Battles of the Broken (The Sons of Templar MC Book 6)

  She said nothing.

  “Gage saved my life, you know,” she said finally.

  I didn’t reply. She knew I knew. Everyone knew about him and the rest of the men rescuing Bex from where she was being held captive. Where she was being brutalized in some of the worst ways imaginable. And even worse ways people couldn’t even imagine.

  “He was the one who took me to my first meeting.”

  That had my eyes jerking to her. For a fragment of a second, anyway. Then I remembered how important, how vital it was for me to keep my gaze on Gage. So I moved it back, loudly exhaling when I saw his heart was still beating.

  It hurt doing that. Breathing. Of course it did—my ribs were shattered and broken from my heart exploding. But physically it did too. And it was getting worse. But it was easy to ignore when I focused on the pain in my chest.

  “Not many people know Gage is an addict,” Bex continued.

  “Recovering,” I snapped.

  “Addict is always an addict, recovered or not.”

  I didn’t reply because her voice mimicked Gage’s.

  “Gabriel physically saved me from my Hell. And I mean in the literal way of breaking in and unchaining me from the bed I was being raped in. Killing the man who’d been doing it.”

  I flinched.

  She wasn’t handling me with care like the rest did. Like they thought I was fragile and if they spoke in gentle words, I might not break. Bex knew I was already broken, so it didn’t matter how she spoke to me.

  “I also mean figuratively, that he reached into the flaming pit and wrenched me out. Sure, I did some of the work too. I’m an independent woman, after all.”

  I imagined she winked based on her tone.

  “But there are different kinds of Hell for each of our demons. At any time, they’re trying to drag us into a different one so we can experience a new type of suffering. That’s what life is, after all. Various types of suffering.” She paused, and I watched her trail a black-tipped fingernail down the scars on Gage’s arms.

  “Gage took me out of another one. Or at least he showed me I wasn’t the only one in there. I owe him a debt for that. I can’t do much about that.” I saw her nod toward the bed in my periphery. “But I can do something about this.”

  She was standing right in front of me at that point, blocking my view of Gage.

  I panicked, wanting to move, needing to move, but my muscles didn’t obey me. They were locked, solid iron from being in the same position for so long.

  “You need to get out of my way,” I hissed between my teeth.

  She gazed down at me, eyes hard and soft at the same time. “Nope,” she said firmly. “I’m going to make it so when Gage wakes up, it isn’t to the view of his old lady looking like a fucking corpse. He’s coming out of Hell. You really want him to think he’s still there?”

  I let her words sink in, though they fought against every one of my instincts that told me I had to sit right there for as long as it took.

  “I’m makin’ sense,” she said. “So how about you stand up. Then you can come back and not scare Gage back into the pit once he comes back.”

  She outstretched her tattooed arm.

  I stared at it for a long time.

  Then I grasped it.

  And tried to stand up.

  But of course by then, the stab wound I’d sustained and forgotten about—and no one had noticed because of the sheer volume of blood I’d been covered in, assuming it was all Gage’s—had gotten infected and spread poison throughout my body. And the arm I outstretched was attached to the shoulder I’d dislocated ripping myself out of the binds far too late to stop Jade from shooting Gage.

  So the second I took Bex’s hand, I fell into a pit of my own.

  My mind was cotton wool.

  That’s exactly what it felt like. Too soft. Too grainy. Uncomfortable. Not the right shape. Moldable when it should’ve been solid.

  Images moved behind my eyes. They were shut, but I wanted them to open.

  It didn’t work.

  Only various shapes and lights moved.

  “You didn’t think to fucking check her,” a familiar voice growled.

  It was too familiar. My heart skipped with it. But it couldn’t be real. It was too awake. Too alive. And the last time I’d seen him, there was no life left.

  It was the cotton wool. Tricking me.

  “Brother, she wouldn’t let anyone near her. It was enough to get us near you,” another voice replied.

  Not as important as the other one, so I didn’t bother tasting the sound of it to figure out who it was.

  “She screamed at us, waved a gun every time we tried to get close to her. When she realized who we were, and that’s only because I think she forgot who the fuck she was for a second, she finally let us touch you. She just sat there in the hospital waiting room, not looking at anyone, not talking—fuck, barely even breathing. Didn’t let anyone near her, let alone examine her. Second you were out of surgery, she very calmly told the doctor she would scratch his eyes out if he didn’t move and let her into your hospital room.” There was a chuckle. “Didn’t think she was much like you before, but fuck was she then. And she refused to move for three days. Three days without sleeping, eating, barely talking. And she was so fuckin’ covered in blood that we didn’t notice—”

  “It should’ve been a first fuckin’ priority to notice,” the too-good-to-be-true voice growled.

  “Brother, we didn’t think you were gonna make it. Never had someone that close to death—”

  “And I don’t give a fuck if I was shaking hands with the reaper himself and getting my own personal tour of the pit. She comes first. Every. Fucking. Time.”

  My heart warmed.

  It must’ve been a dream.

  A nice one.

  It took work to open my eyes. But I did.

  It wasn’t the snap moment that seemed to happen all the time in movies. It was a slow, lazy process, like waking from a sleep that wasn’t ready to go.

  Escaping from a death that was determined not to let go.

  There was grit behind my eyes, making my vision grainy and blurry at first. And there was a not-at-all-gentle pressure on my left hand, the bones squeaking and protesting. My right shoulder ached dull and deep.

  My thigh itched.

  My entire body felt heavy yet drained, as if someone had sucked all my blood out and replaced it with cement. It wasn’t pleasant.

  Memories didn’t rush in. They came sluggishly, on a slow-moving river, passing by my lazy gaze. I had to make the effort to grab the more important ones. I didn’t need to remember Gage being shot. The shards of glass embedded in my chest did that for me.

  The edges of them dulled slightly when I thought about moments that I wasn’t sure were real, but the pressure at my hand and the dark shape beside me told me they might’ve been.

  That voice wasn’t coming from Heaven or Hell. It was coming from both, because that’s what this place called reality was.

  The grip on my hand tightened to the point of agony as my vision cleared and locked on icy eyes. Eyes that had been on me for much longer than mine had on him. I knew because his stare was iron, determined, much like I imagined mine might’ve been when our positions had been reversed.

  He leaned forward as I blinked him into existence.

  “Will,” he rasped. “Thank fuck.”

  He closed his eyes for the longest moment, the grip on my hand loosening enough to stop the bones from breaking. With his eyes still closed, he lifted our intertwined hands and laid his mouth on my fingers. It was a soft and tender gesture, though his hands were still squeezing me in a grip bordering on brutal and his entire body was etched in barely restrained violence.

  I devoured him, but I frowned as I lowered my eyes and saw he wasn’t sitting in a chair, and there was a tube connected to the hand not holding mine, trailing to an IV.

  “You’re in a wheelchair,” I said, my voice scratchy and raw, the words b
arely intelligible.

  His lips left my hand, his head snapping up. His eyes feasted on mine as if he wasn’t expecting me to speak now. Or ever again.

  He was beautiful. The lines of his face slightly sharper around the edges because of his weight loss. His beard was longer than usual, somewhat wild but still groomed. Scarred arms were exposed in the black wifebeater he was wearing, the fabric clinging to the muscles that had yet to disappear despite being freaking shot. My heart stuttered at the sight of the white bandage peeking out from the top of the tank, wrapping around his back and shoulder.

  My eyes snapped back up to his.

  “You’re in a wheelchair,” I repeated. “And you would pretty much rather do anything in the world than so obviously expose your perceived weakness at not being able to walk after being shot in the chest, unless you’re actually meant to be in bed and nowhere near upright, which I suspect is the case.” I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you got someone to steal that wheelchair, because no way would the doctors give it to you so you could get out of bed.”

  Gage’s eyes didn’t leave me the entire time my raspy voice forced out all of those words. He watched me, attention rapt, like I was telling him the secrets of the universe instead of scolding him. Then, after a long beat of silence, he laughed.

  Like threw his head back and laughed. Well, as much as he could.

  I wanted to keep glaring at him, but the sound—though rattly and slightly strained—was full, bursting with pure happiness mingled with bone-deep relief.

  I knew it because that’s what my smile was for too.

  He stopped laughing, wincing and shifting slightly in the chair, but never letting go of my hand. “Only you, my rainbow, my Will, my Lauren, can make me fucking laugh when the last time I saw you, you were tied to a fucking chair. After thinking I was going to Hell and not knowing if I could be at peace there knowing that trip saved you.” He squeezed my hand. “And baby, I would’ve been relieved in an eternity of torment had it saved you. All I fucking see is you tied to that chair…” He said it as if that was more traumatic than getting shot. “Rest is blurry,” he grunted. “But I remember you killing her. Proud of you. Hate that that’s on your soul. Should hate it more. A good guy would, but I’m not that. So I’m proud. But I’m also pissed as fuck with you, and as soon as I’m able, and you’re well enough, I’m putting you over my knee and spanking the shit outta you for this.” He nodded to me in my bed.

  “I hardly chose to be held captive,” I snapped.

  His eyes darkened. “But you fuckin’ chose to forget to take care of the one thing in life I give a shit about—you. You do know you almost fuckin’ died from a blood infection, Lauren? That I woke up and you weren’t there because they were treatin’ you for septicemia. Had to get it outta Bex that it wasn’t the result of your injuries, only ’cause I damn near ripped my hospital room apart with the knowledge that it was ’cause of me. And don’t worry, I still shoulder most of that blame for what happened to you.”

  “Gage, this wasn’t your fault.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, the only man who could savagely say that while holding my hand as I lay in a hospital bed. “I’ve got the talking stick right now, and I’ve got a lot to say about you refusing fucking treatment for wounds that almost killed you.” His voice was flat and cold. Gage’s version of a roar. His ultimate level of mad.

  But something lurked underneath.

  “You scared the shit outta me, Lauren,” he said, kissing my fingertips again. “You never, never play with your life like that ’cause of me. Fucking never. Promise me that.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Because I had to see you die in my arms, Gage. I literally saw you die. I was covered in your blood, and I was too fucking scared to move, to wash it off in case that’s all I had left of you. So you can curse, demand and try to muscle your way through this, but you’re not getting your way because I’m not living through that again. I’m not dying through that again. So how about you make me a promise? Never get shot in the fucking chest again.”

  His face didn’t change throughout everything I said. He flinched once, but his expression didn’t shift. Well, not till the end, at least. And then he smiled, because of course Gage was about to find some sick amusement in this.

  “Only we could fight moments after mutually waking up from life-threatening comas,” he muttered.

  I rolled my eyes and fought my mouth twitch. “You forgot to make your promise.”

  “Will, I promise to never let anyone shoot me in the chest again,” he said solemnly.

  I nodded. “Good. And I would like another one please.”

  He grinned. “What now?”

  “I would like you to marry me.”

  The grin disappeared and he froze. “What did you just say?”

  “I want you to marry me,” I repeated. “And not here in a hospital bed, because I don’t want this to be the photo sitting on our mantelpiece. But soon.”

  He didn’t speak.

  It should’ve made me nervous. Should’ve sent fears of rejection snaking into my mind. But this man would die for me. This man did freaking die for me. Then he came back from the dead and freaking lived for me. So I wasn’t afraid of the silence.

  Though it did bring a sick amount of satisfaction to shock Gage mute.

  “You want to be my wife?” he rasped.

  I smiled. “I want you to be my husband.”

  He continued to stare at me in wonder. “Yeah, I think I can make that happen.”

  Three Months Later

  “The doctors said it was a miracle that it didn’t hit your heart. They don’t even really know how it didn’t,” I whispered, tangled in Gage’s arms, as I was often in the past three months.

  His hand squeezed mine. “I do. ’Cause my heart’s not in my chest.” He opened my empty palm slowly. “It’s in here.”

  He laid his lips to that palm before setting it down on his bare chest again.

  I traced the puckered scar with my finger, the pain radiating right to my own heart. The ink ended and began abruptly around the fresh pink skin. “Does this mean the gates to Hell are closed now?” I whispered.

  His arms tightened. “No, baby. They’re never closed. Just means I don’t have a reason to care anymore. Since it’s not my front door.”

  His eyes moved down to the black diamond resting on my fourth finger, the rock glittering in his gaze. He’d slipped the three-carat white gold ring on my finger the day he’d gotten out of the hospital. I’d been released before him because, although I’d had a life-threatening infection, an aggressive course of antibiotics worked quickly and efficiently. My only problem was a broken collarbone, which was not fun.

  Like at all.

  Though it was a pain in the ass and made it difficult to do anything, it wasn’t a reason to stay in the hospital. Getting shot in the chest required a longer stay, so a very pissed-off Gage swore and threatened doctors every single day.

  And somehow, between all that, he managed to find a ring.

  “Wanted to carve out a piece of my heart so you could wear it, but doctors advise against that if I wanna keep it beatin’, so this is the next best thing.”

  Obviously it was the single most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever worn.

  Gage toyed with it. “You nervous?” he asked.

  I quirked my brow. “I’ve been in a house fire, poisoned, held captive, and stabbed. You think I’m nervous about a wedding after all that?”

  “You should be, since your choice of groom will promise a lot worse than that.”

  I laid my lips on his. “Here’s hoping,” I murmured. “Care to give me a preview?”

  He flipped me so his body was covering mine, fingers biting into my hip. His teeth tore at my bottom lip. “Oh, baby, I’ll give you the whole fuckin’ show.”

  Epilogue

  I glanced down at the phone buzzing on the wooden table beside me, a small smile reaching my face, and
more importantly that little part inside me still cold with dread. With expectancy. Because I was happy.

  So happy that I felt like there had never been a person on this earth to be so excited for their next breath, their next moment, than me.

  And with that happiness came the fear that had been following me around since the start. Not the start of me and Gage—though it sure had intensified—but since the moment I lost David and figured out that happiness was as flimsy as tissue paper, easily torn by the brutal and merciless hands of fate.

  I reasoned that fate didn’t discriminate with those who deserved to have that paper otherwise known as their life torn—if anyone really deserved that. No, fate just did it at any point, at any time, and I was terrified that it didn’t happen with those who’d caused the most suffering, but those living with the most happiness… like me.

  And even though I felt safe, content, and utterly secure in my life with Gage, I was terrified that there might be something my big, strong, scary, and secretly soft biker wouldn’t be able to protect himself from. I knew he’d protect me, but who was protecting him?

  And it was the ringing of my phone and that particular scary and secretly soft biker’s name—soon to be my husband—flashing on the screen that chased away most of the dread.

  A sliver of that would always remain, I guessed. Because people who’d known loss and suffering didn’t get the joyful ignorance of unbridled warm happiness. They’d always have that little cold spot inside them. But I decided that wasn’t a bad thing; it just made the warmth that much more precious.

  And we’d had a lot of warmth over the last few months, if only a little dulled by the cold grip of the grave Jade had introduced into our lives.

  Obviously I wasn’t charged with her murder.

  Self-defense and all that.

  I think Troy was too busy blaming himself for not seeing it, for being too busy trying to lock Gage up while she held me hostage to even think about punishing me more.

  He hadn’t even fought Gage when he’d circled his hands around the cop’s throat when he’d knocked on my door two days after Gage was discharged.