Eighteen
Every moment is like a dagger in the heart I forgot I had.
M y chest is heavy—too fucking heavy—and my arms feel like they’re buried in concrete.
Useless. Numb. Voices echo around me, low and urgent, like ghosts arguing underwater.
I can’t catch a single word, but the tone says enough––something’s wrong.
I’m what’s wrong. Beeping. Rhythmic. Sharp.
There's a swooshing sound, a mechanical breath that doesn’t belong to me.
My brain latches onto it, confused and foggy. Where the fuck am I?
I try to move—just a twitch of fingers, a turn of my head—but every signal I send gets lost in the void or comes back with pure agony.
When I manage to shift, it feels like fire tears through my side.
My whole body screams at me. I grit my teeth, but it’s like the pain has claws. It doesn’t just hurt—it ravages .
The world around me blurs. I fight to open my eyes, even though they burn like hell. They flicker open for a second, then slam shut like I’ve been hit with a spotlight. Every blink is a war. When I finally win, I wish I hadn’t.
The ceiling is pale and bleached, that sickly hospital white that always looks like it's hiding a thousand bad stories.
The light above me stutters—cheap and fluorescent—and my pupils rebel against it.
My vision swims. My chest rises and falls in uneven, shallow bursts, each breath edged with pain and panic.
I inhale, and it hits me all at once.
Sanitizer. Sterility. Blood under bleach.
Hospital.
I fucking hate hospitals. They stink of false hope and quiet death.
They make you feel like you're on the brink—alive enough to feel the pain, dead enough to wonder if it’s worth crawling back from.
The memories crash in, jagged and violent.
I remember the club. Leaving. My mind spun from everything—the secrets, deception, and deceit from the one person I dedicated my life to and the woman I once loved, both women leaving me spiraling. I needed air. I needed space.
I needed to run.
I didn’t realize I was running into a damn ambush.
“Fuck,” I hiss, voice rough as gravel, almost unrecognizable.
The pain flares again—hot and deep, slicing through my ribs, shoulder, and skull like a butcher has stitched me together. I try to turn toward the movement beside me, someone rushing in fast. A nurse? A doctor? Hell, maybe even family.
But I can’t tell. My eyes won’t hold a face. Just shapes and smears of color. They say something—urgent, maybe comforting. I don’t know. The words sound like they’re miles underwater, muffled by the roar in my ears. My heart’s beating too fast, and not fast enough all at once.
Panic slowly creeps in. I feel it in my bones first. It’s a cold coil at the base of my spine. Then my chest tightens. Like someone’s wringing the air out of my lungs with bloody hands. Voices grow louder. More than one now. Screaming? Crying?
My name.
Someone’s crying my fucking name.
The machines go wild. Beeps turn to sirens. Lights start flashing, my body’s throwing a tantrum. Something cold snakes into my arm—ice down my veins—and everything tilts. Warps.
My vision blurs.
Then blacks out completely.
Lights out.
Shit.
One month later
I feel like I’ve been yanked out of a dark, dreamless sleep. My body doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore, which is a goddamn miracle. The pain’s still there, but it’s dulled—muted. Manageable. A far cry from the hell I woke up to before.
Something heavy is weighing down my arm.
I try to move, careful this time, and realize I don’t feel like complete shit.
My eyes open easier. A few blinks and the blinding fluorescent lights above stop stabbing at my brain.
I shift my head, slow and cautious, eyes landing on the only window in the room.
The blinds are closed, but thin beams of sunlight sneak through. Daylight.
Still breathing. Still in the hospital.
The smell confirms it—disinfectant and quiet death. Every fucking hospital smells the same. The fight between life and whatever comes after is being waged between the walls. Each blink clears my vision a little more. I finally glance down to figure out what’s weighing my arm down.
It’s her.
Heather.
My ol’ lady.
My chest tightens instantly. Her arm’s in a sling, and her face is turned toward me. Even in sleep, she looks exhausted—nose red, dark shadows carved under her eyes. She's wrecked.
What the fuck happened?
Was the clubhouse hit, too?
Where’s our daughter?
How long have I been out?
Where the fuck are my brothers?
My mind races like a freight train with no brakes.
Movement catches my eye. I turn my head, slower this time, and see Axel.
Slouched on the couch like he hadn’t slept in days.
He stares at me blankly for a second before blinking hard, like he doesn’t believe I’m really awake. Then, just like that, he smiles.
A real one.
He elbows Nitro hard in the side, waking his ass up with a jolt.
Nitro’s eyes dart around the room like he's ready to throw hands. One hand on his side, the other twitching near his waistband. Paranoia doesn’t sleep in this life.
Despite the tightness in my throat, a short bark of laughter escapes me. Nitro’s eyes snap to mine.
“Thank fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. He swings at Axel with a tired growl, calling him a dick. Axel just laughs and flips him off. I chuckle. Some shit never changes.
I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper dipped in acid. “How… long… have I… fuck.”
Every word is a chore. Feels like my throat is lined with barbed wire.
Axel’s already moving to my bedside. He pours water into a cup, sticks a straw in, and brings it to my lips like I’m some old man.
I want to fight it, but I need the damn water.
I lift my free hand—it shakes like hell, but at least it moves. Thank fuck.
I take a few sips. Cool. Relief.
“You’ve been out for a month,” Axel says quietly. “After surgery, you came to, but then shit hit the fan. You've been under ever since.”
He glances at Nitro. Something passes between them—tight, unspoken. My eyes narrow, but before I can press them. The door swings open.
“Oh…”
It’s a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. She freezes the moment she sees me awake. Her wide brown eyes flick around the room before landing on mine. She’s surprised—definitely didn’t expect me to be conscious. Then she looks at Axel and smiles . A soft, almost shy curve of her lips, one he returns.
The fuck?
Axel clears his throat like he’s trying to cover it up, but I caught that shit. My brows knit together. If this asshole is screwing the nurse in charge of my care, I swear on everything I love—I narrow my eyes at him. He shrugs. Bastard.
She walks further into the room, brushing off the interaction like nothing happened. “Well, hello, Mr. Masterson. I’m Nurse Bethany Carter. I’ve been your day nurse for the last five weeks of your stay.”
I blink at her. Stay? Like, this is the Hyatt or some shit.
I chuckle, dry and cracked. “Lady… this wasn’t a vacation package. I was shot . This ain’t exactly Club Med.”
My throat scratches hard again, and Axel holds the water for another sip.
“Brother,” he warns, eyes flicking toward Nurse Carter. Silently telling me to chill out . He’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it.
She smiles politely, like she deals with assholes on the daily. “How are you feeling?”
She moves closer, resting a hand on my shoulder. A low growl rumbles from one of my brothers. I snap my eyes toward them. Seriously? I clear my throat a few times so I can answer without sounding like death itself.
“I’m feeling okay… all things considered. But I need to know what the hell I missed. How long do I gotta stay in here? No offense to you, Nurse Carter, but I want out. These sheets are scratchy, this bed sucks, and I’m tired of having my ass hanging out in this gown. Again—no offense.”
My brother's snort out half-choked laughs.
Nurse Carter shakes her head with a soft smile. “None taken, Mr. Masterson.”
But behind my humor, there’s a storm building. Too many questions. Too much time lost. I need answers. I need my girl safe. I need to know who did this. Because someone’s gonna pay. And as soon as I can walk out of this room, I’m making sure of it.
Heather jolts up, her eyes connect with mine, and I smile down at her. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God, Talon—you’re awake. Oh God, baby, I missed you so much.”
Heather launches up like she’s been holding her breath for a month.
Her hands cradle my face, her lips pressing frantic kisses over every inch of skin she can reach before landing on my mouth.
It takes me a second to react. I’m shocked.
But I let her kiss me, even though something about it feels… off .
A throat clears. Nurse Carter looks like she wants to say something, and I shoot her a look. From the corner of my eye, I catch Heather glaring daggers at the woman like she’s in competition with her.
What the fuck is her problem?
“I’ll… let your doctor know you’re awake, Mr. Masterson,” the nurse says, keeping it professional. “He’ll be in shortly to discuss your care and recovery.”
She nods and backs out like she’s escaping a minefield.
The second she’s gone, I look at my brothers. “Tell me.”
They already know what I’m asking.
Axel leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Well… the day Gabriella showed up—”
Heather scoffs loud enough to make it clear she’s pissed. She tries to cross her arms, but the sling ruins the effect. Axel doesn’t flinch.
“Like I was saying,” he continues, “Gabriella came with the boys. You left the clubhouse for a ride and got ambushed.”
I raise a brow. “That part I know . Keep talking.”
Axel shifts, glancing at Heather, then back to me. He sighs, clearly about to edit his words. “Some shit went down. Got said. Tensions were high.”