Page 38 of Rage

“Hey.”Dad pulls back, cupping my face in his calloused hands.His eyes, so like my own, search mine.“You with me, sweet girl?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“That’s my girl,” he says softly.Then his gaze hardens, shifting to something over my shoulder.Mason.

“We need to talk,” Dad says.

Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back.No time for that now.“Dad, please?—”

“Baby!”Mom’s voice cuts through the tension.She’s rushing toward us from the parking lot, her face pale with worry.

The rumble of motorcycles fills the air, growing louder by the second.Headlights pierce the darkness as bikes pull into the lot, one after another.The Grim Sinners, coming to check on their own.

My legs wobble, exhaustion and fading adrenaline taking their toll.Mason’s arm snakes around my waist, steadying me once more.The warmth of his body against mine is comforting—grounding.

Dad’s eyes narrow at the contact, but before he can say anything, Mom reaches us.She pulls me into a fierce hug, nearly knocking me off-balance.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.“When we got the call…”

I breathe in her familiar scent, vanilla and home.For a moment, I’m a little girl again, safe in my mother’s arms.But reality crashes back as pain flares in my side, reminding me of the night’s events.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, wincing as I pull back.“Just a little banged up.”

Mom’s eyes widen as she takes in my appearance, the torn scrubs, the bandage peeking out from beneath.Her gaze hardens as she turns to Dad.

“Liam,” she says, her voice low and dangerous.“Now is not the time for your macho bullshit.Our daughter needs us.”

Dad opens his mouth to argue, but Mom silences him with a look.It’s a familiar dance, one I’ve seen play out countless times over the years.

The bikers are dismounting now, their boots hitting the pavement with dull thuds.Christopher is the first to reach us, his face a mask of concern.

“Meadow,” he says, eyes scanning me for injuries.“Jesus Christ, are you all right?”

I nod, forcing a smile.“I’m fine.Really.Thanks to Mason.”

Christopher’s gaze shifts to Mason, a silent conversation passing between them.Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him.He nods once, clapping Mason on the shoulder.

“Good work, brother,” he says, his voice gruff with emotion.

The rest of the club gathers around us, a protective circle of leather and chrome.Their presence is oddly comforting, a reminder that I’m not alone in this.

Dad clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.His eyes lock with Mason’s, the tension between them palpable.

“We still need to talk,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.“But… thank you.For protecting my little girl.”

Mason nods, his arm tightening around me further.“Always,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, heavy with promise.I lean into Mason’s side, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the night.My eyelids feel heavy, the world starting to blur around the edges.

“We should get her home,” Mom says, her voice cutting through the fog in my brain.“She needs rest.”

The roar of approaching motorcycles cuts through the night air, a familiar rumble that sends a jolt of recognition through me.I turn, my body tensing instinctively.The Devil Souls MC.My family.

Headlights pierce the darkness, illuminating the parking lot in harsh relief.The lead bike emerges from the shadows, its rider’s silhouette unmistakable even from a distance.Grandpa.His broad shoulders and commanding presence are as recognizable to me as my own reflection.

Right behind him, Grandma’s smaller frame leans into the curves of the road, her silver hair whipping out from beneath her helmet.The sight of them, both wearing their cuts, sends a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over me.Relief.Comfort.

The bikes come to a stop, engines cutting out in near-perfect synchronization.Grandpa swings his leg over, boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud.His eyes, sharp as ever, scan the scene before locking on to me.

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