Chapter 2
XAVIER
The fluorescent lights are drilling holes through my skull.
I've been awake for—what? Two hours? Maybe three? I can’t tell.
I’m swimming through morphine fog and your body feels like it's been through a wood chipper.
The nurses keep coming in every twenty minutes, shining a penlight directly into my eyes, asking me questions I barely have the energy to answer.
Do you know where you are?
Hospital. Obviously.
Do you know what day it is?
No fucking clue.
Can you feel this?
That's the question that keeps coming back. That's the one that makes my stomach turn.
Because I can feel my chest. My arms. My hands. I can make fists, can grip the bedrail hard enough to make my knuckles white. But below my waist? Nothing. Just a void where my legs should be, like someone erased half my body and forgot to tell me about it.
The first time I tried to move my toes—really tried, put all my focus into that one simple movement—nothing happened. The signal traveled down from my brain and disappeared somewhere around my lower spine. Gone. Lost. Like trying to control limbs that don't exist anymore.
The panic that followed was immediate and visceral. I grabbed the bedrail and hauled myself up, ignoring the screaming pain in my chest, desperate to see them. To confirm they were still there even if I couldn't feel them.
They were there. Pale. Thin. But there. Just not mine anymore. Not really.
That's when the nurse came rushing in, telling me to lie back down, that I needed to stay calm, that the doctor would explain everything. Like there's a good way to explain to someone that their body betrayed them.
The doctor came maybe an hour ago. Or two hours. I can't keep track. He had that careful, measured way of speaking that doctors use when the news is bad but they're trying to soften it with technical jargon.
Spinal cord damage. Lumbar region. The bullet didn't hit the cord directly but the swelling, the trauma, the surgery—all of it damaged the nerves. Partial paralysis. Some sensation in my upper thighs but nothing below my knees. Motor control severely compromised.
Will it get better?
Maybe. With physical therapy. With time. Six months minimum before we know the full extent. Could regain most function. Could be like this permanently. Too early to tell.
How long have I been out?
Three weeks.
Three weeks of nothing. Three weeks of the world turning without me. Three weeks of my body lying here useless while my club, my people, my responsibilities all continued without me.
I want to ask about Valentina but something stops me. Fear, maybe. That she moved on. That three weeks was too long. That she realized she doesn't want a man who might never walk again.
So I don't ask. I just lie here in this too-bright room with machines beeping their steady rhythm and my legs lying dead beneath the blanket.
The door opens. I expect another nurse with another goddamn penlight.
It's Zay.
He stops in the doorway when he sees me propped up, eyes open. For a second his face goes through about five different emotions—relief, joy, grief, fear—before settling on something carefully neutral.
"You're really awake," he says, voice rough like he's been screaming or crying or both.
"No shit," I mutter. My voice sounds wrong—unused, rusty, like it belongs to someone else. "How long?"
"Since you woke up? About two hours. They called me right after," he says, crossing the room to drop into the chair beside the bed like his legs won't hold him anymore.
"No. How long was I out?"
"Three weeks." He leans forward, elbows on knees, and I can see it now—the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his shoulders curve inward like he's been carrying the weight of the world. "Three fucking weeks, X."
The number sits wrong in my head. Three weeks of nothing. Three weeks of darkness.
"Fuck," I say.
"Yeah," he agrees quietly.
I lean back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "How much do you remember?" Zay asks.
"Gunfire," I say, closing my eyes and pulling at the fragments. "Getting shot. Someone shouting. Then nothing."
"That's probably for the best," he murmurs.
"My legs." I open my eyes to look at him directly. "The doctor said—"
"I know what the doctor said," Zay interrupts, voice careful and controlled. "Partial paralysis. Might get better. Might not."
"Have you known? The whole time?"
"They told us after the surgery. That there was spinal damage. That we wouldn't know the extent until you woke up." He runs a hand through his hair. "We've been waiting three weeks to find out if you'd ever open your eyes again. The legs were—they were secondary."
A beat of silence. Then I ask the question I've been avoiding. "Where's Valentina?"
His expression shifts. Something complicated passes across his face.
"On her way," he says carefully. "She's been—she went out last night. To the Vipers."
Ice floods my veins. "What?"
"Talia's with them," Zay says quickly, seeing my reaction. "Valentina went to try to get her back."
"Alone?" My voice rises despite the pain it causes in my chest. "You let her go to Viper territory alone?"
"We didn't let her do anything," Zay says firmly, meeting my eyes. "She's been running this club for three weeks while you were out. She made the call. Asher went with her as backup."
"Is she—" I can't finish the question. Can't voice the fear that's clawing up my throat.
"She's fine. Physically," Zay says. "She came back about two hours ago." He pauses, jaw working. "But something happened. She won't talk about it. Came back looking—" He shakes his head. "Something's wrong, X. I don't know what but something's very wrong."
The need to see her, to confirm she's okay, to hold her, is overwhelming. "Bring her here," I say. "Now."
"That's why I'm here," he replies, standing. "She's downstairs with Asher. I wanted to check on you first. Make sure you were—" He gestures vaguely. "Ready."
"Ready for what?"
"She's been through hell," Zay says quietly, seriously. "Keeping this club together, dealing with the members who didn't think she should be in charge, worrying about you, and now whatever happened at the Vipers last night. She's barely holding it together."
"Then bring her up," I say again. "Now."
He studies me for a long moment, like he's trying to read whether I'm strong enough for this. Then he nods. "Alright. But X? Go easy on her. Whatever questions you have, whatever you want to know about what happened while you were out—it can wait. Right now she just needs to see that you're okay."
He leaves before I can respond.
I'm alone with the machines and the too-bright lights and the hollow space where my legs should be working. I try again—focusing all my attention on my right foot, willing my toes to move.
Nothing.
Just emptiness and the faint, phantom sensation of limbs that won't obey.
The door opens again. Asher this time, looking like he's been to war and back—tactical vest still on, weapons visible under his jacket, hair disheveled.
"Boss," he says, and relief washes across his face. Real, unguarded relief. "Good to see you conscious."
"Wish I could say the same about this situation," I mutter, eyeing his gear. "You going to war or coming from one?"
"Little of both," he says, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His usual casual stance, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"How you feeling?" he asks.
"Like I got shot three weeks ago and woke up in a nightmare," I reply. I look at him directly. "Zay said Valentina went to the Vipers last night. That you went with her."
"I did," he confirms.
"What happened?"
His expression goes carefully blank—that look he gets when he's deciding what to tell me and what to keep to himself. "That's her story to tell."
"Is she hurt?" I demand.
"No."
"Is she in danger?"
"Potentially," he says slowly. "But we're handling it."
"That's not good enough," I snap, and the effort makes my chest scream. I ignore it. "She's out there dealing with Killian, with Talia, with God knows what else, and I'm stuck in this fucking bed—"
"You just woke up from a coma," Asher interrupts, voice level but firm. "Give yourself five minutes before you try to save the world."
"I don't need five minutes," I start. "I need—"
The door opens.
Valentina.
She's wearing my hoodie—the Raiders one I gave her months ago that's too big for her, sleeves rolled up multiple times. Her hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. Dark circles under eyes that are red and swollen like she's been crying for hours.
She stops in the doorway. Sees me sitting up, eyes open, awake.
Her entire face crumbles.
"Xavier," she breathes, and her voice breaks on my name like it's the only word that matters.
Then she's moving—crossing the room in four strides—and I barely have time to open my arms before she crashes into me.
The impact sends pain shooting through my chest but I don't care.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressed flat against her back.
She's shaking. Full-body tremors that I can feel through the thin hospital gown. Her fingers clutch at the fabric like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
"Hey," I murmur into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her. "I'm okay. I'm right here."
She makes a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. "You're awake."
"Yeah, baby. I'm awake."
"You're really awake." She pulls back just enough to look at me, hands coming up to frame my face like she needs to confirm I'm real, that this isn't another dream.
Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked. "They said—the doctors said you might not—that even if you did wake up you might not be you anymore—"
"I'm here," I say, cutting off the spiral before it can pull her under. "I'm me. I'm not going anywhere."
She shakes her head, more tears falling. "Your legs. Zay said—"