Page 65 of War

“The casino,” I choke out, my tone hoarse, scratchy.A thick haze clogs my mind.“Tyler is at the old casino,” I manage before I fall into obscurity.

* * *

Muffled voices draw me from slumber.My eyelids are too heavy.A groan rumbles from my chest, the light assaulting my retinas.

“Rogue?”Callan’s voice caresses my ears, and I open my palm, shifting my arm to reach for him.Strong fingers entwine around mine.

“You’ve got to stop doing this to us,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over the top of my head.His lips press into my cheek, nose, lips.

The blinding white walls of the medical room in the clubhouse surround me.I look at our conjoined hands where bandages cover my wrists and a cotton sheet lays across my waist.

“Did you get him?”I ask, not sounding like myself.My voice is too deep.Too raw.

“No.He wasn’t there when we got there.We found the security guy.”

“Dead?”I ask, though I already know.

“Don’t think about that.”Movement from behind him catches my attention.Kitty chews on her nails, water glistening her eyes.

“He killed Harley,” I weep, sorrow and anger consuming me.“It was him.It was him this whole time.”

“We’re going to get him, Rogue.I promise you that.On my life, he will pay for everything he’s done.”

A knock on the door slices through the tense atmosphere.Callan’s teeth grit.Kitty swipes at her wet face and opens the door.Grease’s giant form fills the space.

“What is it?”Callan barks.

“You’re both going to want to come to see this.”His eyes meet Callan’s then slide to Kitty before he disappears down the hall.Looking over his shoulder to his sister, they both frown.

“Go,” I encourage them.

Kissing my hand, he places it on the bed and stands.

“We’ll be right back.”

As soon as they’re both out the door, the silence closes in on me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I can’t stay here.

I sit up, tugging at my arm.A needle nursing fluid through an IV in my other hand makes me stop.I peel the tape off and drag the needle from my vein, a crimson bubble forming around the entry sight.Shoving the blanket off my legs, I stare down at the blue hospital gown someone put me in.Bruises like a patchwork blanket mar the skin around a bandage on my thigh.

I don’t hurt, though.

I’m numb.

My head is light and woozy from whatever drugs the doctor fed me.Gripping the gurney’s edge, I carefully drop to the floor to find that my feet are wrapped in dressings.I take a step.There’s no pain, but it’s like walking on bubble wrap with the soles of my feet swollen.

As soon as I make it to the door, I pry it open and make my way toward the voices carrying from the bar.Rounding the corner, I grip the wall for support, my stomach dropping.

Fuck.

Jericho.

“So, what have I missed?”

He’s home.

CHAPTER17

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