Page 86 of Vengeance

Within fifteen minutes, the parking lot looked like organized chaos. Motorcycles roared in one after another, and she knew that the Royal Bastards had arrived. She even recognized some of the members. A few of them were bleeding, and some were carrying injured brothers. Most of them looked downright furious.

Dixie helped wheel a prospect inside while another nurse took over triage. "Two gunshot wounds!" someone shouted.

"Chest trauma!" another yelled.

"I need another IV!" a doctor ordered. The emergency room exploded into motion. She'd seen disasters before, but this felt different. It felt personal because the guys down at the clubhouse were like family around the Recovery Center.

She was checking a biker's blood pressure when the front doors burst open again and a man staggered inside under his own power. He was tall, had broad shoulders, and dressed entirely in black. Blood soaked one sleeve of his leather jacket, but not all of it looked like his. He ignored everyone in the waiting room as his eyes scanned every exit automatically, like he expected death to walk through the front door at any second.

"Dixie." One of the nurses pointed at the man. "That one."

She grabbed a pair of gloves. "I'm on it." The stranger was already trying to leave. "You need stitches."

"I'm fine,” he insisted.

"No, you're bleeding,” she argued.

"It'll stop.” She stepped directly into his path, and he stopped so suddenly she almost walked into him. His eyes were unlike any she'd ever seen—not cold, but empty, like someone hadtaken every good thing out of him years ago and forgotten to put anything back.

"I'm Dixie,” she said. He didn't answer. "I don't actually care what your name is." One of his eyebrows raised when she said that. "But if you're bleeding on my clean floor, you're officially my problem." For the first time since he walked in, something almost resembling amusement flickered across his face.

"It'll wash out of your floor, I’m sure,” he grumbled.

"Can you just humor me?” she asked.

He looked down at the blood staining the polished tile. "I said I'm fine."

"And I said you're my problem." The room around them buzzed with controlled panic, but neither of them seemed to notice.

He sighed. "You always this stubborn?"

"Only on weekdays,” she said.

"It's Saturday," he reminded.

"So today's especially bad." The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but more like he'd remembered what one looked like—but just barely.

"Sit." She pointed toward an empty treatment room.

"No,” he growled.

She blinked at him, not sure why he was being so stubborn. "No?"

"I don't like rooms with one door,” he admitted. The answer came so quickly, so automatically, that she knew it hadn't been a joke. It had been about survival. She looked at him differently—not as another biker or another patient, but as someone who'd spent years expecting to die.

Without another word, she opened the back door leading to the ambulance bay. "There."

He looked surprised. "Two exits." He studied her for several long seconds and then, without argument, he walked inside theroom and sat on the edge of the exam table while she cleaned dried blood from his forearm. The wound was deep, and she guessed that it was from a knife and not a bullet.

“You need stitches,” she said.

"I’m fine. I've had worse,” he admitted.

She looked him over, noticing various scars. "I'm sure you have." She threaded the needle. "So—” She smiled. "You're one of those."

"One of what?" he asked.

"The quiet, moody ones," she teased.