Chapter Two
MERCS
The halls of the hospital make me anxious.
Effa’s in testing, and I have to fucking wait, pacing a path into the tile floor.
The ride over was torture. She crashed again, and they had to shock her to bring her heart back into rhythm. After that, things stabilized, but it nearly destroyed me.
I’ve never been this tense.
At any second, she could be taken from me, and I can barely think straight. I drag my hands through my hair as I pace, trying to drown out the ache in my chest.
“Mercs,” Alana calls.
Footsteps pound down the hall toward me, and before I look up, she crashes into my body, wrapping herself around me.
I hold her tight. “I’m sorry.”
She pulls back. “Sorry? For what? This isn’t your fault. She’s going to be fine.” Her voice trembles despite her words, and her face is tearstained with blotchy red marks.
“I should’ve been with her. Protecting her from that fuckhead. When I get my hands on him—”
Tank studies me. “You look like shit, brother. Sit down. I’ll grab you a coffee.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Luke steps closer. “You won’t be. But if you collapse, you’re no good to her. Sit.” He uses that authoritative voice that bodes no argument, so I nod reluctantly and drop into a plastic chair, elbows braced on my knees.
Kristy rubs my back. I don’t know why, but it steadies me.
I glance at Luke. “Did they find Jett?”
He frowns. “Why would we need to?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, they don’t know.
I stand again, my breath sharp. “That bastard did this.”
Luke steps in front of me and utters one word, “Explain.”
“I walked into the foyer, and Effa looked… wrong. Not tipsy, not tired, wrong.” The memory scrapes across my skull as I speak, “She was hanging off Jett like her bones wouldn’t hold her up.
He had her under his arm, forcing her forward.
Thirty minutes earlier, she’d left me steady on her feet, clear-eyed, and laughing. Then suddenly she was wrecked.”
My jaw tightens. “I confronted him. He dropped her like a dead weight and vanished. Just left her on the goddamn floor.”
Andi’s chair screeches back as she bolts upright. “He brought her a drink,” she blurts. “I saw it. Before that, she was sober. He must’ve spiked it.”
The room goes still, not quiet, still. Like something predatory has just lifted its head.
Footsteps thunder down the hall, fast and uneven. Raoul appears first, face pale and wild-eyed. Liam from Swift Division follows close behind, both looking like they’ve run straight into a storm.
My body coils tight.
“What the fuck do you want, Liam?” My voice is low, dangerous. “Where is Jett?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Liam says, breath still ragged from the run. “But I know what happened.”
I cross the space between us before anyone can blink. My fist knots in his collar, and I slam him against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame behind him.
“What…” I grind out, inches from his face, “… did he do?”
“I tried to stop him,” Liam chokes, his eyes glassy, guilt swimming there. “Jett’s obsessed with her. It is not a crush. It’s not harmless. He’s obsessed. He’s been spiraling for weeks. He planned it.”
My grip tightens.
“I fought him,” Liam continues, words spilling now.
“But Trent stepped in. Our bassist. He thought I was overreacting, so he jumped me, and that freed Jett. Then Raoul stepped in to break up the fight, and suddenly everything was chaos. That left Effa alone for j-just long enough.” His voice cracks.
“Jett used the distraction. Slipped something into her drink while everyone was watching the fight.”
My stomach turns, cold and acidic. “What was he trying to do?” I ask, though I already know.
“He dosed her,” Liam says hoarsely. “Roofies. A massive amount.” He swallows hard.
“He wanted revenge on you. He convinced himself that if he got her alone, if she was out of it, she’d sleep with him.
That she’d wake up and think it was you.
That she’d fall for him. He thought they’d become some kind of power couple.
He wants fame, attention. He thought she was his ticket. ”
The room tilts sideways.
“He was going to rape her,” I say, and it doesn’t even sound like my voice anymore.
Liam nods once. “That’s why I tried to stop him.”
Heat detonates in my veins. Not anger, not even rage, something nuclear. I release him with a violent shove and turn away before I do something that can’t be undone.
Alana’s voice slices through the crackling air. “You saved her, Mercs. Remember that. You walked in when you did.”
‘Saved her.’
The words don’t settle. They hover there, fragile.
“Luke,” I say, not turning around. “Tell the doctor to test for Rohypnol.”
He’s already moving before I finish.
I glance at Raoul, who looks wrecked. Hollowed out. I’m furious he left his post, but I know he stepped in to stop a fight, and Jett engineered every second of it. Manipulated the room. Played us like goddamn instruments.
“Thanks for coming forward,” I mutter to Liam.
He nods, shoulders sagging. “I really hope she’s okay.” Then he leaves.
The waiting begins.
Time stretches thin and brittle, every second feels sharp like the click of a clock.
Finally, a doctor approaches, wearing a white coat and a calm face. The kind of composure that makes you brace for impact.
“So?” I demand.
He speaks in measured tones. Blood work confirms elevated Rohypnol levels. Activated charcoal was administered… Oxygen deprivation… Risk of anoxic brain injury… Induced hypothermia to protect brain function… Medically induced coma… Ventilator support.
The words blur together, clinical and detached, and I know I am only hearing some of them while my world fractures.
“She has four broken ribs,” he adds gently. “Likely from CPR.”
I swallow against the iron taste in my mouth.
“She’ll be here for several weeks,” he continues. “She’s stable. But we’re not out of the woods.”
Stable.
Coma.
Those words don’t belong in the same sentence.
“Can I see her?” I ask, and now my voice is raw.
“Soon.”
I nod, dragging air into my lungs even though it feels like I am inhaling shards of glass.
She’s stable.
But she’s lying in a hospital bed, sedated, ventilated, fighting for every breath. And I almost lost her to a man who thought obsession was love.
Footsteps echo down the corridor again, sharp against the sterile quiet, and I glance up without meaning to.
Jett.
He walks toward us like this is just another night out. His shoulders are loose, his chin lifted. That lazy confidence is wrapped around him like armor. A nurse glances at him as he passes and offers a polite smile, completely unaware she’s looking at the man who put Effa on a ventilator.
Something inside me fractures.
He slows when he sees us, and that smirk settles onto his mouth as though it belongs there, like he rehearsed it. “How is she?”
The question floats between us.
My body moves before my mind catches up.
I close the distance in three strides and fist my hand into the front of his shirt, slamming him back into the wall so hard the artwork rattles.
My forearm crushes against his throat, cutting off his air as his head snaps back against the plaster.
“You don’t get to ask that,” I say, voice low and lethal.
His hands claw at my wrist. “Get off—”
I tighten my grip until his words collapse into a strangled choke. His eyes widen, finally losing that smug sheen, finally looking afraid.
Good.
He drives his knee upward, catching me hard in the groin. Pain flashes white and hot, and my grip falters just enough for him to twist. He shoves me back, air ripping into his lungs as he lunges forward and tackles me around the waist.
We hit the tile floor with bone-jarring force. My head slams back, stars exploding behind my eyes. He scrambles on top, fist swinging wild and desperate. I turn my head, and his knuckles crash into the tile instead of my jaw.
He tries again.
This time, I catch his wrist mid-swing. “You thought she’d fall in love with you?” I snarl.
I buck my hips and roll us, reversing our positions in a violent surge. My weight pins him down. His back smacks against the floor, and I drive my fist straight into his face.
Cartilage gives with a sickening crack, blood erupting across the white tiles in a smear.
He gasps, stunned, but I don’t stop. I hit him again. And again. Each punch lands heavy, fueled by images I can’t get out of my head.
Effa limp in my arms.
Effa not breathing.
Effa surrounded by machines.
“You drugged her,” I growl, striking him across the cheekbone. “You dosed her like she was nothing.” I slam my fist into his jaw, a tooth flies across the tiles, skimming to a stop at Alana’s feet, making her gasp.
He tries to shove me off, but I plant my knee into his sternum and lean my weight forward, raining down blows that snap his head side to side. Blood spatters across the sterile tiles, bright and obscene against hospital white.
His hands lose strength.
His resistance weakens.
I grab him by the collar and slam the back of his skull into the floor once. Twice. The sound is dull and ugly.
Footsteps pound closer.
“Mercs!” Tank’s voice cuts through, but it barely registers.
I haul Jett halfway up by his shirt and drive my fist into his already broken nose again, feeling it flatten further beneath my knuckles. He wheezes, barely conscious now.
“You don’t get to touch her,” I hiss. “You don’t get to breathe the same air as her.”
Tank’s arms lock around my chest from behind, hauling back with brute force.
“Enough!” he roars in my ear.
I fight him. It’s not a token struggle, not symbolic.
I thrash against his grip, my muscles straining, my vision red and pulsing.
Tank digs his boots into the tiles and drags me backward inch by inch while I lunge forward, trying to get in one more hit.
One more fracture. One more reminder carved into Jett’s body.
“Let. Me. Go!” I snap, nearly dragging Tank with me as I surge forward again.
Jett rolls weakly onto his side, coughing more blood onto the floor.
“You’ll kill him,” Tank grits out, tightening his hold, his forearm crushing across my chest. “And then Effa wakes up to you in cuffs.”
That lands somewhere deep enough to slow me.
But not enough.
I tear one arm free and manage to drive my boot into Jett’s ribs before Tank wrenches me fully back. The kick folds him with a broken wheeze.
Security floods the corridor seconds later, radios crackling, heavy hands grabbing for me. It takes three of them to peel me off Tank and pin my arms behind my back.
Jett lies sprawled on the cold tile, face unrecognizable beneath blood and swelling.
And I feel nothing.
No relief.
No guilt.
Just contempt.
A wet, broken groan bubbles out of him as he stirs, barely conscious. “Did I… really deserve that?” he slurs.
The audacity of it almost makes me laugh.
I wrench forward despite the guards’ grip and drive my boot into his gut hard enough to knock the air from his lungs again.
Security tightens their hold, hauling me back while Luke steps in, voice smooth, trying to de-escalate.
But I don’t take my eyes off Jett.
Because if Effa doesn’t wake up…
That beating was mercy.
Alana stands frozen, horror written all over her face.
Effa would hate this.
She detests violence.
But Jett touched her, he drugged her… he was going to violate her.
Luke grips my shoulder as they drag me down the hall. “Don’t say anything without me,” he warns.
I nod, even though every part of me is fucking vibrating with rage.
I hate leaving her.
Outside, a police cruiser waits at the curb. My wrists are cuffed as the officer guides me into the back seat. I glance back at the hospital and catch Luke watching me. He must have walked out to make sure everything was okay, and he gives me a single nod.
As the door shuts, a sick thought hits me.
Maybe this was Jett’s plan all along?
To make me retaliate.
To get me out of the way.
Fuck!