Chapter 5 - Eden #2
"That's what I thought." Saint moves toward the door. "I'll send someone with food. Stay with him if you want. If anything changes—fever, bleeding through the bandage, altered consciousness, you come find me immediately. I'll be in the common room."
He leaves before I can argue, and suddenly I'm alone with Davis.
I sink into the chair beside the bed. My hands are shaking again, not as badly as before, but enough that I notice. I clench them into fists, willing them to be still.
Davis's hand moves slightly on the bed, and without thinking, I take it. His fingers close weakly around mine, and even in sleep, he holds on.
*The strong protect the weak.*
I sit there holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall, counting the steady beeps of the heart monitor.
The reality of what happened is starting to sink in now that the immediate crisis is over.
We were shot at. Multiple shooters with automatic weapons. Davis took a bullet. I could have died.
We both could have died.
My breath hitches, and I press my free hand to my mouth, fighting back the tears that are suddenly threatening. I can't fall apart. Not here, not now. I need to stay strong, stay present, stay—
A knock on the door makes me look up. It's the auburn-haired woman, Ivy.
"Hey," she says, slipping into the room. "Saint said you needed food." She holds up a plate covered in plastic wrap. "Turkey sandwich okay?"
"That's fine. Thank you." I take the plate but don't unwrap it. I'm not sure I can eat right now; my stomach is in knots.
Ivy pulls up a second chair and sits down, her kind green eyes looking at me. "I'm Ivy. Phoenix's girlfriend. I heard what happened at the studio."
"Word travels fast."
"Small clubhouse, big drama." She glances at Davis, then back at me. "You holding up okay? That must have been terrifying."
"I'm fine." The automatic response. "Just worried about him."
"You barely know him and you're already worried." Ivy's voice is gentle, understanding. "I get it. These men… They get under your skin fast."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I focus on the plate in my lap, peeling back the plastic wrap. The sandwich looks good: wheat bread, turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomato.
"I was you just three weeks ago," Ivy continues. "Running from an abusive ex, showed up at the clubhouse at four in the morning begging Phoenix for help. Fell for him in about two days." She smiles slightly. "So, trust me when I say I understand what you're feeling right now."
"I'm not—"
I stop, because I don't know how to finish that sentence. I'm not falling for him? That's probably a lie. I'm not scared? Also a lie. I'm not in over my head? Definitely a lie.
"It's okay," Ivy says. "You don't have to explain it. Just... don't beat yourself up for feeling something. The heart doesn't care about timelines, logic or how insane the situation is."
Davis shifts in his sleep, his hand tightening around mine for a moment before relaxing again. I watch his face, the way the harsh lines have softened in unconsciousness, the way his breathing is deep and even.
"I should let you eat in peace," Ivy says, standing. "But Eden? You're covered in blood and you look like you're about to fall over. When you're ready, I'll show you to a room where you can clean up and rest."
"I need to stay with him—"
"He's going to be out for hours. Saint told me he pumped him full of enough pain meds to knock out a horse." Ivy's voice is firm but kind. "You can't help him if you collapse from exhaustion. Take care of yourself for a bit."
She's right. I know she's right. But the thought of leaving Davis alone, even for a shower and a change of clothes, makes me worried he’ll suddenly wake up and I won’t be near him.
"I'll eat first," I compromise. "Then maybe a quick shower."
"Good enough." Ivy heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth? Canvas is a good man. One of the best in the club. If you're going to fall for a biker, he's a solid choice."
She leaves before I can form a response.
I finish unwrapping the sandwich and take a bite, forcing myself to chew and swallow even though I'm not hungry. My body needs fuel, and Ivy's right, I can't help Davis if I pass out.
By the time I finish, my eyelids are getting heavy. The adrenaline is fully gone now, leaving behind exhaustion so profound I can barely think straight.
Another knock. This time it's the dark-haired woman, Nora.
"Ivy sent me," she says, stepping inside with an armful of clothes. "Figured you might want a change of clothes after a shower. These should fit. We're about the same size."
I look down at myself. My jeans are stained with Davis's blood. My shirt has smears of it on the sleeves. I probably have it in my hair, on my face, everywhere.
"Thank you," I manage. "That's really kind."
"We take care of each other here." Nora sets the clothes on the chair Ivy vacated: sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, underwear still in the package, and a sports bra. "Your room's upstairs. Small, but it has a bathroom. I'll show you."
"I don't want to leave him alone." The words come out more desperate than I intend.
"Saint's right down the hall. If anything changes, he'll know immediately. And I promise, Canvas isn't going anywhere for the next few hours. That medication will keep him down."
She's right. I know she's right. But leaving feels wrong.
Davis's hand is still in mine, warm and solid. I lean forward, studying his face. The eyebrow piercing that matches mine. The tattoos that cover every inch of visible skin. The strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the mouth that smiled at me while creating art on my thigh.
"Okay," I whisper, more to myself than to Nora. "Okay. A quick shower."
I gather the clothes Nora brought and follow her out of the medical room. The hallway is quiet, most of the club apparently giving us space. We climb the stairs to the second floor, and Nora leads me down another hallway to a door near the end.
"This one's yours while you're here," she says, opening it.
The room is small, just as she warned. A twin bed with a simple gray comforter, a nightstand, a lamp, a dresser. A door on the far wall leads to what I assume is the bathroom. It's basic, but it's clean and private.
"Bathroom has towels, soap, shampoo, everything you need," Nora explains. "If you need anything else, just ask. My room is two doors down. Ivy's is across the hall."
"Thank you. Really. For the clothes, for the room, for... everything."
Nora smiles. "Like I said, we take care of each other. That includes you now." She pauses in the doorway. "Canvas is going to be okay, Eden. Saint's good at what he does. And these men... They're tougher than they look. He'll heal."
"I know." But my voice wavers slightly.
"Get cleaned up. Rest if you can. And welcome to the Iron Phoenix." She closes the door behind her.
I stand in the middle of the small room, holding borrowed clothes, covered in the blood of a man I met three hours ago, and I finally let myself feel it.
The fear. The terror of those gunshots, of glass exploding, of Davis covering me with his body. The weight of his blood on my hands as I tried to stop the bleeding. The way he looked at me in the car...
I'm falling for him.
I barely know him, and I'm falling for him.
And I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do about that.
The shower calls to me. I head into the bathroom. Small but functional, with a simple shower stall, toilet, and sink. I strip off my blood-stained clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and step under the hot water.
The blood washes away in pink rivulets, swirling down the drain. I watch it go, scrubbing my skin until it's red, washing my hair twice to make sure I get everything out. The dragon on my thigh throbs beneath the protective film, a reminder of how this day started.
Just a tattoo appointment. That's all it was supposed to be.
By the time I get out, my skin is pruned and the water's starting to run cold.
I dry off with one of the towels, gently patting around the fresh tattoo, and pull on Nora's borrowed clothes.
The sweatpants are soft, well-worn. The t-shirt smells like lavender detergent. The sports bra fits perfectly.
I look at myself in the mirror. Clean, exhausted, still processing. I should sleep. My body is begging for it. But the thought of lying down while Davis is two floors below, alone in the medical room, feels impossible.
I compromise. I'll go back down, sit with him for a while longer. Make sure he's okay. Then maybe, if I can convince myself to leave him, I'll come back up here and try to rest.
But as I head for the door, clean and dressed in borrowed clothes, one thing is absolutely clear:
I'm not going anywhere. Not until I know Davis is going to be okay.
And maybe not even then.