Chapter 4
I wake to white. Just white. My eyes burn from the brightness, and for a moment I think I'm back in The Pit where every once in a while, just for kicks, they'd keep the lights on twenty-four seven.
But this ceiling has tiles. Neat little squares with pinprick holes.
Hospital ceiling.
The room comes into focus slowly—monitors with green lines pulsing, an IV stand with clear bags hanging, chairs sitting empty against the wall.
Sunlight cuts through half-closed blinds, hitting the floor at an angle that tells me it's late afternoon.
Wrong time of day from what I remember. Wrong quality of light altogether.
My body feels hollowed out, like someone scooped everything important from inside me and left just enough to keep breathing. Thick bandages wrap my chest where the brand sits. I can feel the heaviness of surgical dressing, the pull of tape against my skin.
My hand reaches for my phone without thinking, muscle memory from another life. Not there. Nothing's there. Just thin hospital sheets and the plastic rail of a bed that isn't mine.
The panic hits like a sledgehammer as the heart monitor betrays me, beeping faster, louder.
I try to sit up, and pain shoots through my chest like I've been stabbed.
Fuck this.
I yank the IV from my arm, blood spattering across white sheets as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room tilts dangerously, the floor seeming to rise up to meet me before falling away again.
Alarms start blaring. High-pitched, insistent.
Two nurses rush in, their faces showing professional concern but not surprise. One presses me back against the pillows while the other checks the monitors, silencing the alarm.
"Mr. Kane, you need to stay in bed," the first nurse says, her voice steady. "You've had major surgery to remove infected tissue. Your body needs time to recover."
"Where's Savannah?" I demand, my voice rougher than I expected, throat raw from what must have been a breathing tube. "Where's my sister?"
The nurses exchange a glance I don't like. The kind of look people give when they're deciding how much truth you can handle.
"I'll get the doctor to come speak with you," the second nurse says, already backing toward the door. "He can explain everything about your condition."
"I don't give a shit about my condition," I say, trying again to sit up despite the first nurse's restraining hand. "Where's my family?"
"Please try to remain calm, Mr. Kane. The doctor will be here shortly to answer your questions."
They both exit quickly, the door clicking shut behind them. I'm alone again with the beeping machines and questions burning holes in my skull.
A little while later the door opens again, but it's not the doctor who walks in.
It's Brick.
He's wearing civilian clothes—jeans, a plain black t-shirt, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. No cut or patches. Nothing identifying him as Badlands.
He looks smaller somehow, outside the clubhouse.
Less mythic.
He pulls a chair close to the bed, sits, holds a cup of coffee in his hand as I struggle with reality.
"Where's Savannah? Where's Mercy?"
Brick's face remains impassive, weathered like the side of a cliff that's seen too many storms. He takes a sip of coffee before answering.
"That brand got infected. Fever spiked to 104.
You started convulsing in your room. Dusty drove you to Glendive Medical Center, but you got worse.
Savannah called in Ashby resources—private medical transport to Mayo Clinic. That's where you are now. Minnesota."
"Minnesota?" What the fuck.
"You’ve been out six days," Brick continues.
"Three surgeries to clean the infection.
Sepsis hit your bloodstream. They told us you were dying.
Actually," he amends. "You did die. Once.
For about twenty seconds. But they brought you back.
Cash Ashby's involved now," Brick says. Irritation, not sympathy leaking through in his voice.
"Called social services on us. You were convulsing pretty much at the same moment they showed up at the Badlands' gate.
It was a fucking shit show. Mercy screaming, Savannah screaming.
Sheriff fucking yelling at us with a bullhorn.
Cash Ashby smirking like the asshole he is as we were carrying you down to Dusty's car.
He's the one who reported Mercy living at the clubhouse.
Temporary custody hearing happened five days ago. "
I try to push myself up again, ignoring the tearing sensation in my chest. "What?"
"Judge granted Cash temporary guardianship of Mercy," Brick says. "Savannah tried to intervene, offered herself as guardian. Court rejected it. She still shares residence with Cash at the Ashby place so there was really no point."
Brick sighs hard and narrows his eyes at me. The only sign of emotion he's shown. "I told you before. I fucking told you, Legion. No goddamn kids at the clubhouse. Now we got social workers, and family court fucking judges, and Cash fucking Ashby eyes all over us."
The rage builds inside me, hot and desperate. I throw back the covers and attempt to stand, but my legs buckle immediately. Weakness overwhelms anger, and I fall back onto the bed, breathing hard.
"I need a phone," I say through gritted teeth. "I need clothes. I need to get the fuck outta here!"
Brick stands, then picks up the hospital phone from the bedside table and tosses it into my lap. "I'm heading back to Montana," he says. "Two days of waiting to see if you live or die is enough. I've got major shit to deal with, thanks to you."
"Where's Savannah now?" I ask. Desperate for answers before he leaves.
Brick heads toward the door, not looking back at me. "She went back to the ranch with Mercy last night after they said you were gonna pull through," he says. "There's a court date comin' up for Mercy and this one is for keeps."
"Why are you pissed at me? I didn't plan on fuckin' dying over a damn brand."
Brick turns to face me. His expression one of pure rage. "What did you just say?"
I realize my mistake too late. Because… that's literally what the brand means.
I will die for it.
For them.
For Badlands.
I sigh. "You know what I meant."
"All of this is your fault. You didn't take care of the goddamn wound. You didn't take care of Mercy. You didn't take care of shit, Legion. And everyone is about done with your drama. Maybe you're more trouble than your silence was worth?"
Then, without even lookin' back, he walks out.
The door remains open after Brick leaves, hanging there like an accusation. Diesel fills the frame moments later, his massive shoulders nearly touching both sides, face set in that solemn expression I've seen a hundred times before—usually right before someone gets their teeth kicked in.
But there's no violence in his movements as he enters the room, just careful, measured steps that barely make a sound on the linoleum floor.
He places my leather wallet on the bedside table without ceremony, then stands at the foot of my bed, arms crossed over his chest.
"We drove eight hundred miles to check on you," he says, not waiting for me to speak first. "We're heading back today, so I guess that probably sends some signals you might be overthinkin'. But let me say it again, we drove eight-hundred fucking miles to check on you."
No small talk. No how you feeling bullshit.
Just… you owe us. Which is fine. I guess. But a little fucking sympathy would be appreciated.
"Sheriff's been sniffing around the clubhouse since you went down," Diesel continues. "Asking questions about your condition. How you got that brand. Who performed the ritual. They're looking for something, Demon. They don't like you."
"No shit," I sneer. "They don't like any of us."
"No." Diesel shakes his head. "There's something brewing with the Ashby people. I mean…" He sighs. "It's not a surprise, right? I understand you've known each other for decades. I get that the two of you were high school whatevers—"
"That's a joke. She went to prep-school in the Pacific Northwest, Diesel. I quit Drybone High School in the eleventh grade."
"You know what I'm gettin' at," Diesel says. "The two of you have history. Which only makes this worse, Legion."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Her. Savannah Ashby. She's not yours. She's never been yours. She's never gonna be yours because Cash Ashby is gonna make sure of it. And if you fuck with him for too long by fucking with his sister, he's gonna cause trouble. And then…" Diesel shakes his head. "Then… I'll have to take care of it."
"I'm not quite sure what you're sayin' here, Diesel. You're gonna take care of me? Or you're gonna take care of him?"
His response is to place a burner phone on the bedside table next to my wallet. "It's charged, you've got two-hundred minutes and no data. No numbers, either. Brick said—"
But he stops.
Brick said. Brick said, what? Let's brand Legion, give him a false sense of family and security, then cut him out when his life spirals? Fuck Brick."
"Right." Diesel moves toward the door and all I can do is watch him leave.
He pauses at the threshold, lookin' back at me.
Then he points. "Your head's not in the game.
You're my best friend, that's never gonna change.
But your head's not in the game. It's always been us or them for you, Demon.
Always." He narrows his eyes at me. "And you always chose them.”
“Funny,” I scoff. “That’s not how I see it. I never did time for them.”
He scoffs back at me, louder. “I never said nothin’ before. Mostly because I didn’t care. I believed in you. I trusted you. And fuck it, it just wasn’t my secret to share. But I need you to know Legion, that I know why it took you so long to patch in."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
But he just glares back at me. "I know why, Legion. Why you used to disappear when you were a prospect. I know where you went. And I know who you were with. Because I followed you once."
“What—” But I choke the words off when I realize what he’s saying.
I followed you once. His chin tips up. Daring me to contradict him.
He doesn't say anything else.
Doesn't have to.
He made his point.
I followed you once.
The door closing softly behind him feels more final than any slam.
I know three phone numbers by heart.
My landline to the new trailer because it's the same number as the old one.
The clubhouse. Been calling it for over a decade now from sketchy places doing even sketchier things. Burned into my brain from nights when I needed backup, mornings when I needed alibis, afternoons when I just needed someone who understood what the world looks like when you live outside its rules.
And the Ashby residence. Not because I ever called Savannah over there, but because I used to want to, so bad as a teenager, I'd dial the number and hang up before the first ring.
Used to practice what I'd say if Eleanor or Cash answered.
Used to wonder if Savannah would be allowed to talk to me if I actually let it ring.
Never found out.
These are my choices.
I stare at the ceiling of the hospital room, counting tiles while my chest throbs beneath the bandages. The pain medication makes everything feel underwater, but not deep enough to drown the choice in front of me.
My fingers move before my mind settles, punching in the numbers. Each button press feels like breaking something I can't put back together.
Someone with a Spanish accent picks up the Ashby landline on the fifth ring. Like that phone hasn't rung in so many years, they don't even have it hooked up to an answering service.
"Ashby residence," she says, formal but tired, like she's been working there long enough to know better than to sound excited about anything.
"I need to speak to Savannah," I say, my voice rougher than I expected. This is when I realize my throat is killing me.
There's a pause, a muffled conversation I can't make out. Then rustling, like the phone's being passed around.
"Who is this?" The voice is male, cautious. A butler? A gardener? A ranch hand? Who the fuck knows.
"Put Savannah on the phone," I repeat. Practically growling. "It's Legion."
More muffled voices, sharper this time. I hear her name repeated, then footsteps, the sound of a door closing.
"Hello?" Her voice hits me like a fist to the chest, making the monitors beside my bed beep faster.
"It's me," I say, because what else is there?
"Legion? Oh my God, Legion!" Savannah's voice breaks through the line, breathless, happy, loves me. "Thank God. I've been praying so hard. The doctors wouldn't tell me anything after I left. Just that you were stable. That's the only reason we left. How are you? Are you okay? When did you wake up?"
I can't get a single word in, but I start to smile despite myself. Despite everything. Her voice sounds like the only real thing in this sterile room.
"I'm alive," I manage to say when she pauses for breath.
"Barely," she says, and I can hear the worry beneath her relief. "But don't worry, they're gonna release you into my team's care in three days. Just hold tight."
My smile fades. "What?"
"My team. The medical team I hired. They've been coordinating with your doctors."
I don't know what that means. My brain feels like it's working through mud, trying to make sense of her words.
"Savannah, what are you talking about? What team?"
"The only way they'll discharge you is if you have somewhere to go where you can receive IV antibiotics around the clock, or you'll relapse and the infection will get worse," she explains, her voice taking on that tone she gets when she's already decided something.
"You will die without treatment, Legion.
The doctors were very clear about that. You are not better. Only stable."
The monitors beside my bed beep faster again as my heart rate climbs. "OK. Now tell me what you haven't said yet."
"Well..." Her voice brightens, like she's delivering good news. "You're moving into the Ashby Mansion, of course. It's the only place equipped. And anyway, I'm here. Mercy's here. So you should be here too."