Page 30 of Judge's Justice

"Hey, kid," I rasp. Sign it against her back with my working hand. "I'm okay. See? Still here."

Grace pulls back, signing through her tears. "You're bleeding everywhere. Your face is all purple. That's not okay!"

"I've had worse."

"That's not better!"

Despite everything, the broken rib, the ruined shoulder, the fact that I can barely see out of one eye, I almost smile.

Saint looks at Nora. "Ma'am, I'm Saint. This is Canvas. We're Judge's brothers. Iron Phoenix MC." He gestures to me. "We need to get him inside. Get him cleaned up and properly checked. Can we—"

"Yes. Of course. Please." Nora stands, pulling Grace with her. "Bring him inside. There's a couch. I'll get towels and water and, oh God, should I call an ambulance? Does he need a hospital?"

"No hospitals," I manage. "Saint used to be a paramedic. He can patch me up."

"Judge, you might have internal bleeding. You need—"

"No hospitals," I repeat. "Hospitals mean questions. Questions mean police. Police mean complications we don't need."

Nora looks like she wants to argue. But she just nods and runs inside. Canvas and Saint haul me to my feet. The world tilts dangerously. I grab onto Canvas's shoulder, fighting to stay conscious.

"Lean on me," Canvas says. "Come on, old man. Just a few steps."

Grace walks beside us, her small hand wrapped around my good hand, squeezing tight. She's stopped crying but her face is blotchy and her eyes are huge.

We make it to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.

Nora has the couch cleared, towels laid out, a first aid kit open on the coffee table. She's moving with purpose now, focus, the fear channeled into action.

They lower me onto the couch, and I try not to scream. I fail.

Grace climbs up beside me immediately. Slowly, avoiding my bad side. She signs with shaking hands. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"Yeah. But I'm okay. Promise."

"You promised to be careful. You said you wouldn't get hurt."

"I lied."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny."

Saint kneels beside the couch, already assessing. His hands move over my ribs, my face, checking pupils, checking pulse. His expression is neutral, but I can see the concern.

"Two broken ribs," he confirms. "Possible concussion. That shoulder's going to be useless for a week. Your face looks like you went through a meat grinder." He sits back. "You're lucky they didn't do worse."

"Wasn't luck. Was negotiation."

Canvas leans against the wall, arms crossed. "You negotiated to get your ass kicked?"

"They had security footage of Nora and Grace from the bus station. Said if I fought back, they'd go looking for them. Find out where they're staying. So, I took it. I had to."

I look at Saint. "You shouldn't have come. They recognized you. They're going to tell him you were here, protecting me, protecting civilians. You just painted a bigger target on your back."

Saint's jaw clenches. "I know."

"So why the fuck did you come?"