Chapter 3 - Eden #2
"You should go home," he says. "This isn't your world. Shouldn't have gotten dragged into it."
"Too late for that." I'm still standing, watching Saint work, my arms wrapped around myself. "I'm already covered in your blood, and I've got a finished dragon on my thigh that I'll never be able to look at without remembering gunfire. Pretty sure I'm involved whether I like it or not."
Saint glances up. "You got the piece finished before this happened?"
"I was cleaning it," Davis says. "Just wrapped it. Was about to go over aftercare instructions when—" He doesn't finish the sentence.
Saint's expression shifts to something almost sympathetic. "Hell of a way to finish a session."
"Not my first session. First time being shot at during one, though." I'm amazed I can joke about this. I'm amazed I'm not screaming or crying or running away. "That's new."
"Welcome to the Iron Phoenix experience," Ranger says dryly from the doorway. "We like to make things memorable."
Saint works in silence for several minutes, cleaning the wounds with precision. Davis stays remarkably still, though I can see the pain in the tightness around his eyes, the way his good hand is fisted against his thigh.
"Arterial damage doesn't look too bad," Saint finally announces. "Bullet missed anything major. You got lucky, brother."
"Don't feel lucky," Davis mutters.
"You're alive. She's alive. That's lucky." Saint starts stitching the exit wound first, his sutures neat and even. "Internal stitches first, then external. This is gonna take a while."
"I've got time." But my legs are starting to feel strange. Weak. Like they might not hold me much longer.
Davis turns his head to look at me. "You really should go. This isn't safe."
"Neither is the ER on a Saturday night, but I still show up for my shift." I try to meet his eyes, but the room tilts slightly. "I don't run. Not from hard things."
"This isn't hard, Eden. This is dangerous. These people—" He stops himself, glancing at Saint and Ranger. "This isn't your fight."
"You made it my fight when you covered me with your body." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from somewhere else. "You made it my fight when you took that bullet. So don't tell me to go home like I'm some civilian who can't handle reality. I'm a trauma nurse. I've seen worse than this."
"Not directed at you, you haven't." His voice is quiet, serious. "This was personal. They'll come back."
Ranger shifts in the doorway. "We'll have someone watching the studio around the clock. And Canvas, you're staying at the clubhouse until this is sorted."
"Like hell—"
"Not a request." Saint doesn't look up from his stitching. "Phoenix's orders. You get shot, you stay where we can protect you. You know the rules."
My legs give out.
One second, I'm standing, the next I'm sliding down the nearest wall, my back scraping against it as I collapse onto the floor. My hands are shaking violently. Then my whole body.
"Eden!" Davis tries to sit up, but Saint pushes him back down.
"Stay still or you'll tear my stitches." Saint looks at Ranger. "Check her."
Ranger is beside me in seconds, crouching down. His voice is surprisingly gentle. "You're crashing. Adrenaline dump. Totally normal."
"I know what it is." My teeth are chattering. "I'm a nurse. I know. I just…"
"You did good." He puts a hand on my shoulder, steady and grounding. "You kept him alive. That's what matters."
I nod, but I can't stop shaking. Can't stop seeing Davis throw himself over me, can't stop hearing the gunshots, can't stop feeling his blood warm and wet under my hands.
"Put your head between your knees," Ranger instructs. "Breathe slowly. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I follow his instructions, my nursing training fighting with my body's response. Of course I know what's happening. The crash after sustained high stress, the body's way of processing trauma, but knowing doesn't make it stop.
"Eden." Davis's voice cuts through the fog. "Look at me."
I lift my head. He's still propped against the tattoo chair, Saint working on his shoulder, but his dark eyes are locked on mine.
"You're okay," he says firmly. "You're safe. It's over."
"You got shot."
"I've been shot before. I'll heal." His voice is steady despite the pain he must be in. "You saved my life. You did everything right. Now let yourself crash. It's okay."
The permission breaks something in me. The tears come all at once, hot and fast and completely beyond my control. I press my face against my knees, trying to muffle the sobs that are tearing out of my chest.
This isn't me. I don't fall apart. I'm the one who holds it together in crisis, who keeps everyone else calm, who compartmentalizes and processes later.
But later is now, and I can't stop shaking.
Ranger doesn't leave my side. He keeps one hand on my shoulder, grounding me, while he talks in a low, calm voice about breathing, about letting it out, about how this is healthy and exactly what I need to do.
Saint keeps working on Davis, his hands never faltering despite the chaos.
And Davis keeps his eyes on me the entire time, like he can hold me together through sheer force of will.
Eventually, the shaking slows. The tears stop. My breathing evens out. I'm exhausted. Completely wrung out. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
"Better?" Ranger asks.
"Yeah." My voice is hoarse. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. You just lived through a shooting. You're allowed to fall apart a little." He stands, offering me a hand. "Can you stand?"
I let him pull me up, testing my legs. They hold, barely. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay." Davis is watching me with something that looks like concern mixed with frustration. "You need to get out of here. Go home. Let us handle this."
"And let you bleed out the next time someone decides to shoot up your studio?" I shake my head, steadier now. "I don't think so."
"There won't be a next time. Not here." Saint finishes the last stitch and starts bandaging the wound properly. "He's coming to the clubhouse. Full lockdown until we sort this out."
"Then I'm coming too." The words are out before I can stop them.
All three men stare at me.
"Absolutely not," Davis says.
"You can't—" Ranger starts.
"She might have a point," Saint interrupts, looking thoughtful. "They shot up the studio while she was here. They probably had someone on lookout before she even arrived. They might have seen her. If they're watching, she’ll be a casualty. This is the same thing that happened with Judge last week."
"Fuck," Davis breathes. "No. No, we're not dragging her into this."
"She's already in it." Saint says. "Question is whether she's safer at home alone or at the clubhouse with nine armed bikers."
I should be terrified. I should be running. Instead, I'm thinking about Davis throwing himself over me. About the dragon and his hands on my thigh. About the fact that I don't want to leave him.
"The clubhouse," I hear myself say. "I'll go to the clubhouse."