Chapter 18 Nic
EIGHTEEN
NIC
I’ve seen a lot of blood over the years, spilt my share of it too, but seeing Keeley’s on my hands? Fuck, I’m never scrubbing that out of my head. For the first time in years, I’m trembling.
I can’t stop touching her, kissing the side of her head, into her hair—anywhere I can reach. I need to feel her, to know she’s still here, still breathing.
Still mine.
The wound is messy and needs stitching, but it ain’t fatal. Thank fuck for that. My pulse is still hammering a hard, uneven rhythm in my chest. I don’t like how Keeley folded into my arms, like her legs just gave out. She’s too pale, her skin drained of its usual warmth.
I wrap my hands around hers, leaving smears of red on her skin. There’s a faint tremor in her hands—shock, maybe. Or fear. I don’t know which.
Mine aren’t steady either.
Every part of me is screaming to fix this, but how the hell do I do that? Keeley blames herself. She tried to run because she thought it was better for her to face Morozov alone than for other people to get hurt.
Does she really think there’s a single scenario in which I’d let that happen?
Fuck me, Sunshine. You don’t get to vanish on me.
I scan her face, the edges of my control feeling frayed and flimsy. I don’t lose control. That’s why Ravage made me president, but I’m close to it now.
“Nic…” she whispers my name and my hands twitch in hers, ready for whatever she needs. “You can’t say things like that while I’m bleeding. It’s not fair.”
I relax slightly. It’s not fair, but I’m not trying to be. And I meant every word. If she leaves me, I lose everything. Yeah, I’ll still have my club, my brothers, the life I built, but I won’t have her.
That’s not an option.
She thinks I’m kidding when I say I’ll drag her back. I’m not. Not now. Not when I only just found her. Not when she’s turned everything I thought I knew upside down. Not when breathing feels easier with her in my space.
I try to smile, but I’m not sure if I manage more than a twitch of my lips. “That one of your rules?”
Her face moves into something tired but soft. “I’m thinking of adding it to the list.” She glances down at the blood trickling down to her hip. “Right after no suction cups.”
I let go of her reluctantly. I need to clean and stitch the wound. I also need to wash the blood off her before I do something fucking crazy—like find Morozov myself and rip his fucking head off with my bare hands.
That cunt made a bold step here. Too fucking bold for someone playing mafia boss. I was already going to put that fucker in the ground before this. Now? He’s going to wish he never heard my fucking name.
“Sunshine?” I wait for her to focus on me. She’s still a little dazed. “I’m gonna lift you, yeah?”
“I’m too heavy.” I give her a look that says don’t even go there. Her smile is worn but warm. “Okay.”
I slide an arm around her back, one under her legs, and then I slowly stand. Her weight settles against me as she burrows her face into my shoulder.
Keeley clings to my neck, leaving no gap between us. I carry her down the corridor and back into the bar.
It’s not chaos inside, but it’s not calm either. The women are gathered together, offering comfort. My brothers are where I left them, watching every move I make.
I should be coordinating defences with them, but instead, I walk her over to the nearest table and lower her into one of the chairs.
Her hair has fallen over her face, and I brush it back.
There are bits of wood and glass caught in the tangles.
She looks like she’s walked through hell and barely survived.
It felt like hell when I saw her bleeding.
A first aid kit slides on the table next to me and I cut a glance over my shoulder at Dayna.
She’s watching Keeley with a quiet concern that isn’t forced, and fuck, I like that more than I want to admit. Keeley’s making friends, starting to belong, even if she doesn’t see it yet. I want that for her. It makes this less temporary.
Not for me—I already decided this isn’t—but for her. She’s still looking at this like it’s a stopgap.
“You and the baby okay?” I drop my gaze to the curve of Dayna’s belly, pressing against her sweater.
Her hands splay over her bump like she’s checking again that hers and Dash’s kid is still safe under her palm. “Yeah, we’re good.” Her smile flickers briefly. “Nothing like a near-death experience to get the blood pumping, right?”
Keeley huffs a laugh and that band around my ribs loosens. “I prefer my cardio without bullets.”
I open the kit, splitting my attention between it and Keeley. She seems steadier now. Calmer.
Good.
“I will say,” Dayna muses, “getting body-slammed by my ridiculously attractive boyfriend was hotter than it had any right to be. Man went full action hero.”
Keeley’s eyes slide to me, and I know what she’s thinking. I did the same to her. I don’t pull my gaze from her, letting her feel the weight of what I did. Letting her draw her own conclusions about what she means to me.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, suddenly finding the contents of the first aid kit really interesting. “Really hot.”
My mouth curves before I can stop it. I reach into the kit, finding what I need.
Dayna hovers, bouncing her gaze between us. She’s gearing up to say something. Of course she fucking is. This woman has a mouth that can’t be controlled.
I brace.
“You know what else is good cardio?” Dayna leans in and whispers, “Sex.”
Keeley chokes in surprise, but I clock it—the quick glance at me. Not at the table. Not at Dayna.
Me.
It’s gone as fast as it came, but it wasn’t subtle. It was instinctive, like gravity pulled her toward me before she could stop it.
A dark and territorial desire curls low in my gut. I tighten my grip on the bottle of saline and drag my attention back to her side before I say something she’s not ready to hear.
“Right,” Dayna says. “There’s only so much eye-fucking I can take. I’m going to find Dash before I combust. Yell if you need me.”
Keeley watches her walk away, blinking. Then she turns back to me.
“She’s…I mean… We weren’t… I don’t…” Heat climbs up her neck as she talks herself into knots.
Silence stretches between us, and I let it.
She straightens a little, finding her feet again.
“They shot at us and she’s cracking jokes.
Are assassination attempts that normal around here? ”
“No.” I don’t tell her Dayna’s history. It’s not my place and I don’t want to scare Keeley, but this lifestyle isn’t without danger. This attack proved just how much, and I fucking hate that she was caught in the crossfire of Morozov’s bullshit posturing.
Fix the wound now, worry about him after.
My fingers skim over Keeley’s side, just beneath the cut, and her breath hitches. My chest caves in and I freeze immediately.
“You okay?”
“Sorry.” She apologises. “Your hands are cold.”
My hands? Shit. I rub them together to warm them before I reach for her again.
I move slowly, each touch gentle. I’ve cleaned up more wounds than I can count over the years, but I’ve never taken this much care with anyone. Then again, I usually have six-foot bikers with nerves of fucking steel under my care, not someone who weighs half what they do.
I feel her watching me as I work, and it takes all my willpower not to look at her. I need to focus, make sure this wound is clean before I close it. No glass fragments, no dirt—nothing that can cause infection.
“Shouldn’t you call the doctor to do this?” she asks.
I don’t look up. “For stitches? No.”
If it was deeper, I’d already have him here, but I can handle this.
And I don’t want another man’s hands on her right now, not if I can avoid it. I don’t give a fuck how that sounds. I know it’s controlling, demanding. Fucking demented.
But Keeley isn’t the only one rattled by what happened. I need to take care of her. I need to be the one doing this.
“I mean, Spencer looks barely old enough to vote, but he’s trained. You’re not going to Frankenstein me, are you?”
Now I lift my head, slightly offended. “You think I’d risk touchin’ you if I wasn’t sure I could handle it?”
“Okay,” she says, mildly, “but I swear if I get a flesh-eating bacterial infection I will haunt you from the afterlife.”
She’s trying. I huff a laugh, matching her energy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The second I make the first stitch, I know I’ve fucked up. Not just a little, but catastrophically.
I should’ve handed this off to Spencer or one of my brothers. It’s torture, not the kind that leaves bruises, but worse. Keeley tenses every time the needle pierces her skin, and my calm composure stretches more thinly with every one.
It’s worse knowing she’s biting her lip to keep from crying out. This woman—my woman—who has gone through literal hell in the last fortnight is sitting here forcing silence so she’s not a problem or a burden. That… that hits harder than any bullet could.
My jaw is so tight by the time I make the last stitch, it aches. I sit back, something in my chest twisting when I see Keeley’s eyes are wet. Sometimes I forget that my life, my world, can be hard to navigate for outsiders.
I cup her knee, gently squeezing. “You okay?”
She nods too fast and drops the hem down over her side, hiding the bandage. “I’m sorry I ruined your hoodie.”
I don’t give a shit. She could wreck every piece of clothing I own as long as she isn’t bleeding out. “I got plenty of others.”
Her shoulders curl in on themselves, her gaze sliding around the destruction left behind. It’s a fucking mess, but stuff can be replaced. She can’t.
I seize her chin, pulling her face back to me. Slowly, methodically even, I scan her, checking she’s holding her stitched pieces together. She looks scared but more in control than she did before.
And because I can’t stop myself or the need I have to feel her, I brush my mouth to hers.