Chapter 10
Ava
The hospital waiting room smells like antiseptic and bad coffee, and I've been here for three hours without any real update beyond "he's in surgery." Three hours of pacing, of replaying the moment Mason collapsed on that tarmac, of trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Falcon's been here the whole time, silent and solid, his presence the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.
The rest of the brothers filtered through, checking for updates, offering support in the gruff way men like them do.
But most have gone back to the compound, back to their lives, because sitting in hospitals doesn't change outcomes.
"You should eat something," Falcon says, not for the first time.
"I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry. Said you should eat." He stands, crossing to the vending machine. "When's the last time you had actual food?"
I try to remember and can't. "Yesterday sometime."
"That's what I thought." He feeds bills into the machine, punching buttons until he's got an armful of protein bars and bottled water. "Here. Eat."
I take the offerings because arguing with Falcon seems like a bad idea even under the best circumstances. The protein bar tastes like cardboard, but I force it down along with half the water.
"He's going to be okay," Falcon says, settling back into the chair beside me. "Ice Pick's survived worse than this."
"Has he? Because watching him collapse covered in blood felt pretty fucking bad from where I was standing."
"He's been shot twice, stabbed more times than I can count, and once got run over by a rival club's prospect who didn't know how to handle a bike." Falcon's mouth quirks. "Man's got nine lives, and he's only used about six of them."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to remind you that Mason's a fighter. He has been since the day he prospected for the club. Whatever's happening in that operating room, he's fighting to get back to you."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've known him for eight years, and I've never seen him care about anything the way he cares about you." Falcon's expression softens slightly. "He told me once that love was a weakness, that caring about someone made you vulnerable. And then you showed up and proved him wrong."
"I didn't mean to."
"Best things never are intentional." He leans back, arms crossed. "You're good for him, Ava. You make him think about a future beyond the club, beyond the violence. That's rare for men like us."
"Men like you?"
"Men who've made peace with the fact that we probably won't die old in our beds surrounded by grandchildren.
Men who've accepted that violence is part of who we are, what we do.
" He pauses. "Mason was heading down a dark path before you came along.
He was becoming Ice Pick more than he was being Mason. You brought him back."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the idea that I've somehow saved a man I'm pretty sure saved me first.
A doctor appears in the doorway, still in surgical scrubs, and I'm on my feet before he can call my name.
"Mason Vaughan's family?"
"We're his family," Falcon says, standing beside me. "How is he?"
"The surgery went well. He had a piece of shrapnel lodged near his kidney. We removed it and repaired the damage, but he lost a significant amount of blood. We've given him transfusions, and he's stable now." The doctor looks at me. "He's asking for Ava. Are you Ava?"
"That's me."
"You can see him, but only for a few minutes. He needs rest." The doctor leads us through double doors into the recovery wing. "Room 314. Don't tire him out."
I follow the numbers until I find his room, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Pushing open the door, I find Mason propped up in bed, pale and hooked to more machines than I can count, but awake and watching the door like he's been waiting for me.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough.
"Hey yourself." I cross to his bedside, taking his hand carefully. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry about that. Wasn't planning on getting stabbed by flying metal."
"Next time, wear better armor." I'm trying for humor, but my voice breaks on the last word.
His hand tightens around mine. "Come here."
"The doctor said not to tire you out."
"Don't care. Come here."
I perch carefully on the edge of his bed, mindful of all the tubes and wires, and he pulls me down until my forehead's resting against his.
"I'm okay," he murmurs. "Takes more than some shrapnel to kill me."
"That's what Falcon said. Something about you having nine lives."
"He's exaggerating. I've only got three or four left." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Did they get Castellano?"
"In custody and looking at enough charges to keep him locked up for multiple lifetimes. The FBI's already building their case, and Agent Forrister says your testimony combined with mine and the evidence we collected is airtight." I lean back enough to see his face. "It's over, Mason. Really over."
"Good. Then you can finally finish your article and make sure the whole world knows what he did."
"I'm going to do more than that. I'm going to write a series. About the trafficking operation, about the girls who were saved, about how corruption and wealth can hide monsters in plain sight." I pause. "And I'm going to write about the Saints Outlaws helping to take them down."
His expression shifts, something cautious entering his eyes. "You sure that's a good idea? Publicly connecting the club to a federal investigation?"
"I'll be careful. I’ll focus on the heroic aspects, leave out the gray areas. But people deserve to know that sometimes the good guys wear leather cuts instead of badges." I trace the line of his jaw. "You saved those girls, Mason. You and your brothers. That matters."
"We did it for you. Because you asked."
"You did it because it was the right thing to do." I kiss him softly, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. "And because somewhere along the way, you started caring about more than just the club."
"Yeah. I started caring about a stubborn journalist who doesn't know when to quit."
"Good thing you love stubborn."
"Good thing I love you." He winces as he shifts, trying to get more comfortable. "How long do I have to stay in this place?"
"Doctor said at least three days for observation. They want to make sure there's no infection or complications."
"Three days of hospital food and fluorescent lights. Sounds like hell."
"I'll stay with you, make sure the nurses don't give you too much trouble."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know, but I'm doing it anyway." I settle more carefully beside him. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually rest instead of trying to discharge yourself early."
"You know me too well already."
"That's because you're predictable."
He laughs, then groans when it pulls at his stitches. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts like a bitch."
"Then stop being funny." But I'm smiling despite everything, relief flooding through me now that I can see he's really okay.
Falcon pokes his head in, checking on us. "Doctor says you need rest, Ice Pick. That means kicking Ava out soon."
"She's staying."
"Hospital's got rules about overnight visitors."
"Then she's breaking the rules. Won't be the first time." Mason's voice is getting drowsy, pain medication pulling him under. "Make sure she eats, Falcon. She forgets when she's worried."
"I don't forget," I protest, but he's already drifting off.
Falcon smirks. "He's got your number. Come on, let's get you real food while he sleeps."
I let him pull me away reluctantly, and we find the hospital cafeteria where he forces me to eat actual dinner instead of vending machine garbage. The food's institutional and bland, but it's warm and filling, and I realize how hungry I actually am.
"Sarah called," Falcon says between bites. "Asked about Ice Pick and wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I should call her back."
"Already told her you'd check in later. She's doing better, Sterling says. She’s shaken but recovering." He pauses. "She wants to go back to your apartment, but it's still a crime scene. FBI's processing evidence."
"She can stay at the compound as long as she needs. I'll help her find a new place when things settle down." I push food around my plate. "Is it always like this? The violence, the danger, the constantly looking over your shoulder?"
"For us? Yeah. It's the life we chose." Falcon studies me. "Is that going to be a problem for you and Ice Pick?"
"I don't know. I'm a journalist. My job is exposing corruption and illegal activity. His job involves, well, corruption and illegal activity."
"The club operates in gray areas. We don't hurt innocents, don't traffic people or push drugs to kids. But we do things that aren't exactly legal." He leans back. "You can live with that?"
It's the question I've been avoiding, the fundamental incompatibility between what I do and who Mason is. But thinking about life without him, about going back to my apartment alone and pretending the last two weeks didn't change everything, feels impossible.
"I can live with it as long as the club doesn't cross lines I can't ignore. As long as Mason stays on the right side of those lines." I meet Falcon's eyes. "Can he do that?"
"He'll try. For you, he'll try." Falcon's expression is serious. "But you need to understand something about Ice Pick. The violence isn't just what he does. It's part of who he is. Turning it off completely, becoming some domesticated version of himself, that's not happening."
"I'm not asking him to change who he is. I'm asking if we can find a way to make this work despite who we both are."