Chapter 19 Nic #2
I cross the room in a few strides, trying to keep calm, even though inside me there’s a frantic storm building.
Riley shoots me a look as I approach, like he wishes he’d taken a mercy bullet during the shootout. I ignore him. Kid’s old enough to hold his own against the old ladies.
Instead, my gaze locks on the seat I left Keeley in earlier. She was barely stitched together in that blood-soaked hoodie I’d left on the end of the bed for her yesterday. It’s now hanging over the back of the chair, a dark patch on the navy fabric.
“Where’s Keeley?” My voice sounds clipped and controlled, but I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.
The room quietens. “She went to lie down,” Maylie says.
Instantly, my worry flares. Keeley was pale when I left her, but she was steady—wasn’t she? Fuck, did I miss something again?
“She okay?”
“I think so. A little rattled maybe, but I’d be worried if she wasn’t.
” Her head tilts, like she wants to ask if I’m good, but whatever she sees on my face stops her.
I force a calm I don’t feel into my bones.
I don’t want to scare any of them. They’ve already come through so much in the last month alone.
“Thanks, May.” I glance over her head at the other women.
They shouldn’t be cleaning this shit up.
I want to tell them it’s not their job, but I don’t think they’d listen.
We fought to get the club back to where we are now, and the clubhouse is the core of all of that.
So I get why they’re helping. This is—home.
And most of them will go back to their apartments and houses after Morozov is dealt with, but this building is still ours.
My brothers, their families. This is what I bled for. And Morozov doesn’t get to ruin it.
“Don’t be liftin’ shit.” I point at Dayna even as I head for the door. “Especially you.”
She lifts her hands defensively. “I wouldn’t dare. Rhys would tie me to the bed until this kid arrives and—”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already through the door and into the corridor beyond it. I check the courtyard as I pass in case she’s getting some air, but it’s empty. The kitchen too.
As I head toward the room—the only other place she can be—it feels like every step is heavier than the last.
I pause at the door and there’s a split second where I’m scared to knock. I take a moment then I lift my hand and blow out a breath. The sound of my knuckles hitting against the wood is loud in the quiet corridor.
I wait and listen, but there’s nothing. Not a rustle or a sigh. Not a sound.
My chest seizes sharp enough to press the air out of my lungs. She’s inside. I know she is, but there’s a part of my brain that is creating impossible scenarios.
I reach for the handle without hesitation this time. I don’t give a fuck about politeness right now. I need eyes on her before I lose my shit.
The door’s not locked, so I push inside and almost drop to my knees right there.
She’s curled in the bed, tangled in my blankets, her chest rising slow and steady. The bedside lamp casts a soft glow over her, shadows dancing in the corners of the room. It smells like her in here now, as if she’s fusing with me.
My fucking girl in my bed.
Shit. I scrub a hand over my face, standing there frozen with relief so violent it almost hurts.
She didn’t run. She’s right here.
In my fucking bed.
My lungs remember how to work again, barely. I stand there like an idiot for far too long, just watching her slow breaths while every muscle in my body unclenches.
Eventually, I drift to the bed, drawn to her without thinking. There’s no peace beneath the restless sleep she’s fallen into. Dark smudges bruise under her eyes, and she twitches every few seconds, like she’s running from something dark even in her dreams.
I shouldn’t touch her, but I brush my knuckles over her cheek. I need to feel the warmth of her on my skin. The moment I do, it unlocks that tension banded around my ribs.
Thank fuck she’s here.
I only allow myself a few brushes before I force a step back from her. Without taking my eyes off her, I sit against the wall next to the bed and I just watch her sleep.
There are a hundred things I should be doing right now. Chasing leads, figuring out Morozov’s movements, calling in favours.
But I stay here even when my back protests and my muscles knot themself. The minutes stretch and I count the passage of time by the number of breaths she pulls into her lungs.
There’s no chance I let Keeley fall into the hands of men who will sell her body for their own pleasure. I’ll burn this entire city to ashes before I allow that to happen.
She’s not in that hell. She’s in your bed, in your shirt, resting. Don’t borrow trouble that ain’t happened and won’t.
My bones feel weighted and not just because Keeley’s safety depends on me. The whole club is in this mess now as well. Blade fucked us the second he made that deal. Did he even think about his sister in any of that? Did he consider the club and the brothers he was meant to be loyal to?
Of course he fucking didn’t.
The club lives or dies on loyalty. It’s always been that way.
A family made, not created. Blood meaning less than bonds.
Crank and Blade never understood that. Crank was the kind of president who kills an entire chapter because he couldn’t stand where he needed to.
The stupid thing is every one of the men under this roof would have followed him wherever he asked.
I would have fought whatever enemies were knocking on the door, but Crank was a coward. Too scared to protect what we’d built.
Blade—I don’t even know what kind of president he would have been. Ambitious, driven, but ultimately he cared more about his own power than his brothers. That’s what got him killed.
The Sons work because we protect each other. We believe in the club ethos of brotherhood and loyalty. I would die for my men, just as they would for me. And that’s why I know Morozov’s days are numbered.
Because my brothers will follow me into hell.
And Morozov better hope he has the same devotion from his own soldiers.
I blink, my eyes getting heavy and gritty. Sleep tugs at me, but I push it down. I don’t know how to rest until Morozov is bleeding at my feet.
Keeley groans before her lashes flutter and her breathing changes. My spine straightens and I watch as she slowly peels her eyes open.
My heart thumps. She’s groggy, and the way she pokes out of the duvet is fucking adorable.
She doesn’t notice me at first, but then it’s like she senses my presence. Her gaze slides toward me, and I have to swallow down the lump clogging my throat.
She’s perfect like this. Tangled hair, sleep-soft and mine.
For a second, Keeley stares at me, trying to gauge if I’m here or she’s dreaming. She lifts on her elbows to look at me.
“Nic? What are you doing?”
Watching you sleep like a fucking psychopath.
I don’t answer that. I can’t explain it without sounding completely fucking unhinged, and I don’t want to do anything that will ruin this momentary peace. “You hurtin’?” I ask her instead.
That feels like a safer topic, but she’s still looking at me as if she can strip back all the pieces I hide beneath my kutte. I should feel exposed, but I don’t. Not with her. I’d hand her those truths if she asked to see them. I’d give her whatever she wanted.
“I’m okay, but you look wrecked,” she says, but I get the feeling it’s not what she intended to come out.
I scrub a hand over my face and I reach for the lie I would normally give, but the truth is, I am exhausted. I’ve been running for weeks, months really, and there’s a soul-deep weariness inside me that no amount of sleep on that piece of shit couch can ever fix. “Don’t worry about me, sunshine.”
Her frown is the kind that says I’m full of shit and also stupid. “Of course I worry about you. Someone has to, considering you look half-dead.”
Her concern hits me in one of the few soft places I have left, but I don’t let the emotion choke me. I can’t. I have to stay focused on fixing everything, making my world safe so she can sleep easy in it.
I give her a tired smile. “Only half?”
She scowls. “You need sleep, Nic. You can’t run on fumes. Don’t make me send you to bed like a child.”
I can’t read if this is a hint to get space from me or if she’s genuinely concerned I might fall asleep standing up.
You were watching her sleep like a fucking freak. Obviously, she wants space.
I push up from the floor, even though every part of me aches to stay here with her. “Yeah, you’re right. Sleep’s a good idea. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
She blinks, then sits up—or tries to. Her face contorts with pain and she bites back a whimper as she presses a hand to her side. I move automatically and grab her arm while supporting her weight so she doesn’t tug on the wound.
“Easy, sunshine,” I warn. “I spent ages makin’ those stitches pretty. Don’t tear them.”
She shoots me a look, but there’s warmth in it that I’m not sure I deserve. “Wouldn’t want to undo all your pretty work now, would we?”
“You want me to grab you some painkillers?”
Keeley shakes her head. “All I want is for you to sleep,” she repeats and my chest swells. Ain’t had a lot of people care about me in life, so her giving a shit feels like I won a lottery I never bought a ticket for.
“I will once I’ve got you settled,” I promise, brushing my lips over her forehead.
She’s warm under my touch, and mine. My t-shirt barely hits her mid-thigh, but it drowns her much smaller frame. I fucking love seeing her in my clothes. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s fucking crazy, but it feels like she’s wearing me.
When I pull back and she’s staring at me like I’m an idiot and I’m not sure why.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t be sleeping on that thing.”
Satan’s couch? I agree, but it’s that or the one in the bar. At least my office has a door I can shut and the illusion of privacy.