Page 77 of Manic

I lean in close to Meghan, my voice low and intense. "I'm going to hunt down your father and make him pay for this."

My fists clench at my sides, the rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "No one hurts my family and gets away with it."

Meghan winces as Gwen presses a particularly tender spot. "I'm okay," she insists, her voice hoarse but determined. "Just busted up pretty bad. Nothing I can't handle."

I can't help but smile at her stubbornness, even as worry gnaws at my insides.

That's my Meghan, tough as nails even when she's hurting.

I kneel beside the couch, careful not to get in Gwen's way.

"You don't have to be tough right now," I tell her softly, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her. "We've got you. You're safe here."

Meghan's eyes soften for a moment, and I see the vulnerability she usually keeps hidden. "Tor," she whispers, and my name on her lips is both a comfort and a plea.

I want to ask her more about what happened, to hunt down the son of a bitch who did this to her.

But I know now isn't the time.

Right now, she needs to heal, and I need to be here for her and Tindra.

"I'm here," I assure her, finally allowing myself to gently take her hand in mine. "And I'm not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together, I promise."

As I sit there, holding Meghan's hand while Gwen continues her examination, I'm acutely aware of the eyes of my brothers on us.

They're seeing a side of me I've kept hidden for so long—the protective, caring man beneath the tough biker exterior.

But in this moment, I don't care.

All that matters is the woman in front of me, and making sure she knows she's not alone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Meghan

The sunlight filtering through the curtains feels like daggers to my eyes.

I groan, squeezing them shut tighter as consciousness creeps in unwelcome.

My head is pounding, a dull throb that seems to pound through my entire body.

Every muscle aches, protesting even the slightest movement.

I'm vaguely aware that I'm not in my own bed.

The sheets feel different, softer somehow, and there's a comforting warmth beside me that I'm not used to.

As I slowly blink my eyes open, wincing at the light, I realize where I must be.

Tor's room in the clubhouse.

A gentle hand brushes against my forearm, and I turn my head slightly to see Tor lying next to me, his eyes filled with concern.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says softly, his deep voice rough with sleep. "How are you feeling?"

I try to speak, but my throat feels dry and scratchy.

I swallow hard before attempting again. "Like I've been hit by a truck," I rasp out. "Everything hurts."

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