Page 74 of Burned in Stone
Gabriel’s been using fear as a weapon for so long. Fear of loss, fear of looking bad, fear of what people would think. But none of that works anymore because I’m not afraid. Not of him. Not of what comes next.
I’m free. We’re free. And Gabriel has nothing left.
Before I can respond, the old-guard cavalry arrives. Duck blows through the door with Maggie right behind, both of them radiating emergency energy and wet from the freezing mist outside. Duck scans the room, lands on Cash, and zeroes in like a warthog on a landmine.
“What the fuck did they do to you, boy?” Duck’s voice comes out deep and smoky. Cash looks up, tries for a joke, but Duck is already inspecting him, hands ruthless but careful, the way only former medics carry off.
“Nothing critical,” Cash mumbles, and Duck snorts.
“That shiner is going to be the size of Texas by morning. Sit still and let me—Christ, is that a bite mark?” Duck nudges Kya aside, who rolls her eyes and starts cleaning up the bloody towels.
Maggie slips in around the men to clutch Cash’s other hand. “You boneheaded son of a bitch,” Maggie says, but her voice is so full of relief it breaks on the last word. “You had us scared to death. If you ever let yourself get grabbed by Summit’s goons again, I’ll personally staple your ears to the floor of Devil’s.”
“Love you too, Mags,” Cash croaks, and she plants a rough kiss on the side of his sweaty head before turning her attention to me.
“You all right, hon?” Maggie’s thumb skims lightly over my cheek, like she’s checking for damage. I’m not sure if it’s becauseI’m shaking or if she just needed to touch something, to prove to herself that we’re all still here.
“I’m good,” I lie, because that’s what you do.
“Yeah, you are,” Maggie says, reading my face with that uncanny mom-sense that’s never failed to catch me out. “Sit here.” She pushes me onto the edge of the bed next to Cash, then pulls up a chair and leans in. “You want tea or something stronger?”
“Stronger,” I say, not even pretending.
Duck’s inspecting Cash’s ribs. “Could be cracked,” he mutters, then glances at Maggie. “You got any of that local moonshine in the kitchen?”
“Half a bottle in the green cupboard. Get it, would you, Ginge?” she calls out, and I look up to see Ginger hovering in the doorway under Tank’s protective arm.
“Would everyone clear out of here and let a man work?” Duck’s tone is brusque, but I can see the relief lurking beneath it. “I can barely think with all the bodies in here.”
Duck has some kind of biker sixth sense for pain. He checks Cash’s ribs with quick, practiced taps—a man who’s broken enough bones to know exactly where it hurts most. Cash doesn’t even try to tough through it. He just lets his head tip back, jaw clenched, skin desperate and pale except for the vivid contrast where the blood from his split lip has already dried thick and purple-black.
“Keep breathing,” Duck orders, moving down the line of Cash’s side. “That one broken?”
“Maybe,” Cash says in a croak. “Feels worse than the time Tank ran me over.”
“That’s because you’re not full of painkillers and two bottles of tequila.” Duck grins, but keeps working, then glances up at me. “Hon, can you hold on to his hand? Last time I tried to set a rib on this one, he punched me in the nuts and I fainted.”
Maggie cackles. “That’s our boy.”
“You ready?” Duck asks Cash, then grins at me like we’re in on the same conspiracy. “Mags, hold his feet.” Maggie clamps down on Cash’s ankles, and a second later Duck manipulates a rib, and Cash sucks in a hiss of air sharp enough to cut. His hand is crushing mine, and in that moment I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking about the first time someone hurt us on purpose, and how wild it feels to have people around you who only want to put the hurt back together again.
“There,” Duck says, sitting back. “You’ll want to tape that. And you’re not lifting anything heavier than a whiskey glass for at least a week.”
“Thanks, Duck.” Cash tries to look tough, but the sweat beading on his forehead ruins it.
Maggie produces a battered roll of medical tape, and in two minutes flat she’s braced his ribs with the skill of an urgent care nurse. She finishes with a flourish. “You need help upstairs?” she asks, voice extra gentle. “Clubhouse is locked down. Everyone’s safe. So you can rest.”
Cash shakes his head and blinks at me, like he’s trying to prove he’s not dying. “I’m good,” he rasps. “Mercy’s got me. Don’t you, angel?”
I squeeze his hand gently. “Always,” I say, and the word shivers through my body like an aftershock. Cash’s eye finds mine, bloodshot and too bright, and in that moment I know he’shearing the same promise I am. That nothing—no cop, no ex, no trauma—will ever be enough to pry us apart. Not anymore.
25
CASH
Everything hurts. My ribs are on fire. My left eye won’t open. Pretty sure my kidney’s bruised. But Mercy is warm against my side, her hand resting gently on my chest, right over my heart. And that makes it bearable. Worth it, even.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she mumbles against my skin when I shift slightly.
