Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
It should fill me with happiness, but her past is now no longer part of her immediate equation, and I can't speculate, regardless of her being in my arms, that in the end she'll choose me.
Her goals for her future could look so different from the tidbits I've allowed myself to imagine, but now, so soon after her most recent trauma, isn't the time to talk about it and encourage her to make decisions.
"We should probably get out of everyone's way," I say instead as I pull back.
She looks up at me, a gentle yet sad smile on her face.
She tucks herself into my side as I turn her toward my bike.
Kincaid is off to the side, talking with a group of officers, an equal mix of local and federal jurisdictions standing in front of him. I'm not surprised to see them coordinating with him. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of officials who listen intently when he speaks.
The man has decades of experience, and the positions he has put Cerberus in since the club started have given him more knowledge than most of these people combined. He's well respected and has deserved every ounce of it.
"He looks like he's the one running the show," Juliet whispers when she notices where my attention has gone.
"Good chance he is," I tell her. "Unofficially, of course. He'll call in every favor ever owed to him to make sure Whitmore never sees another day of freedom."
Chapter 52
Juliet
"Nope."
I freeze when Kid steps in front of us.
"We're going back to the clubhouse," Nyx tells him, his arm around me tightening.
Kid shakes his head, pointing toward the hospital. "You're taking her inside to be evaluated."
I feel Nyx turn his gaze down to me, but I want to argue with Kid rather than look up at him and have him fight my battles for me.
"I'm fine," I assure him.
"And we'd like to hear those same words from a medical professional," Kid says, his tone even but leaving no room for argument. "And you, too. Those knuckles may need stitches."
I glance down, looking at Nyx's hand near my hip and gasp.
Blood coats my shirt, and I don't know if it's his or whatever may have rubbed off Graham when he grabbed me after killing Kayla.
"It's fine," Nyx mutters.
"It's not," I argue. "Those look so painful."
"Will you make him get checked out?" Kid asks, changing his tactic. "Maybe get checked out yourself so he can't argue?"
Despite it feeling like a manipulation, I don't argue.
"They're fine," Nyx mumbles as I turn away from Kid and angle us right back toward the hospital.
I open my mouth to explain further what I think happened to get Kayla involved with Graham as we wait for the elevator, but the doors open, revealing medical staff waiting inside.
They freeze at the sight of us.
"Is the scene clear?" one guy asks, his fingers close to the buttons as if he might have to hit them quickly to close the door again. "We were told it was clear."
"It's clear," Nyx assures him.
"I'm here for a wounded woman," the nurse says from behind a wheelchair.
"And I'm here for the deceased," a man says with a blank expression, his palm resting on a gurney.
Nyx pulls me to the side, giving them access to leave the elevator.
"She's injured," he tells the nurse before looking at the other man. "You can head over in that direction. Talk to anyone with a gun or a mean look on their face, and they'll direct you on what to do."
"I'm not—" I begin, but he's already gently guiding my shoulder so I'll turn around and sit in the wheelchair.
I glare up at him, but the mild irritation fades when he gives me one of those little grins that probably looks a little demented to other people.
"And you, sir?" the nurse asks, noticing the cuts on his knuckles.
"I'm fi—"
"He's injured, too," I rush to say before he can finish.
His smile grows wider, making me grin as well.
The ride up is silent, but Nyx stays close, his hand resting on my shoulder. The touch is comforting, and if it weren't for the wounds on his hands, I'd roll my head to the side and press my cheek against it.
The hospital is busier inside than it seemed it would be, given the parking garage's emptiness when I first arrived. I'm wheeled into a small triage area, the curtain being closed just as another nurse is wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. I look up at Nyx, only to catch his back as he disappears on the other side of the curtain.
"Blood pressure is a little high," the nurse says.
"She was just attacked in the parking garage," another nurse says. "Of course it is."
I don't argue that I was feeling fine until I saw him leave because it doesn't seem relevant.