Chapter 5
ISAIAH
The safe house is thirty minutes outside the city, tucked into the hills where the roads turn narrow and winding.
It's one of Xavier's contingency properties—a four-bedroom ranch-style house with reinforced doors, security cameras, and sight lines that let you see anyone coming from half a mile away.
Perfect for recovery when the compound is too chaotic, too exposed, too full of people asking questions.
I pull the truck into the gravel driveway at just past three in the afternoon.
The discharge process took six hours—paperwork, medication instructions, physical therapy consultations, a wheelchair that Xavier stared at like it was a prison sentence.
Valentina signed most of the forms since she's been listed as his medical proxy. Her hand shook the entire time.
"Home sweet home," I announce, killing the engine.
Xavier's awake in the passenger seat but groggy, pain medication making his eyes heavy. He's been quiet the whole drive, staring out the window at passing scenery like he's memorizing a world he thought he'd never see again.
Valentina climbs out of the back seat immediately, moving around to Xavier's door before I can get there.
She's been like this all week—hypervigilant, hovering, unable to sit still for more than five minutes.
Right now she's wearing one of my hoodies again, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, and Xavier's Raiders jacket over it.
Like she's trying to wrap herself in both of us.
"I've got him," I tell her, but she's already opening the door, reaching for Xavier's arm.
"I can help—"
"Val." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "I've got him. Can you grab the wheelchair from the back?"
She hesitates, clearly wanting to argue, then nods and moves to the truck bed. I watch her struggle with the folded wheelchair for a second before she figures out the release mechanism.
"I fucking hate that thing," Xavier mutters, voice rough.
"I know," I reply, sliding my arm under his shoulders. "But it's temporary. Doctor said with PT, you might be walking with a cane in six months."
"Might."
"Better than definitely not," I counter. "On three. One, two—"
I lift and Xavier grits his teeth but doesn't make a sound as I help him pivot out of the truck. His legs are dead weight, useless, and I can feel how much he hates needing help. How much it costs him to accept it.
Valentina has the wheelchair ready, locked in place. I lower Xavier into it carefully, watching his face for signs of pain beyond what the meds are masking. He's pale, sweating slightly despite the cool afternoon air.
"You good?" I ask.
"Peachy," he lies.
I grab the bags from the back—medications, supplies, clothes that Valentina packed. She's already moving ahead to unlock the front door, keys jingling in her shaking hands. It takes her three tries to get the key in the lock.
The house smells stale, unused. Dust motes float in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. I wheel Xavier inside, Valentina holding the door open, and take stock. Living room to the right, kitchen straight ahead, hallway to the left leading to bedrooms and bathroom.
"Master bedroom is accessible," I tell Xavier, heading down the hall. "Ground floor, attached bathroom with a walk-in shower that has grab bars. I had someone come out yesterday and install a shower chair."
"You thought of everything," Xavier observes.
"That's literally my job."
The bedroom is spacious—queen bed with a metal frame, dresser, two nightstands. Large windows with blackout curtains. I wheel him next to the bed, set the brake.
"You need help getting in?" I ask.
"No," he says immediately. Then, quieter: "Yeah."
Valentina appears in the doorway, hovering. "I can—"
"Val, can you put the groceries away?" I interrupt gently. "Make sure we have everything for dinner?"
She looks like she wants to protest, but something in my expression makes her nod. "Okay. Yeah. I'll... I'll do that."
She disappears and I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen.
"She's been like this all week?" Xavier asks, watching the doorway.
"Worse," I admit, moving to help him transfer from chair to bed. "She barely sleeps. Barely eats. Won't talk about what happened at the Vipers. Something's broken in her, X. I don't know how to fix it."
He grabs my shoulder for support as I help him shift his weight. His legs drag uselessly. "Fuck," he hisses.
"Easy. We've got time."
It takes three attempts, but we finally get him situated on the bed, legs stretched out, pillows propped behind him. He's breathing hard, face gray with pain and exhaustion.
"Pain meds are in the bag," I tell him. "The white bottle. Two pills every six hours."
"Not yet," he says. "They make me useless."
"You just got out of the hospital. You're supposed to be useless."
"There's too much to do. The club—"
"The club is handled," I interrupt firmly. "I've been running things with Asher. Everyone knows you're recovering. Nobody expects you back for at least a month."
"A month." He says it like it's a death sentence.
"Xavier." I sit on the edge of the bed, meeting his eyes. "You got shot. You were in a coma for three weeks. Your legs don't work. You need time to heal. That's not weakness, that's biology."
He's quiet for a moment, jaw working. Then: "What's really going on with Val?"
I consider lying. Decide he deserves better. "I don't know. Something happened at the Vipers that night. Something beyond Talia staying. She came back different. Broken. And she won't let anyone in."
"She let you in," he points out.
"No. She's performing like she’s letting me in.
There's a difference." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated.
"She kisses me and it feels desperate. She touches me and it feels like she's trying to prove something.
But when I look in her eyes, she's not there.
She's somewhere else, somewhere dark, and she won't tell me where. "
Xavier absorbs this, processing. "Keep trying. Don't give up on her."
"I won't," I promise. "Now take your meds and sleep. You look like death."
"Charming as always," he mutters, but he's already reaching for the medication bag.
I watch him dry-swallow two pills, then stand. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Just yell."
"Zay?" He catches my wrist. "Thanks. For everything."
"That's what brothers do," I reply, squeezing his hand once before leaving.
The hallway feels longer on the way back. I can hear Valentina in the kitchen—cabinet doors, the refrigerator opening and closing, water running. Normal sounds that should be comforting but somehow aren't.
I find her standing at the stove, staring at a pot of water that isn't boiling yet. She's got vegetables spread across the counter—carrots, celery, onions—and a cutting board, but nothing's been cut. She's just standing there, hands gripping the edge of the counter, shoulders rigid.
"Val?"
She doesn't turn around. "Is he okay?"
"He's in bed. Took his meds. He'll probably sleep for a few hours." I move closer, leaning against the counter beside her. "What are you making?"
"Soup. Chicken noodle. He should eat something warm, something easy on his stomach after all those hospital meals." Her voice is flat, mechanical. "I need to cut the vegetables. And get the chicken from the fridge. And find a stock pot. Do we have a stock pot?"
"Val."
"And noodles. We need noodles. Did I buy noodles? I can't remember if I—"
"Valentina." I turn her to face me, hands gentle on her shoulders. She won't meet my eyes. "Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"No, you're spiraling." I duck my head, trying to catch her gaze. "Look at me."
She does, finally, and her eyes are wild. Panicked. Like a trapped animal looking for an exit.
"He's okay," I tell her firmly. "He's home. He's safe. You did everything right."
"I need to make soup," she insists, trying to turn back to the stove.
I don't let her. "The soup can wait five minutes."
"But—"
"Five minutes," I repeat. "Just stand here with me. Breathe. Be present."
She's shaking. I can feel it through her shoulders, fine tremors that won't stop. "I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No, I—" Her voice cracks. "If I stop moving, if I stop doing things, I'll—"
"What?" I press gently. "What will happen?"
She shakes her head violently, pulling away from my hands. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just need to—" She reaches for the cutting board, grabs a knife with trembling fingers.
"Val, put the knife down."
"I need to cut the vegetables."
"Put it down before you hurt yourself."
She stares at the knife like she doesn't recognize what it is. Then slowly, mechanically, she sets it on the counter. Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely let go.
I move behind her, bracketing her against the counter with my body but not touching her. Close enough to feel her heat, her tension, but giving her space to breathe.
"Talk to me," I murmur near her ear. "Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."
"Nothing's going on."
"That's a lie."
"Zay, please—"
"You've been avoiding me all week," I continue, keeping my voice low, calm. "Every time I try to talk to you, really talk to you, you find an excuse to leave. You kiss me like you're trying to distract me. You won't let me in."
"That's not true."
"Yes, it is." I let my hands rest lightly on her hips, feeling her stiffen. "And I need to know why. I need to know what happened at the Vipers that broke you."
"Nothing broke me," she insists, but her voice is hollow.
"Val." I press closer, my chest against her back, and feel her breath catch. "Please. Let me help."
"You can't help with this."
"Try me."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I think maybe she's going to tell me. Maybe she's finally going to let down whatever wall she's built between us. But then she turns in my arms, presses her palms flat against my chest, and looks up at me with those haunted eyes.