Page 92 of Hunter

I broke out of Wolf’s grasp. His eyes flared as I shoved him away. Then they narrowed on my face. He knew I was aware of the big mistake he had made.

I thought back to Chains … James—whoever the fuck he was—and knew Wolf’s confession hadn’t been the whole truth. Not even close.

The sirens grew louder, and I looked down at Mallory, who looked like she had simply fallen asleep on the floor, peaceful and quiet.

“You guys get out of here,” I said, not taking my eyes off her.

I reached down to take Pretty’s place, pressing down on the jacket, when a hand caught my wrist. I followed the inked arm until I came to Jax’s face.

“The second the police get here, see her like that, and you with your busted knuckles, they’re gonna take you in, no questions asked,” Jax said. “You need to be there when she wakes up.”

“Get to your point, Jax,” I snapped, the sirens growing almost deafeningly loud now.

“My point,” Jax huffed, reaching into his waistband to pull out his gun and hand it to Pretty, “is that you need to get the hell out of here.”

“But you—”

Jax shoved at my arm, pushing me aside as he placed his hand over the jacket. “Get Anna to post my bail as soon as possible. You hear me? I know you guys can be stingy fuckers.”

Wolf nodded. “I’ll get Anna to bounce you the second she can.”

Jax looked back at me, to where I had remained standing since he had shoved me, and grinned. “I’ll take really good care of her, Hunter. Leave it to me.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” I caught his hand in a tight fist, my other hand gripping his shoulder. He would have done the same if his hand wasn’t holding the jacket. “Thanks, brother.”

Jax nodded, and then the rest of us disappeared on our bikes and out onto the highway home as the ambulance screeched to a halt by the warehouse door that had been blown to bits. The police passed us only seconds later.

Chapter Thirty

Mallory

Iwokeup feeling like I had been knocked out with a horse tranquilizer. My eyes were dry when I opened them, I had vomited down the side of the bed, and from what I could comprehend the doctors saying through blurred voices and images, I had been injected with something. It was a long-ass name, and I couldn’t remember it. Apparently, I had been told several times already. Then again, short-term memory loss was an apparent side-effect of the drug, as was the disorientation, confusion, and vomiting. I remembered everything once I had begun showing signs of recovery.

It had taken me a week to get over the initial symptoms. The doctors had kept me in the ICU for three days longer. Apparently, when you were close to being overdosed with Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, with the only 0.1g between you and a coma, a relapse of symptoms wasn’t only possible, but highly likely.

Therefore, after eight days of being stable, I was finally allowed visitors.

I expected Adair to come running through the doors, his blond curls in a messy pile on his head, tears in his eyes, crying my name. However, life didn’t always turn out how you expected.

Neither did Hunter.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his cut draped over his arm. He looked tired as he slumped against the doorframe, dark hollows under his eyes and dark growth over his chin. The waves in his hair were beginning to evolve into curls that defied gravity, stuck up in all directions from having run his fingers through them several times.

He didn’t look like he had even changed in the past week. Then again, all the clothes in his wardrobe were practically identical: black shirt, jeans, and laced boots. I wanted to say it was a surprise to see him, but it wasn’t. In recollecting all my disorganized memories, I knew he had been asleep in the corner during visiting hours. He had been in it so many hours that I was sure the chair had molded to his shape.

My eyes traveled up him, unsure what to say or do. I had been advised to keep my speech to a minimum, my throat having been sliced, in addition to my other issues. Therefore, I just stared.

It took a while, but Hunter eventually looked down at his boots, which were toeing the lines between the white linoleum floor of my room and the slightly grayed tiles of the hallway.

“Can I come in?”

It was so polite that it would have made me laugh on any other day. Instead, I nodded.

Hunter approached almost cautiously. He draped his cut over the edge of the bed and wrapped his hands around the handles. He looked around the room, his tongue swirling in his mouth before he bit his cheek.

The silence finally became unbearable.

“The nurses tell me they got the guy who did this to me in lockup.”

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