Page 72 of Massacre
Blinking, I tried to sit up and winced. “What do you mean, protect her? I can’t even get out of this bed. How in the hell am I supposed to protect Amber if I can’t even hold my gun? Speaking of which, where the hell is my gun?”
King smiled. “You are convalescing. You don’t need a gun.”
“You just said I had to protect Amber.”
“And you will.”
“Then how in the hell am I supposed to do that without my guns?”
“I’m sure you will think of something.” King’s jaw ticked, impatience flashing in his eyes. “Not all battles are fought with bullets. Amber’s in trouble because of you. And for some reason beyond all reasoning, she only trusts you. That’s why she’ll be here with you—watching over you, taking care of you, making sure you behave.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow and scowled.
This had to be a joke.
“So what, I’m her bodyguard in pajamas?”
King shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that. You claim you’re smarter than the rest of us. Time to prove it.” He turned for the door, pausing just long enough to add, “A club brother will bring Amber in a few hours. Don’t screw this up.”
Before I could come up with a half-decent retort, the door clicked shut, leaving me alone with nothing but the steady beep of the heart monitor and the echo of King’s command.
Protect Amber.
With no weapons, no plan, and apparently—no alcohol.
Perfect.
Time slowed to a crawl, broken only by the relentless metronome of medical machinery and the muted wildlife beyond the door. I traced the cracks in the ceiling, counting them, losing count, and then starting again.
On the third try, I gave up.
I tried not to think about the trouble Amber was in because of me. I never wanted this life for her. She was supposed to be safe. But I couldn’t walk away from her again. I wasn’t that strong anymore. God forgive me, but I wanted her. For the first time in my life, I wanted someone more than my own life.
I let my eyes wander to the window, where a shaft of pale afternoon light cut through the dimness, painting the floor with a silent invitation to escape. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out—clear, insistent, as if reminding me that there was still a world spinning outside this small room. My breath felt heavy, weighted with the waiting, the not-knowing. I flexed my fingers beneath the thin blanket, seeking something—warmth, reassurance, a sign that the world hadn’t slipped entirely beyond my grasp—when I smelled her sweet scent.
She stood framed in the pale corridor light, her silhouette thinner than I remembered, but her eyes bright and watchful. She hesitated, fingers twisting the strap of a battered duffel bag, before stepping inside as if the floor might vanish beneath her feet.
Her gaze met mine, and I saw the fear and uncertainty there. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, ready to bolt at any moment.
“Hey,” I said, my voice rough, and I tried to sit up again, wincing as pain shot through my injured body. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
She took a tentative step forward, her eyes scanning the room, and I could see her taking in the heart monitor, the IVdrip, and the various machines surrounding me. “Am I?” she questioned as her eyes turned angry with unshed tears.
“What?” I asked, confused as she glared at me.
“I met Morpheus. He was...”
“A bastard?”
She nodded. “He made him choose. Me or him, and now he’s trapped there, because of me.” Her voice broke, and she looked away, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back her tears. “I should never have gone there. I should never have listened to you. I should have stayed in Diamond Creek. Now my dad is paying the price.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Bane is a Soulless Sinner. Morpheus can’t make him stay. That would cause a war between the two clubs.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she shouted angrily at me. “He knew who I was when I showed up, Massacre. He kept asking for my real name. He kept saying I was lying, but I wasn’t. Then Val showed up, and that bastard almost killed her. But when I showed him your patch, he got really mad. Then Dad was there, and now I’m here.”
She wasn’t making any sense. The Brotherhood lived by their own code. One they took very fucking seriously. There was no fucking way Morpheus would risk a fucking war with the Soulless Sinners, not over someone like Bane.
It made no fucking sense.
