Page 97 of Single Mom's Bikers

“Antibiotics need time.” Doc Jensen again. “Keep him cool.”

Cool cloth on my forehead.

“Don’t leave,” I mumble during a lucid moment.

“Never.” Evie kisses my palm. “Rest now.”

But fever dreams drag me back, and I don’t know if the things I see are real.

A man’s words echo:They belong to someone else. Someone powerful. Someone Evie fears more than death.

“No.” The word tears from my throat. “Won’t let them take you.”

“Shh.” She tells me. “You’re safe. We’re all safe.” Her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. But she’s here. “You scared me,” she whispers.

I manage a smirk, weak as it is. “Not scared of much, sweetheart.”

Her breath catches. “You should be. You almost died.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

Recovery comes slowly.

On day three, Doc Jensen announces, “Time to move you upstairs. But no riding for at least two weeks.”

Two weeks. Too long with threats looming. With secrets threatening to explode.

37

ZANE

Chase tookthe bullet meant for me.

That thought won’t leave my head. No matter how much I drink, no matter how many times I replay the fight in my mind. He moved faster than me. Reacted before I could. And now, three days later, he’s finally awake but still struggling to recover, still in pain with every movement.

I should’ve been faster.

I should’ve been the one bleeding out on that floor.

Rick told me to shake it off. “Chase did what any of us would do,” he said. “Don’t waste time feeling sorry. Make it count.”

So here I am, making it count—helping Draven recover, even though my mind is on my brother upstairs, fighting for his life.

“Easy,” I say, steadying Draven as he takes another step across the room. He’s too stubborn for his own good, but I get it. He doesn’t want to feel weak. Hell, if it were me, I’d be forcing myself to walk too.

He grits his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. His breath is labored like every step is a battle.

“Doc said not to push too hard.”

“Doc doesn’t know shit.” He grunts through the pain, but I feel how heavily he leans on me. Muscles shaking with effort. His bruises—deep, angry purples and yellows—stand out stark against his skin. A reminder of what Death’s Head did to him.

What they would’ve done if we hadn’t gotten to him in time.

Rose stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him closely. Her usual fire is banked, but I see it in her eyes—restrained fury, barely held back.

We finally get him back to bed, and I hand him a water bottle. He takes it with a quiet thanks, his breathing heavy. Rose moves in, adjusting the pillows without a word. He grins up at her despite his pain.

I watch them for a moment. You can tell just how much they’re in love by looking at them together.

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