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Jordyn’s blood, her pain, it’s all I see.
My chest tightens, breaths coming short and fast.
“Calm down, Bama. Things could be worse, but that update was good. It might not seem like it, but it was.” Zane murmurs, placing a hand on my shoulder.
His grip is firm, reassuring, but it isn’t enough to make me relax.
“Who do you think you did this, Zane?” I ask, voice trembling with rage. “Tell me you have an idea. I think it was that slimy fuck, Blake.”
“We’ll talk about this shit later,” he repeats, eyes steely. “At the club, in private. All we can do is focus on Jordyn right now.”
“Focusing isn’t doin’ jack shit right now, Prez.” I retort, pacing again.
The floor tiles blur beneath my feet, white and sterile, mocking me.
“She’s gonna make it through this, and she’s gonna need you to be strong,” Zane says, his voice low. “Trust me. Women with our blood always make it through this type of shit.”
“She better make it out of this,” I grit out, swallowing the lump in my throat. Loyalty isn’t just riding together; it's bleeding together, fighting for every breath. And right now, I feel like Jordyn’s fighting alone.
Fuck, why wasn’t anyone there at Tart with her?
Was there a way I could have prevented this?
“She will,” Zane states, more a command than a hope.
“I hope so,” I whisper, staring at the double doors that swallowed her whole.
The waiting eats at me like acid, corroding every ounce of control I have left.
“Zane, you staying here with the rest of us?” Dracus’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
His eyes don’t waver from the double doors, but I know his mind is already plotting our next move.
“Yeah,” Zane replies, not missing a beat. His jaw is set, eyes fixed on the spot where Jordyn disappeared. “She’s family, and we always show up for family.”
“Okay,” Dracus nods, then turns to me. “Bama, let’s go downstairs. Get some food in you.”
“I’m not really hungry,” I snap, pacing again.
My boots scuff against the sterile floor, each step a reminder of how useless I feel right now.
“Didn’t ask if you were hungry,” Dracus says, his tone brooking no argument. “It wasn’t up for discussion. Now, c’mon.”
“Fuck that,” I mutter, but my stomach betrays me with a low growl.
I haven’t eaten since . . . hell, who knows when.
“Tex, Bolt,” Dracus calls out.
The two men snap to attention, their leather cuts creaking as they move. “We’re taking Bama down for a bite.”
“Got it,” Tex answers, his expression grim.
Bolt just nods, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Let’s go,” Dracus orders, and I find myself following, legs moving on autopilot.
The waiting room fades behind us, swallowed by the maze of hospital corridors.
