Page 45 of Rage's Heart

I turned to Rage, expecting him to back me up, but his expression was resolute. “You won’t change his mind.”

Frustration boiled inside me. “This isn’t a paper cut! He’s been shot.”

“It went straight through,” Dread muttered, wincing as I pressed harder on the wound. Good. I hoped it hurt. He was being a stubborn ass.

I glared at him. “You’re an idiot.”

Rage’s hand settled on my shoulder. “Mac, we can’t risk the hospital. They report gunshot wounds to the police.”

The implications of that statement settled heavily in my stomach.

Right.

My brother’s warning about bikers being criminals started playing in my mind. This is what their lives entailed. Women whenever they wanted. Getting shot at. Avoiding hospitals so the cops didn’t come sniffing around.

I blew out a breath as my heart sank into my belly. I was going to have to decide if his life was something I could live with. “Fine,” I said finally, my thoughts and emotions at war. “But I’m going to need supplies.”

Dread’s eyes lit with mirth despite his pain. “You’re woman’s bossy, ain’t she?”

“You have no idea,” Rage mumbled under his breath.

I ignored them both, mentally cataloging what I would need. “Sterile gauze, gloves, suture kit, and antibiotics, if you can get them. Oh! And something for the pain.”

Foxy appeared at my elbow, nodding. “I’ll get everything. Come on, let’s move him inside where it’s cleaner.”

With Rage and Zero’s help, we got Dread into the clubhouse and onto a couch in what appeared to be some kind of office. I washed my hands thoroughly in the bathroom while Foxy laid out the supplies she’d gathered.

“You’ve done this before,” I observed as she handed me a pair of latex gloves.

She smiled grimly. “Like I said, I clean up after these guys.”

Twenty minutes later, I was hunched over Dread’s shoulder, carefully suturing the exit wound closed. The entry wound had been simpler, smaller, and cleaner. This side was messier, the bullet having torn through more tissue on its way out.

Despite my initial protests, I had to admit that Dread was handling it well. He’d refused anything stronger than whiskey for the pain, and though his jaw was clenched tight, he hadn’t made a sound as I worked.

“Almost done,” I murmured, tying off another stitch. “You’re lucky. The bullet missed anything vital.”

“Told you it was just a scratch,“ he replied, his voice slurred from the liquor he’d consumed.

I shook my head, focusing on placing the final stitches.

From across the room, Rage watched, his expression unreadable until the sound of bikes returning vibrated the walls.

As I tied off the last suture, I realized I’d come to a decision about Rage, his club, and the dangerous life he led.

For better or for worse, I was all in.

Chapter Thirteen

Rage

I’d watched her like a hawk the entire time she worked to patch Dread up and I was in fucking awe.

“You just fucking MacGyver’d a bullet wound.” I shook my head as Mac carefully packed the remaining supplies back into Foxy’s first aid kit.

Her hands had been steady as she worked on Dread, but now I was starting to see the tremors running through her shoulders.

“Did you just use MacGyver as a verb?” She glanced up at me, humor breaking through her exhaustion.

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