Chapter Seven
Enemy On The Table
Harper
I wake up to men arguing about murder.
Not loudly, and not directly outside my door. The Sons of Sin are too controlled for that. Their rage has structure, which somehow makes it worse. It moves through the clubhouse in low voices, heavy boots, slammed drawers, and the metallic click of weapons being checked and rechecked.
I lie still for ten full seconds, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember where I am. Then the memory hits me. The clubhouse. The phone. The threat. Steel sitting outside my door like a monster with a gun and a promise.
My stomach tightens.
I push myself upright, hair falling into my face, and listen. The hall is empty now, but my door is still cracked exactly the way I left it. Steel is gone, but I can feel the ghost of him there anyway. A ridiculous thought, but then again, my life has become ridiculous.
Two nights ago, my biggest problem was whether Milo had stolen my last good pen. Now a rival motorcycle club knows my name.
I get dressed in the cleanest clothes I packed, tie my hair up, and check my phone. Three missed messages from Milo. One from my supervisor asking if I can pick up extra hours tomorrow, because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
And one from Steel.
Steel: I’m in the war room. Stay inside and eat something.
I stare at the message before I type back.
Me: That’s three orders in one text. You need professional help.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Steel: Eat first.
I hate that my mouth twitches. I hate it so much I almost throw the phone. Instead, I shove it in my pocket and step into the hall.
The clubhouse feels different in daylight. Not safer. Just more exposed. The shadows are thinner, the stains more visible. There are dents in the walls, scratches in the floor, and bullet holes patched badly enough to be considered decorative.
Home sweet felony.
Mama M is in the kitchen when I walk in, flipping pancakes like the world has not recently threatened to bleed me out.
She looks me over once. “You sleep?”
“Badly.”
“Eat?”
“Is that a required greeting around here?”
“Yes.”
She slides a plate in front of me without asking. Pancakes. Bacon. Coffee black enough to qualify as a controlled substance. And I sit because I am learning quickly that arguing with Mama M is like arguing with a hurricane wearing an apron.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Planning.”
“Murder?”
“Probably.”
“That’s comforting.” I roll my eyes.
Mama M leans against the counter, arms folded. “You scared?”
I cut into a pancake. “Yes.”
“Good.”
I look up. “You people really need new emotional vocabulary.”
“Fear means you’re paying attention.”
“I’m a paramedic. I pay attention professionally.” I point my fork at her to make my point.
“And yet you walked into a shootout.”
“To help. Does no one understand what I do for a living?”
“We understand. But you need to understand that helping and being reckless is the same thing around here.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I eat. The food is good. Again. I’m starting to suspect Mama M could overthrow governments with breakfast. Halfway through the plate, the front door opens, and Steel steps inside, and the room changes.
It always does when he enters. Air pulls tighter, men straighten without looking like they mean to, and the sound drops half a level.
His eyes find me immediately, and it's damn embarrassing how much that steadies me.
He looks rough. Not tired exactly, men like Steel don’t seem to do tired, but stretched thin around the edges. He is wearing the same leather cut, dark shirt, and heavy boots. The bandage on his hand is fresh, which means someone changed it.
Not me. And let me tell you, I don’t like noticing that.
His gaze drops to my plate.
“I’m eating,” I say before he can start.
“Good.”
“Don’t look so pleased. I did it out of spite.”
“Still counts.”
That one earns me a snort from Mama M. Steel crosses the kitchen and stops across from me. Not close. Never too close unless I let him, and that damn restraint is somehow becoming a weird kind of problem.
“What’s happening?” I ask, and his expression closes. I set my fork down. “Don’t give me the civilian-friendly version.”
“It’s all civilian-unfriendly.”
“Steel.” I fix him with a flat look and wait for him to tell me the truth.
His jaw flexes at my tone. “Reaper is escalating.”
“The man who called?”
“Yes.”
“He’s part of the Broken Vultures?”
“Yes.” A look of disgust flashes over his face.
“Do you always answer in one-word caveman format when you’re hiding things?”
“Yes.” Mama M mutters.
Steel ignores her. “We’re moving against them tonight if Saint confirms the location.”
My stomach drops. “Moving against them,” I repeat. “That’s a very tidy phrase for violence.”
“It’s violence.”
At least he doesn’t pretend. That should make it easier to hate him. Surprise! It fucking doesn’t.
Before I can answer, the clubhouse door slams open, and a man staggers inside. He’s not one of the Sons of Sin. I know that instantly from the way every weapon in the room snaps toward him.
He’s young, maybe late twenties, leather cut hanging open over a blood-soaked shirt. His face is gray. His hands are raised, but one barely gets past his ribs before he collapses to his knees.
“Don’t shoot,” he rasps.
Steel moves in front of me so fast I barely see it happen. One second, I’m sitting at the table. The next, his body is a wall between me and the stranger.
The injured man lifts his head, and I see the patch on his cut. Broken Vultures MC. The room turns lethal, guns rise, and safeties click off.
I stand, but Steel’s arm shifts back, blocking me without touching. “Stay behind me.”
“No.” I push forward again.
“Harper.” His voice is a threat and a plea woven into one.
“He’s bleeding,” I point out, like that will change his mind.
“He’s Vulture.”
“He’s bleeding.” The young man coughs, and blood spatters the floor, making my point for me.
My body decides before my brain can argue. I duck under Steel’s arm and move toward him. Steel curses, low and vicious as he follows me.
Savage’s voice cuts through the room. “Hold fire.”
Thank God someone here has half a brain. I drop to my knees in front of the injured man. “Where are you hit?”
He blinks at me, unfocused. “Need ... need Savage.”
“You need a hospital.”
“No hospital.” He grabs weakly at my wrist. Steel growls, and the man lets go fast despite actively dying. “Please. They’ll kill me there.”
“Who?”
“Reaper.” The room goes thick with tension.
I cut open his shirt with the trauma shears I had the good sense to put in my pocket. There’s a gunshot wound high on his abdomen, right side. Bad placement, there’s simply too much blood to make a decent assessment.
“Pressure,” I snap. No one moves, and I look up, furious. “Unless every man in this room wants to stand here and watch him die for dramatic effect, I need clean towels and my kit now.”
Mama M moves first, followed by Saint. Steel stays above me, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the rage rolling off him in waves.
“You shouldn’t be touching him,” Steel says.
“I’m not asking him to marry me. I’m keeping him alive.”
“He’s one of theirs,” he points out unhelpfully, like I wasn’t aware.
“He is my patient.” The words are sharp, and absolute. Steel goes quiet.
I work fast. Gloves. Pressure. Airway. Pulse. His breathing is too shallow, skin cold under my fingers. He’s bleeding internally. I can slow the external damage, maybe buy some time, but I can’t fix what is happening beneath the muscle and bone.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyes flutter. “Dante.”
“Okay, Dante. Stay with me.”
His gaze moves past me to Savage. “Reaper ... taking it too far.”
Savage crouches several feet away, eyes cold. “Talk.”
Dante groans when I pack the wound. “He put the hit on your medic. Wasn’t supposed to be her. But he’s decided it will make Steel stupid.”
My hands pause for half a second, and Steel goes completely still. There’s something more frightening than his anger. This. The absence of it. The terrible blank silence where a man decides what the world will cost.
I force my hands to keep moving. “Breathe, Dante.”
His mouth twists. “Trying.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
A faint laugh breaks into a cough. Blood bubbles at his lip. Fuck.
“Harper,” Steel says.
“I know.” I do know. He’s crashing. But knowing doesn’t mean stopping. It never does.
Dante’s eyes find mine. “You’re her?”
“I’m me. Focus.”
He swallows hard. “Didn’t want ... woman dead.”
“Great. Hold that moral development and keep breathing.”
Savage leans closer. “Where is Reaper?”
Dante’s hand twitches toward his cut pocket. Saint moves, pulling out a folded paper stained red. Savage takes it.
“Warehouse,” Dante whispers. “Tonight. He thinks Steel will come alone. Thinks he can cut him out of the club.”
Steel laughs once, but it’s not a human sound, and causes Dante to flinch.
I press harder on the wound. “Don’t look at him. Look at me.”
His eyes return to mine. Younger now. Scared. Just a man bleeding out on a dirty floor. I hate this world. I hate that everyone in this room sees the enemy before they see the body. Mostly, I hate that I understand why.
Dante’s pulse weakens under my fingers. “No,” I say sharply. “Stay with me.” His eyelids flutter. “Mama M, call County. Tell them we’re bringing a critical trauma.”
Dante panics weakly. “No hospital.”
“Yes, hospital.”
“Reaper has men...”
I cut him off. “Then they can take it up with the giant homicidal gargoyle behind me.”
Steel’s gaze cuts to me. Even now, even with blood soaking my hands, his mouth almost moves. Almost.
Savage stands. “We move him. Steel, you ride with her.”
“No,” Dante gasps.
I look down. “You don’t get a vote.”
“Not ... ambulance.”
“Do you have a preference? Magical unicorn? Luxury sedan? You have internal bleeding, Dante. Beggars, choosers.” I lift one hand, then the other, showing balance or whatever.
His breathing gets worse. Too fast. Too thin. I check his pupils. His pulse. The bleeding. He needs surgery. Now.
“Help me lift him,” I order, and Steel steps forward immediately.