Chapter 3 - Shadow
The pain in my shoulder is a dull throb that radiates down my arm with every bump in the road. I've been shot before. Twice in Afghanistan, once during a bar fight gone wrong in my early days with the club. This isn't the worst wound I've taken.
But it might be the stupidest.
I didn't think. Didn't calculate the risk versus reward. I just saw Vulture raising that gun toward the van, saw Rachel sitting closest to the door, and my body moved before my brain could catch up.
Fucking idiot.
"You good, man?" Chaos asks, pressing harder against my shoulder. He has good instincts, even if he talks too much.
"Fine," I grit out, keeping my eyes closed so I don't have to see everyone staring at me.
So I don't have to see her staring at me.
*You shouldn't have. We're not worth it.*
Rachel's words echo in my head, and I can't figure out why they're bothering me so much. She's right. She doesn't know me, doesn't owe me anything, and has every reason to be suspicious of bikers after what the Iron Eagles did to her.
But there was something in her voice. Something broken and bitter that went beyond simple distrust.
Like she genuinely believes she's not worth saving.
I know that feeling. Lived with it for years after I left Jamie's body behind in that cave, after I chose the mission over my brother.
The military gave me a medal for completing the objective.
Told me I made the right call. They didn't understand that some choices can be right and wrong at the same time.
"We're almost there," Tank calls from the driver's seat.
He's worried, even if he won't show it. Tank doesn't do emotions well, too much time spent as a cop, then as a soldier, learning to shut down everything human in order to survive.
I understand that too.
The van turns sharply, and I can't stop the grunt of pain that escapes. Chaos mutters an apology and adjusts his grip, trying to keep pressure steady despite the movement.
"Seriously, man," he says quietly, leaning closer so only I can hear. "What the fuck were you thinking? You could've taken cover and shot Vulture before he fired."
"Wasn't thinking," I admit. "Just reacting."
"Yeah, well, next time react by not getting shot."
"Copy that."
I can feel Rachel's eyes on me still. I can practically hear the judgment in her gaze, even though I can't see her with my eyes closed.
She probably thinks I'm an idiot for taking that bullet.
Probably thinks I did it for some fucked up hero complex or because I expect her to throw herself at me in gratitude.
She has no idea that gratitude is the last thing I want from anyone.
I don't do what I do for recognition or reward. I do it because someone has to. Because the world is full of predators and prey, and I learned a long time ago which one I'd rather be.
The van stops, and I hear car doors opening. Voices calling out. Luna is giving orders about setting up a treatment area in the clubhouse.
"Can you walk?" Chaos asks, pulling back so I can try to sit up.
"Yeah."
It's mostly true. The wound is bleeding less now, and as long as I keep my left arm immobile, the pain is manageable. I've operated on worse.
I open my eyes and immediately meet Rachel's stare. She's still pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to physically hold herself together. Her dark hair is a mess, her too-small outfit is torn in places, and there are bruises on her arms that make my jaw clench.
"Thank you," one of the other women—Sarah, I think—says as she climbs out of the van with the others. "For saving us. For everything."
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak. Words have never been my strength anyway. Rachel doesn't move. Doesn't thank me. Just keeps staring like she's trying to figure out if I'm a threat or just an idiot.
Maybe I'm both.
"Come on," I say. "You're safe here."
"Am I?" She tilts her head, and there's something challenging in the gesture. "Or am I just in a different cage?"
"The door's not locked. You can leave whenever you want."
"Right. Leave and go where? Back to the life the Iron Eagles ripped me away from? Back to nothing?"
There's so much pain in those words that it physically hurts to hear them. But her face remains expressionless, like she's locked away everything that might make her vulnerable.
I know that trick too.
"That's your choice," I say, pushing myself to my feet despite the protest from my shoulder. "But you should eat something. Clean up. Figure out your next move when you're not running on adrenaline and fear."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Wasn't telling. Suggesting."
"Same difference."
Chaos appears at the van door, looking between us with confusion written all over his face. "Uh, Shadow? Luna's ready for you. And King wants to debrief once you're patched up."
I move toward the door, keeping my injured arm still. Rachel finally shifts, letting me pass, but I can feel her eyes tracking my movement.
"Why did you really do it?" she asks suddenly. "Take that bullet. And don't give me that 'it's what you do' bullshit. I want the real answer."
I pause in the doorway, looking back at her. She's standing now, chin lifted in defiance even though she must be exhausted and traumatized and running on empty.
She wants the truth? Fine.
"Because I've left people behind before," I say. "And I'm tired of living with the weight of it."
Then I step out of the van before she can respond, before I can see whatever emotion might flash across her face.
Chaos leads me into the clubhouse through a side entrance, avoiding the main room where the other rescued women are being taken care of. Luna has set up a treatment area in one of the private rooms, complete with professional medical supplies.
"Damn. King really spares no expense when it comes to taking care of his people," Chaos chuckles.
Luna herself appears in the doorway, her blue eyes sharp as she takes in my condition. She's small but commands respect. The club queen in every sense of the word.
"Sit," she orders, pointing to the table. "Shirt off."
I comply without argument, peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from my shoulder. The movement pulls at the wound, and I taste copper as I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
Luna doesn't waste time with sympathy. She examines the injury with clinical efficiency, her hands gentle but firm.
"Through and through, like you said," she confirms. "Missed the major arteries, but you're going to need stitches. This is going to hurt."
"Always does."
She gives me a look that suggests she understands more than I'd like. Then she starts cleaning the wound, and yeah, it fucking hurts. But pain is just information. A signal that I'm alive, that I survived another day.
That I made a different choice this time.
"The women you rescued are all being checked over," Luna says as she works. "Most of them are dehydrated and malnourished, but nothing that won't heal with time and care. I’ve heard that one of them—Rachel—is being difficult."
"She has reason to be."
"I'm sure she does. But she also needs medical attention, and she's refusing to let anyone examine her."
Of course she is.
"She doesn't trust anyone," I say, wincing as Luna starts stitching. "Can't blame her for that."
"No, but I can't help her if she won't let me." Luna pauses, meeting my eyes. "She seems to have fixated on you. Kept asking Chaos questions about you while you were walking in."
That surprises me. "What kind of questions?"
"Who you are. Why you're so quiet. Whether you always throw yourself in front of bullets for strangers." Luna's expression softens slightly. "She's trying to figure you out, Shadow. Trying to decide if you're a threat or..."
"Or what?"
"Or something else."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the idea that Rachel —prickly, defensive, clearly damaged Rachel—might be thinking about me as anything other than another biker to distrust.
"She should stay away from me," I finally say. "I'm not good for anyone."
"Maybe." Luna ties off the last stitch and starts bandaging my shoulder. "Or maybe you're exactly what she needs. Someone who understands what it means to survive something that should have destroyed you."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" She secures the bandage and steps back, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes.
"If you do, then you know I'm the last person Rachel should trust."
"I know you're someone who carries guilt like a second skin. Who punishes himself for surviving when others didn't. Who thinks he doesn't deserve happiness or connection because of choices he made in impossible situations." She crosses her arms. "Sound familiar?"
Too fucking familiar.
"What's your point?"
"My point is that sometimes the people most damaged by life are the ones who understand each other best. Rachel needs someone who won't push her to heal on anyone's timeline but her own. Someone who won't expect her to be grateful or happy or anything other than exactly what she is right now."
"And you think that's me?"
"I think you took a bullet for the girls without hesitation. I think she noticed. And I think whatever happened between you two in that van rattled both of you more than either of you want to admit."
I want to argue. Want to tell Luna she's wrong, that there's nothing between me and Rachel except a fucked up rescue and my own stupidity.
But I'm not good at lying to myself.
And the truth is, Rachel does rattle me. Her anger, her defiance, the way she looks at me like she's trying to see past the shadow to whatever might be underneath, it all gets under my skin in a way nothing has in years.
"She asked me why I did it," I tell Luna. "Take the bullet. Told her it's because I've left people behind before and I'm tired of carrying the weight."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. I walked away before she could respond."
Luna sighs. "Of course you did. Shadow, you can't run from every difficult conversation—"
"I'm not running. I'm being smart. Getting involved with that woman would be a disaster for both of us."
"Probably," Luna agrees. "But life isn't about avoiding disasters. It's about deciding which ones are worth risking everything for."
Before I can respond, King appears in the doorway. He takes in my bandaged shoulder and nods approvingly.
"Good. You're patched up. We need to debrief." His gaze shifts to Luna. "How are the women?"
"Physically, they'll recover. Emotionally..." Luna shakes her head. "That's going to take longer. Except for Rachel. She won't let me examine her, won't talk to any of us, and is currently locked in one of the spare rooms refusing to come out."
King's expression darkens. "Is she injured?"
"I don't know. She won't let me close enough to check."
"Force her if you have to. We need to know—"
"No," I interrupt, surprising myself. Both King and Luna turn to look at me. "You can't force her. She needs to feel in control right now. Forcing her to do anything will just traumatize her more."
"Shadow's right," Luna says. "These women have had their autonomy stolen. Forcing medical care on them, even with good intentions, would just be another violation."
King runs a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face. "So, what do we do? Just let her potentially bleed out or suffer from internal injuries?"
"Let me talk to her," I hear myself say.
What the fuck am I doing?
"You?" King raises an eyebrow. "Brother, you're not exactly known for your people skills."
"I know. But she..." I struggle to find the right words. "She responds to me. Even if it's just to argue. That's more than she's giving anyone else."
King and Luna exchange a look, then King nods slowly.
"Alright. You've got thirty minutes to convince her to let Luna examine her. If you can't, we'll have to consider other options."
I stand, testing my shoulder. The pain is there, but manageable. "Which room?"
"End of the hall, second floor," Luna says. "And Shadow? Don't push too hard. She's fragile right now, even if she doesn't show it."
Fragile isn't the word I'd use for Rachel. Sharp, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. Like a broken piece of glass that will cut anyone who tries to pick it up.
But fragile? No.
Survivors are never fragile. We're just good at hiding the cracks.