His chin dips sli
Cobra doesn’t speak to me the entire way back to the clubhouse.
Not one word. That shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
Silence is part of him. I know that already.
It’s one of the first things I learned, right alongside the fact that he notices everything and moves like violence is less a choice and more a language his body speaks fluently. But this silence is different.
This silence has teeth.
I sit in his lap in the back of the SUV while Joker drives, my head aching in slow, sick pulses that seem to throb behind my eyes.
Every bump in the road makes my stomach roll, and every time I sway even slightly, Cobra’s arm tightens around me.
Not too much. Never enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me he’s there.
As if I could forget.
The heat of him is everywhere. His chest at my side.
His arm around my waist. His hand braced near my ribs, fingers spread wide like he can hold me together through sheer force of will if he just doesn’t let go.
I should feel trapped. I don’t. That’s the part that still scares me when I let myself think about it too long.
I feel the anger in him. The tension. The barely leashed violence pulsing beneath his skin with every breath he takes. He’s not calm. He’s not okay. Nothing about him is okay right now. But I’m not afraid of him.
I’m afraid of what happened. I’m afraid of the hand over my mouth, the blade at my throat, the cold voice in my ear telling me not to fight. I’m afraid of how fast it happened and how logical my choice felt right before it turned into the worst possible one. I’m afraid because he was right.
That might be the hardest part.
Not the fall. Not the pain. Not even the knife.
He told me not to leave without him, and I did it anyway. Not because I wanted to be reckless. Not because I didn’t believe him. I thought I was being smart. I thought getting away from the crush of bodies and texting him from outside made sense. It did make sense. Until it didn’t.
My fingers curl weakly in his shirt.
His chin dips slightly, just enough that I know he noticed.
Of course he noticed.
I don’t look up. I can’t. Because if I see his face again, if I see that flash of fear I caught in the alley, I might break. And I don’t think either of us can afford that right now.
The SUV turns into the clubhouse lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The sound usually means safety now, or something close to it, but tonight it feels like returning to a place where consequence is waiting.
Lights shine across the lot. Men stand near the entrance.
The front door opens before Joker fully stops the vehicle.
Cobra moves immediately. The second the SUV is in park, he shifts me carefully, opening the door and stepping out with me still in his arms like setting me down is not an option he’s willing to consider.
I hear voices.
Logan. Mac. Doc.
Someone curses. Someone asks if I’m conscious.
Cobra answers with a single word. “Yes.” It sounds like it costs him something.
I want to tell him I can walk. I don’t. Mostly because I’m not sure it’s true.
He carries me through the clubhouse, past faces that blur together from pain and exhaustion.
I catch Mac’s worried eyes, Brooke’s hand covering her mouth, Kya standing behind Dom with fear tight across her face.
Tessa and Mia aren’t here. Hammer took them home.
That should make me feel better. It does. A little.
Then Cobra turns down the first-floor hall toward his room.
Not the infirmary. His room. No one stops him.
Or maybe they know better than to try. His door opens, and the familiar dimness wraps around me.
The bed. The dresser. The faint scent of leather and smoke and him.
The place that terrified me the first time now feels more familiar than I want to admit.
He sets me down on the edge of the bed. Carefully.
So carefully my throat tightens.
His hands linger only long enough to make sure I’m steady, then he pulls away. The absence hits harder than the touch did.
I look up. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Cobra—”
“Doc’s coming.” That’s it. Low. Flat. He turns. Leaves.
The door doesn’t slam. That might be worse. It closes with a controlled click, and the room goes still around me.
I stare at it. At the door. At the empty space where he was standing.
Something inside me sinks. I thought he would stay.
Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe he needs to talk to Logan.
Maybe he needs to check on the prospects, the van, the men who almost took me.
Maybe this is just another version of him protecting me, making sure the threat gets handled instead of sitting beside me while the world keeps moving. But it hurts.
More than if he had shouted. More than if he had told me exactly how stupid he thinks I was.
Because leaving feels like distance. And after the alley, after seeing his fear, after the way he held me in the SUV like he couldn’t trust the world not to steal me if he loosened his grip, distance feels like punishment. Maybe it is.
I press my fingers lightly against my temple and wince. The room tilts just a little. I breathe through it.
In.
Out.
Slow.
The silence presses down.
He was right.
The thought circles once. Then again. He told me to stay close.
I promised. The second the crowd surged, that promise became harder to keep, but I didn’t fight hard enough to keep it.
I chose the door. I chose air. I chose distance from the chaos because it felt logical, because it felt safer than being pushed and shoved inside.
And they were waiting. They were waiting for the gap.
For the moment I stepped outside. This is real.
Not theoretical. Not something Cobra exaggerates because he’s possessive and dangerous and wired to see threats in every shadow.
Real. Someone still wants me. Someone had another chance tonight because I made one mistake.
The door opens after a soft knock, and Doc steps in with his bag in one hand and irritation already carved across his face. “Well,” he says, shutting the door behind him with his heel, “you are turning out to be a pain in my ass.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Sit still.”
“I am sitting still.”
“Don’t get smart with me either. I deal with enough of that from these boys, and most of them have been hit in the head more times than they can count.
” He crosses the room and sets his bag on the bed beside me, pulling out a small light.
He checks my pupils first, his face too close and too serious for me to ignore the worry beneath the attitude. “Follow the light.”
I do. It makes my head hurt.
He notices, of course. “Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“A little.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Not really. Just when I move too fast.”
“Then don’t move too fast.”
“That feels obvious.”
He gives me a flat look.
I shut up.
He checks the back of my head next, fingers careful but firm as he parts my hair. I hiss when he finds the spot. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You cracked it good.”
“That sounds medical.”
“That sounds like me trying not to call you hardheaded in Cobra’s room.”
I let out a weak breath of laughter, then regret it when my head throbs.
Doc studies me for another moment. “No cut that needs stitches. You’ll have a lump.
You need rest, water, and no sleeping too deep for the next few hours.
Someone needs to wake you, check you’re responsive.
If you start vomiting, slurring, or acting stranger than the average person who willingly spends time here, you call me. ”
“Am I okay?”
He pauses. That pause tells me too much. Then he says, “You’re lucky.”
I look down at my hands.
Lucky.
That word feels wrong. Too thin. Too bright. “I don’t feel lucky,” I admit.
Doc’s voice softens slightly. “Most people don’t right after they survive something.”
I swallow.
He packs up slower than he needs to.
“Cobra’s mad,” I say, because somehow saying it to Doc feels easier than saying it to myself.
Doc snorts. “Cobra was born mad.”
I look up.
He gives me a look over the top of his bag. “But if you’re asking whether he’s mad at you, I’d say that boy doesn’t know what to do with fear when it has nowhere to go.” That lands.
Hard.
I don’t answer.
Doc straightens. “Rest. I’ll send someone to check on you.”
“Is Cobra—” I stop before I finish.
Doc’s expression shifts just enough. “He’ll come back,” he says.
I nod. Like that’s what I needed. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not listening for his footsteps before Doc even leaves the room.
The door closes again. Silence returns. This time it feels heavier.
I sit there for a while, not moving, not sleeping, just staring at the floor while the night replays in pieces. The club. The fight. The crowd. The door. The cold. The hand. The knife. Eli’s voice screaming Cobra’s name. Cobra’s face when he reached me. Fear.
I saw fear.
I don’t think anyone sees that from him often. Maybe no one.
A soft knock comes again. I expect Doc. Or Brooke. Maybe Emma. The door opens, and Blaze steps in. That alone makes me sit a little straighter. Because he isn’t smiling. No grin. No dramatic entrance. No sarcastic comment about how the clubhouse is starting to resemble a hospital with worse décor.
Just Blaze. Quiet. Serious. It makes the room feel different. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
He stays near the door for a second, like he’s giving me the option to tell him to leave. I don’t. He steps inside and shuts it behind him, but he doesn’t come too close. “You good?” The question is casual. His voice isn’t.
“I’m okay,” I say.
His eyebrows lift.
“Doc said I’m lucky,” I amend.
“That sounds more accurate.”
I manage a small smile.
He studies me for a second, eyes flicking to my head, my throat, the way I’m holding myself too still. Then he nods toward the chair near the wall. “Can I?”
“Yeah.”