Page 70 of Their Broken Legend

“Mum”—I raise a brow at her— “I’m warm. It’s warm. Stop fucking fussing. You’ve done enough,” I say with a little too much attitude, causing her eyes to sadden. I sigh.Be nice, Kaya.“Honestly,” I press, dropping the ‘tude. “Thank you for making me come, but you should go. Mac is waiting for you. He’ll take you home.”

Her throat rolls over emotion. “Will you let me know…” She pauses, lifting her chin, before saying, “how the boy is?”

And I feel sad for an entirely different reason in this moment. What she really means is: will I message her this time to let her know thatIam okay.

So, I release my necklace, take her hand from her chain and hold it softly. “Yes. I’ll text you.”

A middle-aged man in a white coat, with greying hair and tired eyes, walks from Xander’s room, and I home-in, my hand slipping from mum’s as I approach to hear what this obviously important man has to say aboutmyXander.

The three girls on the bench have straightened, Max has his arms folded across his chest, and Bronson and Clay Butcher have stepped from the adjacent hospital room, too.

No sign of Luca.

He knows me, well, enough to know I matter to Xander that is. ButIrecognise both Butcher Boys. Bronson is impossible to miss with his vivid tattoos, colours painting him entirely, but for his face. And Clay, suited and professional, tall and steadfast.

I don’t have time to feel nervous about seeing him again after lighting the fire and the way he reprimanded me for it. I don’t have time to care. It was a mistake. He found out. And he was the mayor then, so I got my slap on the wrist.

Whatever.

The Butcher Boys and the girls are focused on the doctor, offering me a chance to edge close enough to eavesdrop. The doctor stares at Clay Butcher—of course. He’d be stupid not to address him first.

“The MRI was fine, Mr Butcher. But short-term memory loss is very common in fighters. They often wake up and ask whether the fight has started.” He goes on, “After a concussion, this is normal. So, we need to see what he remembers. But that’s not the main issue here.”

Will he remember when we fell in love?

But, he’s okay.

Alive?

Is that what he’s saying?

My feet force me to the open door. Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for dread. But when I see Xander sitting up and talking to Stacey and another brunette woman, the light from the open window bathing the room is a visual symbol of happiness. It’s like a daydream, a perfect reverie, the way I wanted it to be when I walked in here—Xander alive—too good to be real.

So, I catapult myself towards him in a single-minded action. Tears build; my eyes are too used to them today.

“I thought—” I climb onto the bed, and his smile grows despite the obvious swelling to his jaw. That’s it. His grin. That is all I need to narrow to him again. Only him and me. “I know I said I would stay. They took you.”

“Hey, Woman.” I crawl up the mattress and drop my knees on either side of his body, banding his neck with my arms. Joining our bodies as close as humanly possible.God, he still smells like Xander. “Bit bruised there,” he groans through a chuckle.

“OhGod.” With a start, I release him and push backwards, but he keeps me to his chest, where I can feel his heart beating steadily. “Did I hurt you?”

“Most things worth feeling hurt, Baby.”

When he says baby, tears spill from my eyes. I needed to hear him say that. The pet name we chose moments before he dropped. Maybe, I thought that he’d forget the seconds we fell in love, like the first time we met; his memories aren’t as extensive as mine. I have a night with Xander that he doesn’t even remember when he licked me into a limp mess.

I bury my face while I sob, not wanting anyone else to see these willing tears, but he cups my cheeks, insisting that I look at him. Pushing my face to where he can see, his endless-blue eyes study me under a frown. “I don’t like those tears. What are those tears for? I’m fine.”

I cry in the cradle of his palms. “You weren’t.”

“You were alone.” His smile is void now; his brows furrowed above a regretful gaze. “That would have been scary, yeah? I’m so fucking sorry, Baby. I’m so sorry you were alone in there and I couldn’t get up.”

It’s not about me.

I shake my head in his palms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry, Baby,” he says again, pulling me to him, holding me to his chest in protective warmth, and now I can feel more eyes on me though I can’t see them. His lips lower to my ear, “You’re more fragile than you pretend, Kaya. I’ll have to remember that. I’m just getting to know you.”

“Shut up.” Tears fill my mouth while his words make me feel sadder; his acceptance of my vulnerability is enough to crack me open and spill my emotions like a pinata. “You fell. You went down so fucking quickly. I hate boxing.”

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