Page 24 of Saint’s Revenge

"Probably true." Her eyes are already drifting closed. "But I'm holding you to it."

"I know you will."

Her breathing starts to even out. The morphine is doing its job, but her hand doesn't loosen in mine. I watch the monitors. Watch the steady rhythm of her heartbeat displayed in green lines. Count her breaths, shallow because of the ribs, but consistent.

She's alive.

After everything, after five years apart, after tonight, after finding her broken on that warehouse floor, she's still here. Still breathing. Still holding my hand like she used to.

She called me. Risked her life to give me the information that led to tonight. Knew it might cost her everything and did it anyway because it was the right thing to do. That's the Riley I remember. The one who always did what was right even when it was hard. Even when it cost her.

I wish I'd been that brave five years ago. Wish I'd stayed and fought instead of running. But wishing doesn't change anything. Can only move forward from here.

And forward means keeping her safe. Means making sure she heals. Means not leaving her again no matter how scared I get or how complicated things become.

I settle deeper into the couch. My back is going to hate me for this in the morning: thin mattress, awkward position, still wearing my cut and boots. But I'm not moving. Not leaving this room.

Riley's hand stays wrapped around mine even as her breathing deepens into real sleep.

I close my eyes.

Tomorrow we'll figure out what comes next. Tomorrow I'll introduce her properly to the brothers. Tomorrow we'll start navigating what it means to have her here, in my world, after five years of absence.

But tonight, this is enough. Her breathing steady beside me. Her hand in mine. Both of us alive despite everything that tried to destroy us.

My last thought before sleep takes me is that maybe, just maybe, surviving the worst night of our lives means we get a chance at something better.

Whatever that looks like, we'll figure it out.

Together.

Chapter 6 - Riley

The pain wakes me before anything else.

Sharp. Relentless. Every breath sends agony through my ribs. My jaw throbs in time with my heartbeat. The pressure in my skull feels like someone's tightening a vice with each pulse.

I keep my eyes closed and try to breathe through it. In. Out. Shallow. Then I feel it, the weight of someone's hand wrapped around mine.

My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through a single window. The room comes into focus in pieces. Medical equipment. Monitors beeping softly. IV stand beside the bed.

And Lucas.

He's folded onto a couch that's way too small for his frame, one arm dangling off the edge, the other stretched toward me so our hands can stay connected. His cut is wrinkled, still stained with blood and ash. His boots are unlaced but still on. He didn't even take the time to clean up before collapsing there.

His face is turned toward me, slack with exhaustion. For the first time since I saw him last night, he doesn't look like he's carrying the weight of the world. Just looks like Lucas. The boy I grew up with. The one who used to fall asleep on my couch after particularly bad nights at home because his house was worse than mine.

God, I missed that face.

I slowly slide my hand free from his. My fingers are numb from being held in the same position all night. I flex them, wincing at the pins and needles sensation.

The movement makes my ribs scream. I freeze, breathing through the spike of pain, waiting for it to settle back to a manageable level.

Everything hurts. Not just the obvious injuries—the ribs, the jaw, the head. Everything. My muscles are stiff from lying in one position. My back aches. Even my fingers hurt when I move them.

The door opens with a soft click.

I turn my head and see a woman slipping inside. Auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun. Green eyes that look tired but kind. She's carrying a small tray balanced in both hands.