Chapter 3 - Eden
This cannot be real.
This cannot actually be happening.
I'm kneeling on the floor of a tattoo studio in my underwear, watching a man I barely know fight to stay conscious after taking a bullet that was probably meant for both of us.
The front of the studio is destroyed. I can hear glass crunching under debris, can smell gunpowder and something burning.
This was supposed to be a simple tattoo appointment. In and out. Get my dragon, admire Canvas's work, maybe flirt a little more than necessary, go home.
Instead, someone shot up the building with what sounded like automatic weapons, and Canvas used his body as a shield without hesitation.
For me. A stranger. A client he'd known for less than three hours.
He's watching me now, his eyes unfocused but trying so hard to stay alert. The bandage I wrapped around his shoulder is already showing spots of blood seeping through, but it's not the rapid spread that would indicate I'm losing the battle. The pressure is working. For now.
"Stay with me," I tell him again, checking his pulse. Elevated but not dangerously so. "Keep talking. Tell me about the worst tattoo someone ever asked you to do."
"That's a long list." His words are slightly slurred but coherent. That's good. That's something.
"Pick one. Details." I need to keep him conscious, keep him focused on something other than the pain and the blood loss.
But I also need to get dressed.
I glance around the room, assessing. My jeans are still draped over the chair where I left them, my shoes kicked off beside it.
Canvas is propped against the base of the chair, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his bare chest visible beneath it.
Six-pack abs that would be impressive in any other context, now streaked with blood that's run down from his shoulder wound.
So much blood.
I need to focus. I’m a fucking nurse. I've handled worse than this. I've handled trauma cases, gunshot wounds in the ER, patients coding on the table. I can handle this.
Except those were strangers. Patients. People I could compartmentalize and treat with professional distance.
Canvas isn't a stranger anymore.
Not after the way he talked about fantasy novels like they were important. Not after he laughed at my stupid jokes. Not after he threw himself over me without a second thought when the bullets started flying.
"Guy wanted his ex-girlfriend's face," Canvas mumbles, pulling me back to the moment. "On his ass. With devil horns. And the words 'Hell's Waiting' underneath."
"Please tell me you said no." I grab my jeans and step into them quickly, never taking my eyes off him. Button, zip, shoes back on. My shirt is already on, thank god I didn't take it off.
The dragon on my left thigh throbs beneath the protective film, a reminder that he'd finished it. That we were in the cleaning stage when the world exploded around us.
"Said no. He called me a pussy and left." He tries to adjust his position and winces. "Went to some scratcher two towns over. Saw it on Instagram a month later. Looked like a demon potato with tits."
"Demon potato with tits. That's a lot worse than your mumps skull." I'm back beside him, checking the bandages again, making sure the bleeding hasn't increased. "I can't believe you got shot protecting someone you barely know."
"Know you well enough." His good hand finds mine, squeezes weakly. "You hate the Wheel of Time ending. Think Kaladin is the best Stormlight character. Want to work in emergency medicine for the rest of your life because you like the chaos."
I did tell him all of that. During the session, while he was creating art on my thigh, while I was falling for the way his hands moved with such confidence near my inner thighs.
God, was that really just an hour ago?
"Canvas—"
"Davis." He's looking at me now, more focused than he's been since the shooting. "My name's Davis. Canvas is just the name people use because of what I do."
"Davis." It feels intimate, using his real name. Like crossing a line I didn't know existed. "You need to conserve your energy. Stop talking."
"Make me." There's a ghost of a smile on his face, and even bleeding and in shock, he's still flirting with me.
I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to rewind three hours and not book this appointment, or book it for a different day, or do anything that would have prevented us from being here right now.
But I also know that if I hadn't been here, Davis would be alone. Bleeding out in his studio with no one to help him, no one to call for backup, no one to keep him conscious until his MC brother arrives.
"You're an idiot," I tell him, but my hand tightens around his. "A brave idiot, but still an idiot."
"Been called worse."
A sound from the front of the studio makes us both freeze. Heavy footsteps crunching over glass.
My heart stops. *They came back.*
Davis tries to sit up straighter, his jaw clenched against the pain. "Eden, get behind me—"
"You can barely move." I position myself between him and the doorway, scanning the room for anything I could use as a weapon. A stool. The tattoo machine, too small. The rolling cart, I could throw it.
"Canvas?" A male voice calls from the front. "You back here?"
Davis sags with relief. "Saint. Back room."
Two men appear in the doorway, and my first instinct is to put myself more firmly between them and Davis, which is insane because these are supposedly his people.
But I'm running on adrenaline and fear, and thirty minutes of watching a man bleed, so rational thought isn't exactly my strong suit right now.
The first man is tall, lean, with dark hair and features that are almost unsettlingly handsome, the kind of face that would look right at home on a movie villain. He's wearing an Iron Phoenix MC cut and carrying a large black duffel bag. His eyes sweep the room before landing on Davis's shoulder.
"Shit." He crosses to us in three strides, dropping to his knees and setting the bag down. "Through and through?"
"Yeah." I force myself to stay calm and professional. "Entry posterior shoulder, exit anterior. Heavy bleeding, but I've applied pressure and packed both wounds. He's showing early signs of shock. Elevated pulse, slightly altered mental status, temperature dysregulation."
The man—Saint, apparently—looks at me with new respect. "You a doctor?"
"Nurse. ER at Millhaven General." I don't move from Davis's side. "You're the medic they mentioned?"
"Former paramedic. Seven years before I joined the club." He's already pulling supplies from the bag—IV kit, fluids, proper bandaging materials, antibiotics. "I can handle this, but I need space to work."
The second man steps forward. Older, maybe late thirties, with short dark hair. "Ranger," he introduces himself, extending a hand. "I'm here for security while Saint works. Make sure no one comes back for a second round."
I shake his hand, still watching Saint prep an IV line. He's fast, efficient, and clearly knows what he's doing. But Davis is my patient now, and I'm not leaving him.
"Eden." Davis's voice is weaker now, and that scares me more than anything. "It's okay. Saint's good. He'll fix me up."
"I'm staying." I don't look away from Saint's hands as he finds a vein and slides the needle in smoothly. "I'm not leaving until I know you're stable."
Saint glances at Ranger, then he nods. "Fine. But let me work. I need to clean these wounds, check for arterial damage, stitch what needs stitching."
I move back slightly, giving him room but staying close enough to monitor Davis's vitals. My hands are shaking now that the immediate crisis is passing, now that someone more qualified is here. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving behind the reality of what just happened.
We were shot at.
Multiple shooters. Automatic weapons. Sustained fire designed to destroy everything in the front room.
This wasn't random. This was a message.
"Who were they?" I ask, looking at Ranger. "Do you know?"
Ranger's expression is neutral. "We have suspicions."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you right now." He moves to the doorway, scanning the destroyed front room. "Canvas, your studio's totaled. Front windows gone, display case destroyed, half your equipment damaged. They did a thorough job."
Davis closes his eyes briefly. This studio is his pride, his life's work. I saw that the moment I walked in, the care in every detail, the way everything was organized and displayed with intention. And now it's gone, shot to pieces by people who may or may not come back to finish the job.
"We'll rebuild," Saint says without looking up from where he's examining Davis's shoulder wound. "Club will help. We always do."
"The club," I repeat slowly. "The Iron Phoenix MC."
Saint's hands pause for just a second before continuing their work. "That's right."
I'm not stupid. I know what motorcycle clubs are, what they do, what they're involved in. Millhaven isn't that big, and the Iron Phoenix has a reputation. They seem to protect the community, keep to themselves, but they're still bikers. Still dangerous.
Still the kind of men I swore I'd never get involved with.
And yet here I am, covered in Davis's blood, watching his MC brother stitch up a gunshot wound in the back room of a destroyed tattoo studio, refusing to leave until I know he's okay.
"I need to cut away this bandaging," Saint says, looking at me. "Your work?"
"Yes. Best I could do with a basic first aid kit."
"You did good." He's gentle as he cuts through the elastic wrap, peeling away the blood-soaked gauze. "Probably saved his life. He'd have bled out before I got here if you hadn't applied pressure."
*He'd have bled out.*
Fuck. Davis would have died on this floor, in his own studio, alone.
Because he protected me.
Davis's eyes find mine, and even through the pain and the drugs Saint has clearly given him: his pupils are slightly dilated now, the tension in his jaw easing, there's something there. Something that makes me want to stay and see this through ‘til the very end.