Chapter Thirty-One
The light was too bright.
Not harsh—just relentlessly clean, the kind that left nowhere for shadows to hide. Fluorescent panels hummed overhead, steady and indifferent. The room smelled like antiseptic and plastic and something faintly metallic that reminded him, unhelpfully, of blood.
At some point, the brightness softened. The hum faded to a quieter rhythm.
When Titus surfaced again, he was propped against pillows in a private hospital recovery room, the world dimmed to soft light and slow beeps.
The bandage at his abdomen pulled when he breathed too deeply—tight, insistent. It didn’t hurt the way pain usually announced itself. The drugs kept it distant, dulled, but impossible to ignore.
A reminder.
That was too fucking close.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing. Upright. Alert. Breathing fine.
Alive.
That part still felt unreal.
The moment when Viper had charged over and covered him with his whole body—ready to take a bullet for him—rose unbidden, and Titus darted a quick glance his way.
The warrior stood against the far wall, arms crossed, boots planted wide like he’d staked claim to the space. He hadn’t moved since they’d brought him in. No pacing. No clipped orders. No scanning the exits.
Just stillness.
And that—that—set every instinct he had on edge.
He clocked Viper. The silence. The way Viper’s shoulders stayed locked. The way his eyes tracked everything except him, like if he looked too long, he might lose control of something he couldn’t afford to drop.
This wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t distance.
It was containment.
Viper was holding himself together the way soldiers did after impact—by bracing internally, by locking everything down so nothing escaped. Including fear. Including aftermath. Including the knowledge that a single inch had nearly destroyed something he could now name.
Love.
For the first time in his life, he was fucking in love.
Titus swallowed and looked away, hands fisting to keep from shaking.
The door opened, breaking the moment. A doctor stepped in—mid-forties, calm eyes, clipboard tucked under one arm.
“This case came through Caldwell,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “Let’s take a look.”
Titus grimaced. Of course, the Secretary of Defense would know he’d been shot.
The doc glanced at the monitors, then at him.
“You were lucky,” he said.
Lucky.
Titus almost laughed.
“Surgery showed the bullet missed anything vital,” the doctor continued. “No organ damage. No major vessels. A few inches difference and the outcome could have been completely different.”
Titus nodded. He’d lived his whole life in inches. Inches between survival and erasure. Inches between a blade sliding past bone or finding it. Inches between pulling the trigger or hesitating.
This wasn’t new.
What was new was the way Viper stiffened beside the wall. Barely visible, but Titus saw it. The tightening through his shoulders. The way his jaw set harder.
This landed for him, Titus realized.
The doctor went on. “You’re restricted. No operations. Limited movement only. Recovery window is several weeks. Four to six minimum—longer if you push it.”
Titus scoffed under his breath. If.
Before he could argue, Viper spoke.
“He’ll stay still.”
Flat. Certain.
Titus felt something twist in his chest that had nothing to do with the wound.
“I’m not staying here,” Titus informed the doctor. “I’ll lie low, but I’m not spending the night in here.”
“I can’t be responsible,” the doc grimaced.
“I’ll take responsibility,” Viper said, voice low.
The doctor glanced between them, hesitated, but then nodded, and moved on—apparently satisfied.
Titus rolled his eyes hard enough to make a point of it.
When the doctor left, the quiet came back fast and heavy.
This time, it brought images with it.
The gunshot. The way the world had narrowed to soundless chaos. The floor rushing up. Viper’s arms around him—too tight, too fast, like he was trying to stop something already in motion.
Like he was trying to hold the line against the impossible.
The door opened again, quieter this time.
Law stepped in first, posture straight, expression unreadable. Sage followed close behind, tablet tucked under his arm, curls a mess like he’d been running numbers hard and fast.
Syx and Vale remained in the hallway—visible through the narrow glass panel in the door. Syx leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, steady as stone. Vale stood a few feet off, watchful, elegant even at rest, eyes tracking the corridor as nothing escaped him.
Sage’s gaze flicked to the bandage at Titus’s side. “Vitals are good,” he said before anyone asked. “Security’s scrubbed. No flags. Nothing leaves this building.”
Law gave a single nod, eyes on Viper. “Perimeter’s clean. We’re clear to move when he is. John’s house has been taken care of.”
“Rip and Boston?” Titus asked.
“I have no clue,” Law said, shaking his head as he shot Viper a quick look.
Viper acknowledged it with a glance. Nothing more.
Sage stepped closer and met Titus’s eyes. “You scared the hell out of us all,” he added quietly.
Law shot him a look.
Sage shrugged. “What? He did.”
“Come on,” Law said, catching Sage lightly by the wrist and drawing him toward the open door.
Then they were gone, the door closing softly behind them—Syx and Vale already falling back into motion in the hallway, as if they’d never stopped watching.
Titus swung his legs once, deliberately casual.
“So,” he said lightly. “Guess I’m benched.”
Nothing.
“Do I get a bell?” he added. “Or are you just going to glare at me until I behave?”
Still nothing.
He kept going—not because he didn’t take it seriously, but because he did. Because if he didn’t break the pressure, it would crush them both.
“You were shot.”
The words were quiet. Controlled. Barely restrained.
Titus blinked. “And?”
That did it.
Viper’s jaw flexed. There—the tell. The crack in the armor. The man’s eyes cut to him, sharp and dark, carrying something raw he didn’t let surface often.
Titus felt it hit anyway.
“I’ve been stabbed,” Titus said, easing upright. “Burned. Thrown off things taller than this hospital. This is a scratch.”
“You bled out in front of me.”
The room went dead still.
That wasn’t an accusation.
That was the truth.
Titus sobered instantly. The humor drained out of him—not because he was ashamed, but because he finally understood what this moment was costing Viper.
He looked down at his hands. Saw the faint tremor he hadn’t noticed before.
“Wasn’t the plan,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
No promises. No don’t do it again. Just understanding.
That mattered more.
The quiet didn’t leave this time. It softened.
Titus stared at his hands for a beat, then spoke without looking at him. “My brothers were monsters,” he said. No softening it. No distance. “Everyone knew it. I grew up carrying that. People looking at me like the verdict was already written—like blood decided character.”
He shifted carefully, aware of the pull at his side. “They’re dead now. I’m not. But I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I wasn’t them. Trying to outrun what they did.” His jaw tightened once. “That shaped me. How I fight. How I trust. I’m trying to change some of it—but it’s not fast.”
He finally looked up. “I need you to remember what they were,” he said. “And still choose me.”
Viper didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, his presence solid, unyielding.
“You are not your brothers,” he said quietly. “I’ve said it before.” His gaze held, steady and sure. “You’re a good man. You just need to believe it.”
The words didn’t fix anything.
They didn’t erase the past.
But they held.
The nurse came in with paperwork and immediately addressed Viper, rattling off instructions like he was the default authority. Titus noticed. Let it happen.
Because for once, he didn’t want to be the one in control.
When they were alone again, Titus dressed carefully. Viper handed him his jacket without comment, holding it steady while Titus slipped into it.
Automatic.
“Where are we going?” Titus asked.
“Nevada.”
Titus stopped at the door.
“I’m still Erebus,” he said.
This wasn’t hesitation. It was honesty.
Viper didn’t flinch. “I know.”
A beat passed.
“Come anyway.”
Titus felt the weight of the choice settle fully into his bones.
This wasn’t an order.
This was an invitation.
He nodded once.
“Okay.”
And stepped through the door.