Page 3 of Knot Without My Permission
“Promise me you’ll get out of here after this?” the doctor asks. “You’re weaving on your feet.”
“Promise,” I grunt, tugging the slim chart with the details of a dead man inside of it away.
My feet do the walking as I lock myself in a storage closet to look through the chart. Except, there are no details about the actual surgery, which means I’m flying blind. All it says is that a white, tattooed male came in with a gunshot wound, along with some other random details I fucking charted myself.
“Worthless damn doctor,” I whisper. I have a feeling he only had the chart in his hand to have something to hold. Blowing out a breath, I refuse to break. I have to keep my shit together, be a professional, while bringing some of the worst news possible to two people who made Lore the center of their universe.
Little things I’ve seen float through my mind as I remember interactions I’ve been a part of or witnessed. They always seemed to be watching him, they followed his orders easily while still sassing them in a way that shows they’ve been together a long time. I know they told me they’re quiet about their relationship, but the little ways they’d take care of each other were as loud as the neon signs you see at a strip club.
“Time to go, Princess,” I whisper to myself. As much as I fought Lore for his nickname for me, there were moments when that’s how he treated me.
We didn’t get enough time.
Swallowing hard, I slip out of the storage closet, drop off the useless patient folder since it doesn’t have the answers I need, and exit the emergency room to find Storm and Wilder. They rise as one when they see me, their jaws ticking with emotion.
God, can they tell he’s gone?
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice cracking as I stand in front of them. “Lore died on the table while they were working on him. His heart gave out. That’s?—”
“That’s enough,” Wilder says gently, his hands wrapping around my wrists. “You’re still here.”
“I had to know,” I say, tears beginning to break free. “Please don’t give me shit for staying past my shift.”
“He was yours too,” Wilder says simply. “He wanted you to be the last person he saw. The moody bastard wouldn’t let us take him anywhere closer.”
“It’s not fair,” I gasp.
“It’s not. Let’s go, Kitty. No one else deserves to see your tears but us,” Storm says.
Glancing around, I realize it’s not just Storm and Wilder in the waiting room, but other men as well. I recognize some of them from my unfortunate experience on the highway, their eyes are so full of pain, it’s all I can focus on.
“But if he hadn’t waited,” I say, exasperated and becoming angry.
One of the men rises to his feet, his face tanned and weathered with grief.
“Don’t do that,” he growls. “The only goddamned thing he wanted was to know you’d be the last person who would see him if he didn’t make it. This was his way of saying goodbye. I know you’re new to this world, but this was his choice. Don’t dishonor our President.”
Words evaporate as I nod, unable to do anything else.
“Time to go, baby,” Wilder murmurs, sweeping me into his arms. “Arsenal, will you help us get our bikes back? I’m driving her cage home.”
The words don’t mean anything as I lay my head on his shoulder. The hospital can’t fire me for letting my scent match drive me home, even if he is a biker.
“Yeah. You got it,” Arsenal mutters, already moving as one with the other club members. “When you have a chance, call me.”
“Yep.”
Wilder’s voice is terse as his heavy boots strike the linoleum floor as he walks away with Storm close behind him.
“It’s so hard to breathe,” I whimper, the air in my lungs feeling syrupy and heavy.
“I know, baby.” He kisses my temple as he walks toward my SUV, his steps heavy. “Storm, let the guys take your bike back. She’s going to have a panic attack.”
Arching my neck back, I try to breathe in his scent to settle the emotions building inside of me. I want to scream, but Arsenal's voice is loud inside of my mind.
Don’t dishonor our President. He may not have been my President, but he was stillmine. Or rather, he was trying to be, and now that’s all gone to shit.
“Why do you all have to be such pushy assholes?” I ask, my voice small. It still feels like gunshots in the early hours of the morning, and Wilder huffs out a chuckle as he pulls out a pair of keys from his pocket.
