Page 26 of Her Possessive Bikers

"Watch it, Wilson," I warn, but there's no heat behind it. "Or next time you need stitches, I'm using pink dental floss."

"You wouldn't dare." He clutches his chest in mock horror.

"Try me." I turn back to Tres. "He'll be safe here. I'll keep an eye on him through the night. You have my word."

Tres nods, his expression softening. "Thank you, Indy. For everything."

"That's what family's for, right?" The words surprise even me, but they feel right.

Together, we help a barely conscious Kyler to the guest room. Once he's settled, I walk them to the door.

"Call me if anything changes," Tres says, lingering in the doorway.

"I will. Now go, before someone notices the president's missing."

The rumble of their bikes fades into the night, leaving me alone with my unexpected patient and the echo of my father's words about giving the brotherhood a chance.

15

KYLER

My head pounds as consciousness creeps back in. Everything hurts. The room spins even with my eyes closed, and sweat trickles down my temples. This isn't my bed. The sheets are too soft, the pillow too plush. Panic rises in my chest as I try to piece together where I am.

I bolt upright, immediately regretting the sudden movement as pain shoots through my side. "God Damnit!"

Quick footsteps approach and a door swings open. Through blurred vision, I make out a feminine figure rushing toward me.

"Hey, hey, take it easy." Indy's voice is soft but firm as she places a steady hand on my shoulder. "It's Indy. You're at my place, remember? The bar fight?"

Fragments of memory flash through my mind - fists flying, broken glass, sharp pain. I ease back against the pillows, breathing hard.

"How bad is it?" My voice comes out raspier than intended.

"Well, you've got 20 something stitches across your chest and side, a nasty gash on your arm, and probably one hell of a headache." She perches on the edge of the bed, pressing the backof her hand to my forehead. "You're running a bit hot. Scale of one to ten, how's the pain?"

"Seven... maybe eight." I wince as she lifts my shirt to check the bandages.

"Thought so." She reaches for something on the nightstand. "Here's more pain meds. They might make you drowsy, but that's probably for the best."

I swallow the pills she offers with some water. Her fingers are gentle as she examines the stitches, and I try not to focus on how close she is or how she smells faintly of vanilla and antiseptic.

"These look good, no signs of infection so far." She adjusts my bandages with practiced efficiency.

"Thanks for patching me up," I say, catching her wrist as she finishes with the bandages. "Not many people would open their door at 3 AM for a bunch of bikers."

"Yeah, well." She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Not many bikers would've been worth getting up for."

Her eyes - so much like Brick's it’s fucking scary - search my face. "Can I ask you something? What's the appeal? Getting carved up in bar fights doesn't seem worth whatever this lifestyle offers."

My fingers trace the edge of the bandage. "It's not about the fights or the danger. Your dad..." The words catch in my throat. "I was seventeen when he found me. Living out of my car, stealing to eat. Most people saw some punk kid not worth saving."

"But Dad saw something else?"

"He gave me a job at the garage first. Then a room at the clubhouse." I meet her gaze. "One night, he caught me crying over some old family photos. Instead of mocking me, he sat down and shared stories about you. Showed me pictures of this little girl with pigtails who'd stolen his heart."

Her eyes glisten. "He carried those everywhere."

"Said being a father was his proudest achievement." My voice cracks. "The MC - it's not perfect. But Brick made it family. He taught me that strength isn't about how hard you can hit, but how much you're willing to sacrifice for the people you love."

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