Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Xavier
Weeks Later
Twelve hours in the ER always leaves me feeling like my bones are made of wet sand. I lean against the curb, still in my scrubs, jacket unzipped, trying not to yawn. The second Samantha steps out with her friends, though, I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth. “Ladies.” I bow dramatically.
She rolls her eyes at my little bow, but I catch the fondness behind it. I’d do anything for her. Always have.
I’m about to tell her to get in the car so I can collapse into bed, when I hear my name, said with surprise.
Cassandra. Haven’t seen her in ages. She looks the same, maybe a little more ink on her arms, but she has the same sense of confidence in her stride as when she was sixteen.
The other girls follow behind her, and I marvel at how nothing seems to change.
I grew up with them, even if they’re younger than me, and it’s like a little parade of nostalgia toward the bar entrance.
Then behind them the door is thrown open hard and I know instantly who they are. The school bullies who loved to make fun of me because I’m gay, who never let a day go by without some kind of torment.
I remember the way my stomach would knot at the sight of them in the halls, the way they’d laugh and shove me into lockers. I fought back like hell and soon they just let their shitty attitudes out by calling me names. My dad put me in MMA, and that changed everything.
The way Bethany played nice until she asked me out and I turned her down because she has the wrong body parts.
She then made it her mission to make my life hell.
I watch them stumble to the sidewalk, still the same, and Bethany’s voice cuts through the air like a rusted blade. “Look at that. They even got the gay doctor hanging around with them now.”
My spine goes rigid before I can stop it. I’ve heard worse. I’ve heard it whispered, shouted, muttered under their breath.
I keep my face neutral. I’ve had years of practice.
Samantha, my sister, hasn’t. She has a fiery temper, just like our father, whereas I take after our mother, who is quieter.
“What did you just say about my brother?” she demands, hands on her hips, eyes blazing like hot coals.
Her voice is pure fire, and I reach out immediately, willing her to listen. “Let it go, Sam,” I tell her, hoping she hears the plea in my voice. “They’re not worth it.”
These people don’t have a conscience; if they feel like they’re entitled, then it doesn’t matter.
But Bethany keeps going. They always fucking do, but from her hiss I know my comment has pissed her off.
“Listen to your fairy doctor brother,” she says with this nasty little smile. “Run along home before you catch something.”
My blood boils, scorching through my veins like liquid metal. I clench my jaw, forcing down the rage that threatens to erupt from my throat. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to snap. I would never hurt a woman, but I would love to throttle her.
The atmosphere shifts with a sudden charge, like the moment before lightning strikes.
My skin prickles, aware of his arrival before I even register it.
I don’t need to see him to know. My body recognizes Zach’s presence before my eyes confirm it, and when I finally turn, the sight of him hits me with physical force.
Zach.
Expression carved from stone. Shoulders tense. Eyes locked on the men Bethany’s with like he’s choosing which one to break first. Tiana, Zach’s sister, whispers something to him, but he’s barely holding it together.
The women step up before I can say anything. Defending me. Fierce. Unapologetic. It hits me harder than the insults do.
Then the men start in, and I know right off that this isn’t going to end well.
“Should’ve beaten it out of you back then.”
“Everything about you screams queer.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I feel it like a flicker of pain slicing through the armor I’ve spent years building. I hate that they see it. I hate that they still have that power.
And then Zach moves.
It happens so fast I barely register it.
One moment he’s standing behind Tiana, coiled tension in human form, and the next he’s a blur of controlled violence.
His fist connects with the jaw of the one closest to me with a sickening crack that vibrates through the night air.
The sound reminds me of broken bones in the ER. Clean, definitive, final.
He crumples, folding in on himself like a marionette with cut strings. He hits the pavement with a dull thud, blood already pooling at the corner of his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” someone gasps.
For one suspended moment, everyone freezes, a tableau of shock and realization. Then the one with the checkered sweater lunges at Zach with a roar, and everything explodes into motion.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. Twelve-hour shift fatigue evaporates, replaced by a familiar rush of adrenaline. I sidestep Checkered Sweater’s friend who’s coming at me with clenched fists, muscle memory from years of training taking over.
“X, on your left!” Samantha shouts.
I pivot, catching a meaty fist aimed at my face. The impact jars my arm, but I use the momentum, twisting the guy’s wrist and driving my knee into his stomach. He doubles over with a satisfying wheeze.
“That’s for calling my friends whores,” I snarl, following with an uppercut that snaps his head back.
Samantha and I fall into the rhythm we perfected years ago back-to-back, covering each other’s blind spots. She kicks out, catching Bethany’s boyfriend in the knee. He howls, stumbling backward.
“Nice one, sis,” I call over my shoulder, ducking as a bottle sails past my head and shatters against the brick wall.
The parking lot becomes a battlefield. Tiana has a man in a headlock, her face a mask of cold fury. Meadow’s knuckles are already bloody as she drives another punch into Bethany’s stomach. The woman crumples, mascara running down her cheeks.
I catch glimpses of Zach through the chaos. Methodical, efficient, terrifying. He doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t showboat. Each strike is calculated to inflict maximum damage with minimum effort. It’s like watching a predator among prey.
A fist grazes my cheek, snapping my attention back. I taste copper in my mouth, feel the sting of split skin.
“Not so helpless now, am I?” I shout, driving my elbow into my attacker’s sternum. The impact sends shock waves up my arm, but the satisfaction of watching him stagger backward is worth the pain.
The man spits at my feet. “Fucking faggot.”
Something in me snaps, a dam breaking after years of pressure. I launch forward, tackling him to the ground. We hit the pavement hard, my knee driving into his chest. I grab his collar, yanking him up until our faces are inches apart.
“Say it again,” I hiss, blood from my split lip dripping onto his face. “I fucking dare you.”
Terror flashes in his eyes. He sees it then, what I’ve spent years hiding beneath scrubs and polite smiles. The rage. The violence I’m capable of.
Someone grabs my shoulder. I whirl, fist cocked, only to find Zach there. His knuckles are raw, eyes blazing with something that makes my stomach clench.
“Cops,” he says, voice low and rough. “Two minutes out.”
I release my grip, letting the man’s head thud against the pavement. My heart hammers against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. The MC women are already regrouping, straightening clothes, wiping blood from split knuckles.
Samantha appears at my side, hair wild and lipstick smeared. There’s a bruise forming on her cheekbone, but her eyes are alive with the same savage satisfaction I feel pulsing through my veins.
“You okay?” I ask, reaching to examine her face.
She bats my hand away. “I’m fine, Dr. Hover-Hands. Worry about your own pretty face.”
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. The remaining men scramble to their feet, dragging their semiconscious friends toward their cars. Bethany limps after them, mascara streaked down her face like war paint gone wrong.
“This isn’t over,” she spits, voice trembling with humiliation and rage.
Zach steps forward, and something in his posture makes her flinch backward.
“It is if you’re smart,” he says, voice deadly quiet. “Next time we won’t be so gentle.”
The parking lot empties quickly after that, leaving just our group standing among scattered glass and droplets of blood. The adrenaline begins to ebb, and I become aware of the throbbing in my knuckles, the sting of my split lip.
Zach’s eyes find mine across the parking lot. Something electric passes between us. Recognition, understanding, hunger. My pulse jumps, and for a moment, I forget about the approaching sirens, the years of distance, the careful walls I’ve built.
I stand in the middle of it all, breathing hard, trying to process what just happened. My hands shake, not from fear, but from the sudden, overwhelming realization that these people… defended me. Without hesitation.
Zach approaches slowly, like he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to get.
“You good, Doc?” he asks, voice low, rough, still vibrating with leftover fury.
I nod, though my throat feels tight. “I… Yes. Thank you. All of you.”
Samantha throws her arms around me. “Nobody talks about our family like that.”
Family.
The word hits me harder than any punch tonight.
As the group starts cleaning up in the aftermath, the noise fades. The adrenaline dwindles. The world narrows.
It’s just me and Zach now, standing beside my car, the night humming around us.
He looks at me like he’s still ready to fight for me. Like he would’ve taken on all of them alone if he had to.
Zach’s eyes are shadowed, hungry, filled with something raw and undisguised. It’s desire, pure and unmistakable.
Heat rushes to my face, staining my cheeks in what I’m guessing is a deep crimson. I can’t believe what I’m seeing, can’t believe that Zach, the infamous Devil Souls enforcer, is looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.