Chapter 20 Stud
Twenty
Stud
The ride back to the compound is a blur of noise and nothing.
Engines roar all around us, Hellions forming a moving wall on either side of the SUV carrying Holley and Tiffany.
I’m on my bike up front, but my head’s not on the road.
It’s half turned back the entire time, like if I take my eyes away from that vehicle for more than a second, they’ll vanish again.
I keep replaying the image of them tied up.
The marks on their wrists.
The bruise on Holley’s jaw.
The smear of dried blood at the corner of Tiffany’s mouth.
Every time, my grip tightens on the handlebars.
I should’ve protected them.
I should’ve stopped this before it started.
I should’ve killed that bastard myself instead of gravity doing it for me.
By the time we pull through the gates, my jaw hurts from clenching. Grinder and Miles peel off to secure the perimeter. Country Boy parks near the clubhouse door, already barking orders at whoever’s closest to get the infirmary room ready.
We don’t have a real infirmary, just a back office turned into a makeshift med bay years ago because this life demands stitching and bandages more than paperwork.
I kill the engine and swing off the bike before it fully settles.
Smoke is there a second later, helping Tiffany out of the SUV. She waves him off, but her legs wobble, and he ignores the protest. He hooks an arm under her shoulders like she weighs nothing.
I head straight to the other side.
Holley climbs out slowly, jaw tight, trying to pretend she’s steadier than she is. The second her feet hit the ground, she sways.
I catch her.
Her fingers clutch my cut, twisting in the leather like she’s centering herself on the feel of it.
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
“You keep saying that,” I murmur, voice rough, “and I’m gonna start charging you for lying.”
Her eyes meet mine—shiny, exhausted, stubborn. “You came.”
Yeah. That does something to me I’m not proud of.
“I told you I would,” I say.
She lets out this tiny, shuddery breath that sounds like pieces of her finally relaxing. I tuck her against my side, one arm around her, guiding her in.
The clubhouse goes dead quiet when we step inside.
They all knew we’d gone to get them.
Seeing them back—alive, walking, breathing—does something to the room I can feel in my bones.
Tension unwinds.
Rage settles.
Relief hums through the floorboards.
I don’t stop walking.
“Back room,” I say. “Now.”
Country Boy moves ahead of us, opening doors. Grinder follows with a first aid kit. Someone presses a bag of ice into my free hand. I don’t even see who.
I get Holley to the med room and sit her on the cot. My hands are gentle when I touch her, but they’re shaking.
She notices.
“Tony,” she says softly. “I’m okay.”
“That word is banned,” I growl.
She almost smiles.
Almost.
The cut at the corner of her mouth splits when she does, and her breath hitches. I see red.
“You hurt anywhere else?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even.
“Just bruised. Zip ties. Being thrown around.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Nothing’s broken.”
I swallow.
Grinder steps in. “Let me take a look.”
I level him with a stare that warns him very clearly what will happen if he so much as breathes wrong near her.
He smirks faintly. “Medical only, Stud”
He checks her pupils, her ribs, her wrists. I hover so close I might as well be glued to her side.
She winces once when he brushes a tender spot on her side. My hand curls into a fist.
“Bruising,” he says. “Nothing more. She’ll be sore. Cheek needs ice. Lip too. Hydration. Food. Rest.”
“Got it,” I say, reaching for the ice pack.
He hesitates. “You good here?”
My eyes flick to him.
He nods once, understanding everything I don’t say.
“We’ll post a watch,” he adds. “No one gets near this door unless they’re supposed to.”
“Good,” I say.
He claps my shoulder and leaves.
The door shuts.
Silence drops around us.
It’s just me and her.
Holley stares at her hands, wrists red and abraded. I sit on the stool in front of her and gently tilt her chin up.
“Cold,” I warn her.
I press the ice pack to her jaw.
She flinches, then sighs slowly as the numbing starts.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then, “You scared the hell out of me,” I say quietly.
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away. “I was scared too.”
I swallow the huge lump in my throat. “Did he—” The words choke. “Did he do anything else to you?”
“No,” she says quickly. “Just hit me. Threatened us. Talked about… selling us.”
My vision goes so sharp it almost blurs.
I force my voice to stay level. “He’s not going to threaten anyone ever again.”
She swallows. “Is he dead?”
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly. Relief? Grief? Shock?
I can’t tell.
“Tony?” she says after a long moment.
“Yeah.”
“You said something,” she whispers, cheeks flushing. “Before we left. Back at the warehouse.”
I frown. “What?”
“You told him…” She wets her lips, eyes darting away, then back. “…nobody touches what’s yours.”
My chest locks up.
I did say that.
In front of the Hellions.
In front of Smoke.
In front of her.
I claimed her in the loudest, most irreversible way a man like me can.
“I meant it,” I say.
Her breath hitches. “But I didn’t think we were doing these things, claims, labels.”
“Yeah,” I say, jaw tight. “And then your ex-husband kidnapped you, threatened to sell you, and I realized I was done pretending you’re anything less than mine to protect.”
Her eyes flood, but no tears fall.
“You’re not property,” I add roughly. “You’re not a possession. ‘Mine’ doesn’t mean that with me. It just means…” I trail off, searching for the least pathetic version of the truth. “It means I will burn the world down before I let anyone hurt you again.”
She stares at me.
Then she whispers, “I like your version better than his.”
My shoulders sag with something like relief.
I let the ice pack slide lower, grazing her lip, careful not to press too hard.
“We can talk about labels later,” I say. “Right now, you need rest.”
“What about Tiffany?” she asks immediately.
“Smoke’s with her,” I say. “She’s in the next room. Stubborn as ever. Pissed as ever. Alive.”
Some of the tension drains out of her.
“Good,” she breathes.
I pull my hand back, studying her face.
“Do you want to be alone?” I ask, even though the thought of leaving her makes my chest seize.
“No,” she says immediately, then seems surprised by her own answer.
“Good,” I murmur.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.