across his broad chest, making him look bizarrely like a hospital employee. “Now for the hard part.”
I grab the sweatpants, kneeling to help him thread his feet through. His hand rests on my shoulder for balance, fingers gripping slightly as he lifts each foot.
“I much prefer when you’re kneeling with my cock in your mouth, princess.”
I smile despite everything, letting out a shaky laugh. “Glad to see your sense of humor survived the beating.”
“Only thing that got me through it,” he says, wincing as I carefully pull the sweatpants up his legs.
“Stand up just a little,” I coax, supporting his weight as he rises enough for me to pull the pants over his hips. His body radiates heat against mine, and I catch a whiff of antiseptic mixed with his familiar scent. “There. Now you won't be mooning the entire hospital on our way out.”
“Shame,” he murmurs, his good hand finding my face. His thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away tears I didn't even realize were falling. “Hey. I'm okay, princess. Really.”
“You could have died,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. “If that tire iron had hit you just a little differently—”
“But it didn't.” His eyes hold mine, intense despite the pain clouding them. “I'm right here. A little banged up but still breathing.”
I lean into his touch, careful not to put pressure on any of the places that still look painful. “Promise me you won’t do something that reckless again.”
“Can’t make that promise,” he murmurs. “Not when it involves keeping you safe.”
Before I can argue, the nurse returns with a wheelchair and a folder of paperwork. “Your chariot awaits, Mr. Cole,” she says, brisk and efficient.
Brayden starts to protest, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “Hospital policy. You’re getting wheeled out the doors whether you approve or not.”
He mutters something under his breath—”bullshit” is definitely in there—but he lowers himself into the wheelchair without further fight. Every movement is slow, deliberate, his jaw tightened against the flare of pain. Watching him push through it twists something inside me.
The nurse hands me the folder. “Pain medication every four to six hours as needed. Antibiotics twice a day with food. The discharge instructions list symptoms you shouldn’t ignore—worsening pain, fever, dizziness. If anything concerns you, bring him right back.”
“I will,” I say, tucking the folder into my purse.
Big and Wrecker are waiting in the hallway, arms folded across their chests, standing guard in that unspoken way the club has mastered.
They fall in step beside us as the nurse wheels Brayden toward the exit.
Outside, Wrecker’s truck idles at the curb with Domino behind the wheel.
Big swings the passenger door open without a word.
“Heard you needed a ride.”
“Thank God,” I say, relief washing through me at the sight of the truck. Getting Brayden home just got a whole lot easier. “I was wondering how we were going to manage with my little car.”
The nurse helps Big and Wrecker transfer Brayden from the wheelchair to the passenger seat, each movement drawing a sharp intake of breath from him despite his attempts to hide his pain. My heart clenches watching them settle him into the truck.
“I'll ride in back with him,” I say, climbing in behind the passenger seat. I want to be close enough to touch him, to reassure myself with each mile that he's still here, still breathing.
Domino gives me a nod in the rearview mirror. “Jillian's waiting at the guesthouse. Said she's got everything ready.”
“Thanks for coming,” I tell them, my voice catching. “All of you.”
“Family,” Big says simply, climbing into the backseat beside me. It's a tight fit with his massive frame, but I'm grateful for his solid presence. “That's what we do.”
As Domino pulls away from the hospital entrance, I lean forward, my hand finding Brayden's shoulder. His fingers immediately reach up to cover mine, squeezing gently despite his battered knuckles. The simple touch steadies me more than he could know.
“Pharmacy first,” I remind Domino. “We need to fill his prescriptions.”
“We'll wait in the car,” Domino says, pulling into a spot near the pharmacy entrance. “You get what he needs.”
I slip out of the truck, hurrying inside to hand over the prescriptions. The pharmacist barely glances at the paperwork, weariness softening her gaze as recognition flickers when I give Brayden’s name.
Twenty minutes and nearly two hundred dollars later, I’m back in the truck with a white paper bag full of pill bottles. Brayden’s eyes are closed, his breathing shallow, but his hand reaches for mine when I slide into the seat beside him.
“Got everything?” he murmurs, without opening them.
“Everything the doctor ordered,” I confirm, squeezing his fingers gently. “We'll get you home and doped up in no time.”
The ride to the guesthouse is mercifully short. Brayden grits his teeth with each bump in the road, his face growing paler by the minute. By the time we pull into the driveway, he's sweating despite the cold, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle ticking in his cheek.
Jillian is waiting on the porch, her face tight with worry as Domino and Big help ease Brayden from the truck. To my surprise, my father stands beside her.
Jillian rushes forward as they bring Brayden up the steps, her hands fluttering anxiously around him without actually touching. “Oh my God, look at you,” she gasps. “Those Kincaids have gone too far this time.”
My father steps aside to let them pass. The guesthouse has been transformed in our absence. The living room couch is piled with extra pillows and blankets. A tray of water and glasses sits on the coffee table, and I can smell chicken soup simmering from the kitchen. Jillian has been busy.
“Bedroom,” I direct, pointing down the hallway. “He needs to lie down.”
Big and Domino carefully maneuver Brayden through the narrow hallway, each step drawing a hiss of pain from him despite his efforts to remain stoic. My heart aches watching him struggle, his face ashen beneath the bruises.
“Easy does it,” Big murmurs as they lower Brayden onto the bed.
I set the pharmacy bag on the side table. I fumble through the bag, searching for the pain medication while Jillian fusses with the pillows, trying to make Brayden as comfortable as possible. His face is tight with pain, jaw clenched as he settles against the mattress.
“Water,” I say, and my father—to my surprise—is already there with a glass from the nightstand. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, a fleeting moment of connection that catches me off guard.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I help Brayden take the pills, supporting his head as he swallows. He grimaces, whether from the pain or the bitterness of the medication, I can't tell.
“Better?” I ask softly.
“Ask me in twenty minutes when these kick in,” he mutters. His gaze shifts past me to my father, standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “Didn't expect to see you here, Reverend.”
My father shifts uncomfortably. “I wanted to...that is, I needed to see that you were alright.”
The surprise on Brayden’s face mirrors my own. Before either of us can respond, the front door opens again, and I hear Joe’s voice in the living room.
“Where is he?” Joe calls out.
“Back here,” Big answers.
Joe appears in the doorway, his suit impeccable despite the late hour. The briefcase in his hand tells me this isn’t just a social call. His sharp gaze sweeps over the scene, taking in Brayden’s battered face, the pill bottles on the nightstand, and the small crowd gathered around the bed.
“Everyone out,” Joe announces, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Except Cece. I need to speak with them both.”