Page 38 of Snared Rider

I want to push him for answers, but I don’t. This isn’t the time or place. So, I just nod.

“Did you tell him I’m in one piece? I don't want him riding to the hospital like a bat out of hell.” It’s bad enough he will be panicking about me.

“I told him you’re conscious, talking and that hospital’s just a precaution.”

That is most definitely a lie because my ribs are on fire and I have pain almost everywhere. I also have the headache to rival all headaches.

“Thanks, Dean.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence. The medic finally took pity on me and gave me something to help with the pain, so my head feels floaty while my body feels numb. Dean keeps one hand locked around mine, his calloused fingers rubbing circles on my skin. It’s a small gesture, but it is reassuring.

When we get to the hospital, I’m taken through the ambulance bay into the accident unit. I wonder absently if Clara Thomas is working today. If she is we don’t see her while I go through a battery of tests.

I’m prodded and poked by several doctors as they assess the damage done. They try to make Dean go to another room to be examined but he refuses to leave my side. He also refuses to allow me to go anywhere without him, even for tests. This does not seem like a good thing and I wonder if we are still in danger. I don’t have a chance to ask though because we’re barely alone and when we are the drugs are so heavy in my system I can’t form coherent sentences nor stay awake long enough to push for answers.

I’m just nodding off again when I hear roared, “Where’s my fucking daughter?”

Dad.

Shit.

He sounds worried and pissed off.

This is not a good mix. Dad can be volatile when he’s emotional. I shift in the bed, trying to push up into a sitting position, but Dean stops me. He pushes out of the chair he’s been sat in and gives my hand a squeeze.

He then moves to the curtain and pulls it back. I see Dad standing just beyond, near the nurses’ station. His stance radiates so many emotions I can’t pinpoint which is most prominent. The staff give him a wide berth as he rants, and I’m sure his kutte is the reason most of the staff (and patients in similar curtained off bays to the one I’m in) look scared to death.

Dean reaches his side and Dad’s gaze goes to him before moving over his shoulder towards the curtained area where I’m lying on a trolley. He swallows spasmodically, his Adam’s apple bouncing as his fingers go into his hair. I don’t hear his muttered words to Dean, nor do I hear Dean’s back, but knowing my father his involved a lot of swearing.

And then he crosses the room and comes to my side. Dad doesn’t hesitate to grab my hand. He squeezes it tight, as if trying to confirm I’m here. His gaze crawls over every inch of my face, then moves to my arms, as if cataloguing every bruise, every scrape. His jaw tightens as he takes it all in, and I brace, preparing for him to unleash holy hell. To my surprise, he doesn’t. He keeps a hold on his control. Barely.

“What’s the damage?” he demands through clenched teeth.

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say, not answering his question. Annoyingly, my words run together a little, no thanks to the drugs in my system. This does not go unnoticed by my father. His top lip curls.

“What’s the fucking damage?” he repeats.

“Two cracked ribs, one broken, and a low-grade concussion,” Dean answers for me. I glare at him because there is no way in hell Dad needs to know all of that. “The rest is superficial cuts and bruises.”

Dad’s head lowers onto his chest while his hands drop to his hips. I can see the tension radiating from him as he mutters a string of curses under his breath. This time I pick out a ‘fuck’ and a ‘Jesus Christ’. Then he spins, and before I can react he has Dean by the throat against the nearest wall. A tray of medical equipment goes flying, creating a violent ruckus in the quiet hospital department. I hear a collective gasp from patients and staff at Dad’s outburst.

Fabulous.

But Dean doesn’t flinch, as if this is normal behaviour, as if Dad laying his hands on him like this happens all the time. And maybe it does; I wouldn’t know. What happens in the Club, stays in the Club.

I notice Dean keeps his hands at his sides, but I don’t miss the fact his fists are balled.

My brain kicks back into action.

“Dad!” I struggle to sit. “Let him go!”

“You get my daughter hurt, you little fuck?”

Dean stares defiantly at him. “I did everything I could to protect her, Jack. You know that.” When Dad doesn’t release him, Dean grinds out, “I love her like she’s my own fucking sister. You think I’d let anything happen to her?”

That is so friggin’ cute, and if Dean wasn’t being throttled by my father I would have taken a moment to appreciate his words.

Instead, I fumble with my blankets, trying to get free of the bed. “Stop it! Dad, let him go!”

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