Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Emma
A week ago I couldn’t even sit up without feeling like my ribs were cracking open.
Today I can at least walk across the room without Ryan hovering like a paranoid bodyguard.
Well.
Mostly.
I sit on the edge of Ryan’s bed for a moment, letting my body wake up before I stand. The soreness is still there—deep and dull in my ribs, like a constant reminder of how close things came to ending very differently.
My throat still feels tight too. The bruises are fading, but every swallow reminds me of hands squeezing the life out of me.
I push the thought away.
Ryan is leaning against the bedroom doorway watching me like a hawk.
Arms crossed.
Broad shoulders filling the frame.
His eyes move over every inch of me, checking for weakness, for pain, for anything that might tell him I’m about to fall apart.
“You’re staring again,” I mutter.
“I’m supervising.”
I snort softly.
“You’re hovering.”
“Damn right.”
I push myself slowly to my feet. The movement pulls at my ribs, but it’s manageable now. A week ago I would’ve been back on the mattress in seconds.
Ryan’s body shifts instantly, like he’s ready to catch me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re healing.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
I sigh dramatically.
“You’re impossible.”
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me anyway, one big hand coming to rest lightly on my lower back.
Just in case.
“You almost died last week,” he says quietly.
The words aren’t harsh.
They’re heavy.
Real.
My chest tightens slightly, but I nod.
“I know.”
He studies my face for another second before nodding once.
“Good.”
Then he jerks his head toward the dresser.
“Get dressed.”
I look down at myself.
I’m already wearing one of his shirts.
Of course I am.
The hem brushes the tops of my thighs and the sleeves swallow my hands.
“I am dressed.”
“Put pants on.”
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“Debatable.”
Ryan smirks.
I pull on the loose gray sweats folded on the chair beside the bed. They’re his too. Obviously.
Everything I’ve worn for the last week has been his.
The waistband sits loose on my hips, the legs bunching at my ankles.
Ryan watches the entire process like I’m performing surgery instead of putting on sweatpants.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Probably.”
Then he tilts his head toward the door.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lunch.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re definitely lying.”
Ryan shrugs.
“Guess you’ll find out.”
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
He walks beside me down the hallway, his hand hovering just behind my back. Not touching. Just ready.
When we reach the stairs, he pauses.
“You good?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“If you fall—”
“I’m not going to fall.”
He grunts.
But he stays one step behind me anyway.
Just in case.
The closer we get to the main room, the louder it gets.
Voices.
Music.
Laughter.
My brows pull together.
“That’s a lot of noise for lunch.”
Ryan doesn’t answer.
Which means he’s definitely hiding something.
We round the corner into the main clubhouse room.
And I freeze.
The place is packed.
Tables pushed together and covered in food.
Not just a little food either.
Burgers stacked high.
Bowls of pasta.
Huge trays of sandwiches.
Fruit.
Salads.
Desserts.
More food than I’ve seen in one place in a long time.
And bikers.
So many bikers.
Men from the club.
Men from the sister chapters that were still visiting from the party last week.
Every single one of them looks up when I step into the room.
For a second it’s completely silent.
Then someone whistles.
“Well look who finally decided not to die.”
The room explodes into laughter.
I blink slowly.
“What…”
Riot lifts a beer in my direction.
“About damn time you got outta bed.”
Ghost leans back in his chair.
“Doc said you were stubborn.”
“That’s putting it nicely,” someone mutters.
More laughter.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
Because none of it feels mean.
They’re happy.
Actually happy to see me standing here.
Ryan’s hand slides into mine.
“You okay?” he murmurs quietly.
I nod slowly.
“You did this?”
He shrugs.
“Maybe.”
“Ryan…”
From the back of the room someone yells, “Feed her before she passes out again!”
Ryan snorts.
“Shut up.”
He leads me toward the long table.
Guys shift automatically, making space.
I sit carefully, still trying to process what I’m seeing.
A plate appears in front of me almost immediately.
“Eat,” Ghost says.
Ryan sits beside me, his thigh pressing lightly against mine.
“You’re cleared for actual food,” he says quietly.
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Doctor’s orders.”
I take the first bite.
And nearly moan.
Real food.
Warm.
Seasoned.
Not broth.
Not soup.
My eyes close for a second.
“Oh my god.”
Ryan chuckles under his breath.
“Easy.”
“This is incredible.”
Riot leans across the table.
“Wait till you try the pie.”
“I might cry.”
“Good.”
For a while it’s just noise.
Conversation.
Laughter.
Food being passed around.
Someone arguing about bikes across the room.
It feels… normal.
And after the week I’ve had, normal feels like the greatest gift in the world.
Eventually Ryan stands.
He claps his hands once.
“Alright. Shut the hell up for a minute.”
The room quiets immediately.
Every eye turns to him.
Ryan reaches down and gently pulls me to my feet beside him.
My heart starts pounding.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Something I should’ve done already.”
He turns toward the room.
“A week ago someone tried to take her from me.”
The atmosphere shifts instantly.
The laughter disappears.
Ryan’s grip tightens around my hand.
“Not happening.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his cut.
My heart is beating so loud I’m pretty sure everyone can hear it.
Then he pulls something out.
A patch.
Black.
Simple.
White letters stitched across it.
PROPERTY OF HAWK
My breath catches.
Ryan turns toward me.
His voice drops lower.
Rougher.
“You already know how I feel about you.”
The room is silent.
“But if I’m doing this… I’m doing it right.”
His thumb brushes lightly across my knuckles.
“Emma.”
My chest feels like it might burst.
“You ready to stand beside me for the rest of this ride?”
Tears sting my eyes.
“Will you be my Old Lady?”
The answer comes out before I even think.
“Yes.”
His grin spreads slowly.
Then the room erupts.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Someone pounds the table.
“About damn time!”
Ryan pulls me into his chest carefully, mindful of my ribs.
His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me there for a second.
Then he presses the patch into my hand.
“You’re mine now, Trouble,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly through my tears.
“Good.”
Because I wouldn’t have it any other way.