“Stop it. Don’t say it.”
Molly curled her legs beneath her, looking dejected and lost. Gone were the capable businesswomen from Church. These women loved their men deeply. They felt their absence as deep as any wound.
In a way, I was grateful. Thankful that I didn’t have to go through this alone. Thankful that I had others to hold up the curtain of grief so it didn’t smother me entirely.
More time ticked by.
Slowly, anger chased away my concern. I filled with rage.
How could Arthur do this to me?
How could he invite me back into his life and then walk so easily out of mine? How could he leave me torn apart with no one to sew me back together?
Damn you, Arthur Killian. You owe me. Stay alive.
With nothing else to do, I slowly wore down the floorboards, making them gleam from my relentless pacing.
How much time had passed?
The Clubhouse was a prison drowning me. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
Stumbling from the room, I made my way to the exit and wrenched open the door to the front yard. Barbed wire and high fences kept the world out but also penned me inside with my raging anxiety.
I’d gone through all stages of grief, cycling through them over and over again. I went from terrified to livid, from numb to sick. I’d passed the point of visualizing all the horrible things that could’ve gone wrong and forced myself to wait for answers. I even settled into acceptance—as if my heart couldn’t handle the not knowing and would rather accept the worst than hope for the best.
My eyes were raw and strained as I stared at the waning moon above. It was pale and washed out as a new day dawned. Or perhaps it was merely feeling my pain and sympathizing.
Closing my eyes, I begged.
Please, let him return safely.
Please, let him be okay.
My knees wobbled; I couldn’t take the worry anymore.
Moving around the front façade of the building, I slid down the wall and drew my knees up. Tucking my face in my hands, I tried to calm myself—to silent my concerns and stay strong.
Cicadas chirped. The honking noises of wild fowl in the everglades steadily grew more determined as daylight chased away the night.
Then … something hummed on the horizon.
My head snapped up, ears aching to listen.
It came again.
Louder than a cricket, more mechanical than any insect.
They’re here.
Throwing myself to my feet, I charged inside. “Melanie! Molly! They’re back!” I skidded into the common room. “Jane, grab the first aid kits. Feifei, you’re in charge of getting food and water. Bring it all in here—just in case.”
I went straight into triage mode. I didn’t care if they all walked in thumping each other on the back and commiserating a fight well triumphed. I wanted to be ready.
Please, let them be fine.
The growl of engines grew louder as the women dashed off to do what I asked. Switchblade appeared from one of the offices, and, with a worried look in my direction, bolted to the garage to open the huge roller door.
The thunder of motorbikes boomed. Out of the gloom drove three, six, ten, then a torrent of bikers. They poured into the gleaming lights of the garage, parking haphazardly among resting Harleys and muscle cars.
I lost count as the last bike roared inside and Switchblade pressed the remote to cut off the outside world, protecting his brothers.
Engines were killed, helmets were tugged off, and groans of agony became the new cacophony rather than engines.
Dashing forward, I searched for Arthur.
Where is he?
Man after man I discounted as I searched for my soul mate. Blood and dirt and gore covered the returned warriors.
But there was no sign of their president.
A hand squeezed my shoulders. I spun in fright. My heart rabbited, already anticipating my lover, smiling secretively and full of life.
I froze.
Grasshopper cupped my cheek, his face smeared with grime and weariness. “Cleo …”
The world sucked into a terrible vacuum. My heart stopped beating. “Where … where is he?”
Hopper sighed; his mohawk bristled with debris and grease. His cut had a rip down the front and his boots were covered in mud. “He’s not with us. He’ s—”
A screeching filled my ears, my head, my soul. Grabbing his lapels, I yanked him close. “Please. Please tell me he’s okay!”
Grasshopper wrapped an arm around my shoulder, guiding me toward a hot, hissing motorbike. “We don’t know yet. I came to get you. I’ll take you to him.”
With strong hands, he plucked me from the floor and placed me gently on the back of his Triumph. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t speak.
Am I in shock?
Am I broken?
Placing a helmet on my head and fastening the strap around my chin, he said softly, “He’s alive, Cleo. Just hold on to that and let’s hope the doctors keep him that way.”
I decided something while waiting in the dismal, depressing waiting room of the hospital. In a way, I’d had my eyes opened and the last naïveté of childhood stripped away.
Being the one left behind—the one waiting to hear the news of a loved one’s fate was the worst kind of punishment ever. I thought I’d understood Arthur’s pain. Understood his grief to believe I was dead and never coming back.
But I didn’t. Not really.
Dealing with amnesia was the easy part.
I’d moved on with nothing. No sadness to consume me. No guilt to enrage me. I’d had a clean slate.
Not Arthur. He’d been the one left behind.
My heart wouldn’t stop aching to think of the intolerable agony Arthur had been left with. I’d waited for news of his surgery for eight hours. But he’d waited for me to be reincarnated for eight years.
He was so much stronger, braver, and more capable than me. Purely because he’d lived through that tragedy and continued on living. Me? I wanted to die and fossilize in this awful plastic chair, so I never had to hear the news that he didn’t make it.
When we first arrived, Grasshopper had stayed close by. The nurses and orderlies all gave him a wide berth, eyeing up his bloody clothes and split knuckles. But gradually, as updates of Arthur’s progress was delivered, more and more Pure Corruption members arrived.
They’d showered and donned fresh clothes but they couldn’t wash away the stench of battle from their skin, nor banish the carnage from their eyes.
What they’d done last night hung around them like a thick aura and I made a promise never to ask what they did. Never to pry about the murders and torture that Dagger Rose deserved.
However, I couldn’t block my ears from their whispered conversations.
That was how I found out Arthur wasn’t the only casualty.
There’d been two others.
Mo and Beetle. A veteran and a prospect.
Dead. Gone. And all for what?
“Mrs. Killian?”
My head shot up. Doctor Laine frowned, taking in my ragged state and bloodshot eyes. “Everything okay?”
Seeing a familiar face threatened to break me. Digging my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palm, I stood. “There was a motorbike accident. Arthur is …” Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to finish. “He’s in surgery.”
I would’ve given anything to be in the room while they worked on him. My fingers itched to stitch and heal. But dealing with a dog or cat was entirely different than dealing with my lover.
Doctor Laine’s face fell; her severe hairstyle made her look older than her years. “I’ll find out what I can. But rest assured, he’s in great hands here.”
I tried to smile but nothing happened.
“Honestly, don’t worry,” she consoled. She tried to drag my thoughts from depression by distracting me. “I heard that you sewed up Mr. Killian when you first met.”
My eyes widened. How did she get t
hat piece of information? Then they narrowed at the incorrect assumption. Having just met him implied he hadn’t been mine all my life. I shook my head. “I stitched him up, that’s true. But it wasn’t the first time we’d met.”
She cocked her head. “Oh?”
I frowned, struggling to focus on love when all I could think about was death. “The night I patched him up was the night we found each other for the second time.”
Before Doctor Laine could reply, a male doctor with a receding hairline and lined eyes appeared. “Ms. Price?”
The tantalization of news hurled me forward, gasping for knowledge. But then the fear of bad news almost pushed me back, making me want to huddle in the vacated chair.
“Yes?”
He waved his arm, motioning for me to follow.
Doctor Laine squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later. I have no doubt he’ll be fine.”
Grasshopper appeared from grabbing a vending machine coffee. His eyes softened. “Go on, Butterbean. It’s better to know than not. I’ll be here for you, either way.”
Tears flooded my eyes but I didn’t let them fall. Bracing myself, I chased after the doctor and waited.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Ms. Price.” The doctor hid behind his clipboard almost as if he protected himself from me and the family of bikers I ran with. “His injuries are pretty serious.”
I wrung my hands. “What … what happened?”
“According to your, eh, friends, Arthur suffered a blackout from his previous concussion while driving. His motorcycle skidded out of control and he smashed into a highway barrier.”
My heart stopped beating. “Oh, my God.”
Hearing the truth after Grasshopper refused to tell me sucker punched my soul. Hopper had tried to protect me by hiding what’d happened—but it hadn’t helped. I’d only come up with worse scenarios.
The repeating image of Arthur slamming into concrete tore at my insides.
“Arthur has suffered a slow bleed on his brain since he checked himself out from this hospital against my advice. Unfortunately, the pressure built and built until there was no more space to build.”
“What does that mean?”
The doctor glanced away. “We had to operate. It was a delicate situation—always is when dealing with something as complex as the brain—but we were able to stem the internal bleeding.” He cleared his throat. “The additional scans show promise. We hope with time, he’ll return to normal functions.”
What does that mean? Would he be the same man I knew? The same boy I’d fallen in love with?
“Will he be okay?” My voice was a tinny thread.
The doctor sighed. “As long as he listens this time and takes it easy, I have no cause to believe otherwise. Like I said, his injuries are serious, but the human body has repaired much worse. In situations such as these, it’s common for a patient to wake and be in full capacity of their intellect, vocabulary, and show no adverse effects. Unlike other operations where healing is hindered with pain, the brain is different. Miraculous really.”
I didn’t know half of what he meant. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was holding him and witnessing for myself he was okay.
My muscles vibrated, threatening to come apart. “Can I see him?”
“Of course.” The doctor lowered his clipboard, waving down the corridor for me to follow. Silently, I trailed in his wake, feeling like I walked the pathway of death. Bright lights hurt my eyes; antiseptic stung my nose.
Planting his hand on a door, the doctor cracked it open and stepped back. “I’ll give you two a minute. He’s awake but groggy. We’ll monitor him closely over the next twelve hours. Don’t be alarmed. Half of his head is shaven and fully bandaged, and he’s broken a couple of bones, but overall, he’s strong and on the mend.”
Broken bones?
Never-ceasing tears sprang to my eyes.
Oh, Art.
Unable to speak, I slipped past him into the room where a single bed hovered in the center, serenaded by gentle beeps and irregular humming.
My eyes drank in the man tucked tightly beneath starched sheets.
I blinked, staring at him.
Or at least, I stared at … someone.
Someone lay in the bed.
But I didn’t recognize them.
Where was Arthur? My huge fearless Libran with arms roped with muscle and chest broadened with power?
This man was a stranger.
Covering my mouth, I drank in his injuries with horror.
His arm was at a right angle, encased in a fresh cast. His cheek scraped and raw, parts covered in gauze. And his head was covered in bandages. He looked so … lifeless. So broken.
My knees quaked as I crossed the short distance and went to him. “Arthur …”
He didn’t respond. I stopped beside the bed, fingers trembling as I touched his cool cheek, doing my best not to look at the turban of white covering his shaggy dark hair.
The doctor had warned me.
His hair will be gone beneath that.
But no matter how much information I learned—no matter the statistics or in-depth detail of his operation and recovery—nothing could soften the blow of seeing the man I loved so bruised, crumbled, and pained.
Taking his hand, I squeezed his fingers. “Arthur … can you hear me?”
Nothing.
His face was white as the sheets, eyes ringed with shadow.
Urgency possessed me. He had to see me, had to open his eyes to know I was there …
I would always be there.
“Arthur. Please …”
I tightened my hold on his cold hand, wishing upon wishes for him to respond.
The fear of his concussion crushed me. The memory of him being a devil to rouse a few days ago caused a sob to build in my lungs. “Art …”
I rolled my shoulders, pressing my forehead on his chest. Wires and monitors covered him—some slinking beneath the bandage around his head—others snaking down the front of his hospital gown.
I wanted to rip them all away. To free him from suffering. To protect him.
“Arthur … please. I need to see that you’re okay …”
He left me stranded for another long moment, but then something changed. A gathering of awareness—a coming to from deep slumber.
The first sign of life was a twitch, a breath, an extra beep as his heart woke up. The next was parted lips and color flooding to ghostly cheeks. It was like watching a butterfly escape from a chrysalis.
And then finally, his eyes opened.
They were just as green and brilliant as I remembered.
The color bowled into me, wrapping me in emerald hope and chasing away my clinging fears. “Oh, thank God.”
I pressed a kiss on his cheek, inhaling him. His scent was faint, hidden beneath antiseptic but traces of leather and sea salt existed.
He still existed.
“You’re okay … you’re going to be okay.” I peppered his face with love.
He groaned, shifting away a little.
Pulling back, I blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to attack you. It’s just … God, it’s been a horrible night.”
He frowned, his eyes locking onto mine.
My heart stopped.
No …
Instead of love and affection, they were blank. Cold as rock and empty as a tomb.
Pain.
Pain I never knew existed splintered through me.
“Art?” A watery smile pulled my lips. “It’s me … Cleo.”
His forehead furrowed. He shook his head.
No. No, please.
Nightmares swarmed me with thoughts of him forgetting me. Of our roles reversing. Of amnesia tormenting me all over again by making me the forgotten not the forgetful.
I wouldn’t be able to survive. I couldn’t live in a world where Arthur didn’t love me. Even while we were apart I’d felt it—some cosmic bond keeping me alive. He’d kept me strong. He was the reason I�
�d kept going.
If he’s left me …
“Arthur … don’t do this.” The sobs I’d tried to swallow erupted. Tears flooded my cheeks. “You know me … remember?” I fumbled for his hand again. “I’m yours. Buttercup …”
He sucked in a breath. The blankness shifted like fog on a lake. “B-Buttercup …”
I shivered so hard my teeth rattled. “It’s me. Please, don’t forget me. I can’t manage if you forget me!”
Suddenly, his lips twisted in horror. “Fuuuuck, Cleo …” The drugs cleared, his pain receded, and he truly saw me. His soul shone, glittering with agony. “Never. Oh, Christ, h-how could I e-ever forget you.” His large body shifted beneath the sheets. His broken arm tried to wrap around my shoulders. He grunted in pain, breathing hard. “I kn-know who you are. I do.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry—I’m a little out of it w-with whatever they gave me. How could you ever t-think—”
“You didn’t recognize me.” I tried to hide my face. The lack of sleep and overwhelming worry gave me no room to hide. I became unhinged on a nightmare that wasn’t true.
What if this was all in my head? What if the words I heard weren’t real? Could he wake from brain surgery and start talking as if everything was fine? Is that what the doctor meant?
“Hey …” He managed to cup my cheek with his uncased hand. His rough thumb traced my damp tears. “You’re t-tearing me apart, Cleo. Don’t c-cry. I’m here. I’m still me.”
Part of me didn’t believe him. Part of me still feared the worst—that the doctors had chopped out the parts of his brain coded to me, the synapses that made him mine. I couldn’t shake the debilitating terror that there was nothing I could do to stop him from leaving me—to keep him alive and in my arms.
Nothing!
Only fate. And fate had proven to be a merciless bitch.
I cried harder.
“Hey … Buttercup. D-don’t.” His hand wrapped around my nape, pulling me into him. “Christ, you’ll make me c-cry in a moment, baby.” His lips pressed against my forehead. “I love you. I will always l-love you. You’re my world, Cleo.”
His words were a balm to whatever terror held me hostage, slowly smoothing the more he shed his grogginess. My legs gave out, tumbling me into his chest.
He flinched, sucking in a ragged breath, but he didn’t let me go. His arm banded tighter, crushing me with love. “I’m here. I’m still yours.” His voice haunted with pain. “I’ll always be yours. I p-promise.”
Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2) Page 34
