Page 13 of Tyrant

Not as deserted as I thought, apparently.

If this was anyone else, I’d have the club doctor over here in a minute. There’s no fucking shame in being sick, in taking care of your health—physical and mental. I’ve seen more than one of my brothers do more than cry. They’ve wept at times,broken and hurting, and I’d beat anyone bloody who ever said that made them weak.

I don’tallowmyself to be seen like this, to have a breakdown with anyone watching. Men have to have faith in you when you’re leading them, and getting caught with my head over a trashcan, puking my guts up, vulnerable as hell, isn’t going to inspire much confidence.

I look up and meet the dark, agonized eyes of my best friend, the former golden child who gave up everything for this club, including his family and five years of his life. His heavy hand lands on my shoulder and he looks me in the eye over the rim of the trashcan.

“Gray.”

“I’m not Gray when I’m here,” I remind him, voice too sharp, laced with my own humiliation.

He lets me grip the trashcan until my knuckles are white. My stomach is still all over the place. Setting it aside seems inadvisable.

He sweeps back my long hair like I’m a teenage girl, drunk for the first time. He makes a manbun at the top back of my head and secures it with an elastic from the nightstand. The guy has hardly any of his own hair to speak of—it’s always cut short—but he does a grand job of sorting mine out.

I would die before I ever put my hair into a manbun, and he fucking knows it.

I try and swing for him, but the only thing that gets me is another round of retching. It’s worse this time, now that I have less in my stomach. My entire body shakes, and perspirationbreaks out over my skin, sticking my black tee and my grease-stained jeans to my body.

“Fuck this,” Raiden mutters. He produces his phone from his back pocket. “I’m calling Archer.”

Adam Archer is a legit plastic surgeon, or at least he was before he landed his ass on the club’s payroll years ago. He’s exceptionally good at things like rhinoplasties and fake breasts, but he was also damn good at sewing up knife wounds, casting broken bones, pulling out bullets, and any other general mending that’s required. He came to our attention at one of our clubs, where he made the mistake of running up a large debt in the underground gambling room. We’re not the type who goes around breaking legs, at least not when it’s far more beneficial to have someone like him on our side.

He was grateful that we cancelled the debt in exchange for an underground room at his clinic. He found a new building and relocated, transforming the basement into an illicit, secret hospital. He never asks any questions. It was understood years ago that if he wanted to keep his practice, his fancy house on the side of town where Hart’s elite reside, and his handsome, clean cut, silver fox look intact, then he’d shut his mouth and give us what we want for the foreseeable future. He might be a good surgeon, but putting his own face back together would have challenged even his considerable skills.

I try to snatch Raiden’s phone away, but my vision is still doubled and all I see is a blurry version of his face as he dodges me. He eyes me hard, his finger on the screen. “I’m going to ask you something and you’re going to answer me honestly. You’re my brother in every way and you owe me the truth. Is this a stomach bug, or is something seriously wrong?”

“Just something I ate.”

Raiden curses under his brother and punches at the screen.

“Fine.Fine. It’s a migraine.”

He crosses his arms and spreads his legs, a pissed off giant, dangerous in every way. “How long?”

“They come and go.”

Another stab at the phone and he brings it to his ear. I currently see at least four. The pain is slowly morphing into a monster that blackens the edges of my vision and acid burns at the back of my throat.

“How long?”

I can hear the phone ringing on the other end. I’m a mess. I can’t even get up off this bed and tackle that phone away from him.

“I don’t know. A year, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“A year.”Five. Ever since your sister left, destroying me without an explanation or a goodbye.

He winces. He’s been back here for just a little longer than a year. He hates that he didn’t notice, or rather, that I hid this so well from him. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Never have. Lark obviously not fucking included. “Trauma induced?”

“Not that I know.” What do I know, though?

“It’s probably not a tumor if it’s been going on this long.” His lips curl back in a snarl. “Or anything serious, or you’dalready be done for. A year?” He doesn’t look like he wants to shake me. He’s pale, nearly bloodless.

This. This is why I haven’t said anything. This is why no one should know. I’m the one who takes care of everyone else. It’s not supposed to be the other way around.

“Archer.” The club has his private number. When we call, he answers. No. Exceptions. “It’s Raiden. I need to bring someone in. Immediately. We can be there in thirty minutes. I need a guarantee of total privacy on entryandexit.”

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