Page 97 of Tyson
"But if I hadn't—"
"What? Existed? Breathed? Dared to try and live a normal life away from an abusive ex?" His free hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "Baby, men like Cruz don't need reasons. They create them. If it wasn't you, it would have been something else. Territory, drugs, imagined slights. This is what they do."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his certainty wash away the guilt threatening to drown me. But I felt so hollow.
Mandy appeared like an angel of mercy, still wearing her party dress. The fabric was splattered with red now. Her crown was long gone, but traces of glitter still clung to her hair, a sparkling reminder of how the night had started.
"Honey, come with me." She held out her hand, and I noticed her nails were broken, probably from helping tend wounds on the yacht. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I started to protest—didn't want to leave Tyson, didn't deserve comfort when others were fighting for their lives—but he nodded, releasing my hand with obvious reluctance.
"Go," he said softly. "I need to talk to Duke anyway. Find out our next moves."
The loss of his touch felt like losing an anchor. I followed Mandy on unsteady legs, my ridiculous heels clicking against the hospital linoleum.
The bathroom was blessedly empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead. In the harsh illumination, I finally saw what the others had been too polite to mention. Blood in my purple hair, dried to rust-colored streaks. Glass cuts on my arms, small but numerous, like I'd been bedazzled with wounds. My lipstickhad smeared across my cheek at some point, giving me the look of a horror movie victim.
But it was my eyes that stopped me cold. Dead. Haunted. The eyes of someone who'd watched people die for the first time and discovered that Hollywood got it all wrong. Death wasn't dramatic or poetic. It was just empty spaces where voices should be.
Mandy began carefully cleaning a cut on my cheek, her touch as gentle as her words were direct.
"How do you stand it?" I asked, wincing as she found a particularly deep scratch. "The violence, the not knowing if they'll come home, the—" I gestured helplessly at my reflection, at the evidence of carnage I wore like a second skin.
Mandy paused, considering her answer. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of experience. "By remembering that they'd be who they are with or without us. The violence, the brotherhood, the loyalty—it's in their bones. We don't create it. We just love them through it."
"But people died tonight. Because of me."
"People died tonight because the Serpents chose violence." She moved to my arms, cataloging each cut with nurse-like efficiency. "Would those same people be alive if you'd never met Tyson? Maybe. Or maybe the Serpents would have found another excuse, another target. Maybe it would have been Mia they went after, or one of the other women. Maybe more would have died without Tyson being extra vigilant because he was protecting you."
The logic was sound but did nothing to ease the weight on my chest. "I just . . . I can't stop seeing them. Rico covering those women. Johnnie bleeding out but still fighting."
"Good." Mandy's response surprised me. "Remember them. Honor them. That's how we cope—by making sure their sacrifice meant something. By being worthy of it."
She worked in silence for a few more minutes, cleaning blood from my hair with careful fingers.
"There," she finally said, stepping back to survey her work. "You'll want a proper shower when you get home, but this will do for now."
I looked marginally more human, though the hollow expression remained. "Thank you."
"That's what family does." She squeezed my shoulder. "And like it or not, you're family now. Duke's already decided, I could see it in his face. Where you go, protection follows. The boys will close ranks around you just like they did tonight."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like another weight added to my shoulders. More people willing to die for me. More potential casualties in Cruz's war against my autonomy.
When we returned to the waiting room, Duke stood near the doors like a battered sentinel, shirtless except for the fresh white bandages wrapped around his ribs. Blood had seeped through in places, creating Rorschach patterns that probably meant he'd refused to stay still during treatment. His face was a map of exhaustion and pain, but his eyes remained sharp, presidential, missing nothing.
"Lena." He said my name like a command, not unkind but leaving no room for negotiation. "Walk with me."
Every head in the waiting room turned. The MC women paused in their efficient chaos, measuring this development with knowing looks. This was significant—the president singling me out, publicly claiming my time. In their world of symbols and hierarchy, Duke had just made a statement.
Tyson tensed beside me, his body coiling with protective instinct, but Duke waved him off with the casual authority of a man used to being obeyed.
"Just a talk, brother." His voice carried layers—reassurance for Tyson, warning for anyone else who might think to follow. "She's safe."
The automatic doors whooshed open, releasing us into the pre-dawn air. The parking lot was packed with motorcycles and trucks, brothers standing guard at strategic points. They nodded at Duke, eyes scanning me with curiosity but no hostility. Whatever sins I'd committed by dating their VP in secret, the night's violence had apparently washed them clean.
Duke walked slowly, whether from his injuries or to give us privacy, I couldn't tell. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes with movements that spoke of barely controlled pain, lighting one with hands that only trembled slightly. The smoke curled up into air that smelled like rain and exhaustion.
"Known about you two for weeks," he said without preamble, not looking at me but at the horizon where the sky was starting to bleed pink. "Tyson's not as subtle as he thinks."
