Chapter 5 - Eden
My heart is racing so fast I'm surprised Davis can't hear it.
The Iron Phoenix clubhouse looms ahead. It’s large, industrial, intimidating in a way that has nothing to do with its actual appearance and everything to do with what it represents.
Motorcycles line the front like sentries.
Security cameras point in every direction.
This is a fortress disguised as a warehouse, and I'm about to walk inside.
I love adrenaline. Always have. The rush of a trauma case coming through the ER doors, the split-second decisions that mean life or death, the way time slows down when everything matters. That's good adrenaline. Earned adrenaline.
This? This is trouble with a capital T.
And yet.
I don't feel like I'm making a mistake.
Davis is beside me. He’s bleeding, exhausted and still trying to protect me even though he can barely stay conscious.
Saint and Ranger are riding escort, ready to kill anyone who threatens us.
I just survived a shooting and instead of running home to safety, I'm driving toward a biker clubhouse in the middle of a gang war.
By every logical measure, this is insane. But it doesn't feel wrong. It feels... right. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, even if I don't understand why yet.
"Why did you join?" I ask, breaking the silence that's settled between us. The question has been burning in my mind. "The Iron Phoenix. You had your own studio, your own life. Why join a motorcycle club?"
Davis is quiet for a long moment, watching the clubhouse get closer through the windshield. His hand is still on the center console where I left mine near it, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth.
"Left home at eighteen," he finally says, his voice rough from pain and medication. "Bounced around for years. Odd jobs, small towns. Always moving, never settling. Was lonely as hell but didn't know how to stop."
I keep my eyes on the road, following Ranger's taillight, but I'm listening to every word.
"Opened my first studio in another town. Did okay. Made enough to live on. But something was missing." He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. "Then Phoenix walked in wanting ink. We talked for hours. About art, about purpose, about what men like us owe to the world."
"What do you owe the world?" I ask softly.
"Protection." The word comes out fierce despite his exhaustion. "The strong protect the weak. The capable protect the vulnerable. That's what Phoenix believes. That's what the Iron Phoenix stands for."
I think about Davis throwing himself over me, taking a bullet without hesitation. *The strong protect the weak.*
"He invited me to join," Davis continues, his words getting slower as the medication pulls at him.
"Said I could bring my studio and be part of something bigger.
A brotherhood that actually meant something.
" His eyes close briefly. "I'd been alone my whole life, Eden.
Since my mom died, since my dad started drinking, I'd been alone. And Phoenix offered me family."
My throat is tight. "So, you said yes."
"Packed up in two weeks. Never looked back.
" He opens his eyes to look at me, and there's something genuine in his expression.
"Best decision I ever made. The MC gave me brothers, gave me purpose.
Taught me how to channel all that rage and violence into something good.
Something that protects instead of destroys. "
"That's beautiful, Davis."
"It's true." His hand finally closes over mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "The MC made me better. Made me someone worth being. Someone who uses his body as a shield instead of a weapon."
As he utters the last word, I can’t help but realize I’m falling for him. Fast and hard and completely out of control. For a man I met three hours ago who talks about protection like it's a sacred duty and took a bullet for me without thinking twice.
I follow Ranger through the gates, actual gates that swing open automatically as we approach, and into the parking area. Up close, the building is even more imposing. Two stories, reinforced doors, windows with bars that manage to look decorative rather than prison-like.
"Pull up close to the door," Davis instructs. "Makes it easier to get inside."
I do as he says, parking right next to the entrance. Ranger and Saint have already killed their engines and are heading toward us. Other bikers are emerging from the building. Big men in leather cuts, all of them moving towards us.
This is real. This is actually happening.
A man who can only be Phoenix steps forward first. He's tall, with short dark hair, sharp dark eyes, and a scar across his jaw. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with his cut over it.
"Canvas." Phoenix opens the passenger door before I can, taking in Davis's condition with a single glance. "How bad?"
"Through and through, shoulder." Davis tries to get out on his own and nearly falls. Phoenix catches him, supporting his weight easily. "Eden kept me alive until Saint got there."
Phoenix's eyes shift to me, assessing. I force myself to meet his gaze steadily. This is a test. I know it's a test. If I show weakness now, if I flinch or look away, I'll never earn their respect.
"You're the tattoo client," Phoenix says. It's not a question.
"Eden Cross. Nurse at Millhaven General." I get out of the car, rounding it to stand beside them. "And yes, I was getting tattooed when they shot up the studio."
"Did you see them?"
"No. I was in the back room when it started. Davis covered me before I could see anything." I glance at Davis, who's leaning heavily on Phoenix despite trying to look steady. "He took the bullet for me."
"I see. Get him inside. Saint, medical room. Eden—" He pauses, clearly trying to figure out what to do with me.
"I'm coming with him." My voice is firm. Non-negotiable. "I'm the nurse who kept him alive. I need to make sure he stays that way."
Phoenix stares at me for a brief moment, then nods. "Fine. But after Saint finishes with him, you and I need to talk."
"Looking forward to it."
Saint appears at Phoenix's other side, and together they help Davis toward the entrance. I follow closely, feeling all the other bikers watching us. There are four of them visible. All big, all tattooed, all radiating the kind of danger that comes from men who know how to hurt people.
And I'm walking right into their territory wearing jeans with blood stains and a fresh dragon tattoo on my thigh.
The inside of the clubhouse is surprisingly nice. Clean hardwood floors, decent furniture, a long bar against one wall. It smells like leather and motor oil. There's a large common room with couches and a TV, a hallway leading deeper into the building, stairs going up to what I assume are bedrooms.
Two women sit on one of the couches, both looking up as we enter. One has short auburn hair and is curvy like me, her green eyes going wide as she takes in Davis's condition. The other has long dark hair and is holding a little girl who looks about five.
"Canvas!" The auburn-haired woman jumps up. "Oh my god, what happened?"
"Vipers shot up the studio." Saint is already guiding Davis down the hallway. "He'll be fine. Just needs rest and antibiotics."
"Who's she?" The dark-haired woman asks, nodding at me.
"Client who got caught in the crossfire," Phoenix answers. "Eden, those are Ivy, Nora, and little Grace. They're under protection here, too. Ladies, Eden's staying with us until we sort this mess out."
I don't miss the way both women's eyes light up with interest. Great. I'm about to become clubhouse gossip before I even know where the bathrooms are.
The medical room is exactly what I'd expect—a hospital bed, cabinets full of supplies, proper lighting, equipment that's newer and better maintained than half the stuff in the ER. Saint clearly takes his role seriously.
They get Davis onto the bed, and he immediately tries to sit up. "I'm fine. Don't need to lie down."
"You're lying down." Saint pushes him back with one hand. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"Paramedic. Close enough." Saint turns to me. "You staying?"
"Yes." I move to Davis's other side, automatically checking his pulse. Still elevated but stable. "His vitals were good during the drive. No signs of shock progression."
"Good." Saint is already pulling out monitoring equipment. "Help me get him hooked up. Blood pressure cuff, pulse ox, the works."
I attach the pulse ox to Davis's finger while Saint wraps the blood pressure cuff around his good arm. Within minutes, we have him fully monitored, the machines beeping steadily.
"Pressure's 128 over 84," Saint reads off. "Elevated but not dangerous. Pulse is 92. Oxygen saturation 97 percent." He looks at me. "You did good work keeping him stable."
"I just applied pressure and wrapped it. You did the actual medical intervention."
"Pressure and wrapping saved his life." Saint checks the bandage on Davis's shoulder, making sure it's secure. "He'd have bled out without it. Don't minimize what you did."
Davis's eyes are already closing, his breathing evening out. The pain medication is really hitting now, pulling him toward sleep despite his best efforts to stay awake.
"He's going to crash hard," I tell Saint. "The adrenaline dump plus the medication plus the blood loss, he'll be out for hours."
"Good. He needs rest." Saint pulls a blanket over Davis, his movements surprisingly gentle. "You should rest too. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"That's what everyone says right before they collapse." He gives me a knowing look. "How long have you been a nurse?"
"Four years in the ER. Two years before that in med-surg."
"So, you know you need to take care of yourself, too." He crosses his arms. "When's the last time you ate?"
I open my mouth to answer and realize I don't know. Breakfast? That was hours ago. I was too nervous about the tattoo appointment to eat lunch.