Page 35 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

“And we’ve got backup power,” I add, gesturing to the specialized circuits visible along one wall. “Generator kicks in automatically if there’s an outage. Nothing’s shutting down your treatment.”

Mina stands at the foot of the bed, her posture rigid with residual tension. Her eyes track every movement Alice makes, assessing, evaluating. I understand her trepidation—after years of trusting no one, surrendering her brother’s care to strangers must be stressful.

Alice seems to sense this, looking up to meet Mina’s gaze directly. “I know this is hard,” she says simply. “But I promise you, I’m good at what I do. And I care about doing it right.”

The straightforward statement, devoid of platitudes or false reassurance, visibly relaxes Mina’s shoulders. She nods once, a gesture of provisional trust.

Alice turns her attention to Rory. “ Any pain or discomfort from the journey? Be honest. It helps us treat you properly.”

“My left side hurts,” Rory admits. “And I’m dizzy when I sit up too fast.”

Scalpel nods, making notes on his tablet. “Expected, given the circumstances. We’ll adjust your medications accordingly.” His clinical detachment is somehow reassuring rather than cold—the certainty of expertise.

I watch as they work in tandem, Alice preparing the medication while Scalpel checks Rory’s blood pressure. Alice ’ s movements are precise and gentle. Mina continues to relax as she observes Alice ’ s work.

“You’re good at this,” Mina tells her.

“Lots of practice,” Alice responds with a small smile. “And motivation to minimize discomfort. I had a good mentor.” She glances at Scalpel again, that same flicker of something more than professional respect evident in her expression.

As the dialysis machine begins its quiet work, its digital display showing the flow of Rory’s blood through the filtration system, I notice Mina’s expression slowly transforming.

The hard edges of fear and vigilance soften into something approaching relief as she watches her brother receive proper medical care, perhaps for the first time in years.

Sure, the cartel kept him alive, but we don ’ t know anything about what they were doing. It could have been subpar care.

“Thank you,” Mina says quietly, the words directed at no one in particular and everyone at once.

Alice adjusts the flow rate on the machine, her attention never wavering from her task. “We’ll run this cycle for about four hours,” she explains. “Then you’ll need to rest. Tomorrow we’ll establish a regular schedule, depending on your labs.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Mina says immediately.

“ It would be better if he could sleep,” Alice says.

“ You need to get some shut-eye too,” I say, wrapping an arm around Mina ’ s waist.

“ You ’ re probably right,” she says.

“Let him rest. We can check on him in the morning. Alice and Scalpel will take good care of you,” I tell Rory, who already looks more comfortable against the clean sheets than he did when we found him in that cartel hospital.

As I turn to leave, I catch Scalpel’s eye.

A silent understanding passes between us—the job isn’t finished.

We ’ ve still got to find a way to help Rory.

He can ’ t spend his life in a hospital bed.

Scalpel knows this, so he ’ s going to research cutting edge clinical trials to see what options we have. I hope he finds something.

My hand finds the small of Mina’s back as I guide her down the hallway toward my bedroom.

My fingers register the tension in her muscles.

The adrenaline crash is coming. I can feel it in my own limbs, the heaviness that follows survival, the strange emptiness when threat recedes.

I unlock my door before stepping aside to let her enter.

The door clicks shut behind us, and the sound seems to break something loose in Mina.

She stands motionless for three heartbeats, then turns and throws her arms around me with unexpected force.

Her body trembles against mine, face pressed into my chest, fingers digging into my back hard enough to leave marks through my shirt.

I hold her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other spread across her shoulder blades, feeling each shuddering breath she takes.

“I can’t believe we’re safe,” she whispers, voice cracking on the final word. “I can’t believe he’s here.”

I stroke her hair, feeling the grit of Mexico still clinging to the strands. “You did it,” I tell her, lips against her temple. “You never gave up on him.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “We did it,” she corrects. “I wouldn’t have found him without you. We couldn ’ t have saved him without the club.”

The gratitude in her gaze makes something shift uncomfortably in my chest. I’m not used to being looked at like that—like I’m someone’s salvation rather than just the tech guy. But I ’ d be lying if I said I didn ’ t enjoy it. Saving people is what I do.

“I’m glad we got Rory away from the cartel,” I say. “But they’re going to be furious. What we did—stealing a high-value asset, killing their men, infiltrating their systems—they won’t let it go.”

Her hands slide up to frame my face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on my jaw. “I know,” she says with surprising calm. “I’ve been looking over my shoulder for years. At least now I ’ m facing them head-on. And I have you by my side.”

“ You do.” I smile before adding, “You should get some rest. I’m going to need your skills to help me look for ways to infiltrate their networks. We need to know their movements, their plans. We need to—”

She silences me by gently pressing her finger to my lips. “Later,” she says. Her hand drops from my face to find mine, fingers intertwining with unexpected gentleness. Without a word, she tugs me toward the bathroom door, her intent clear in the curve of her smile.

“Mina,” I begin, not sure what I’m going to say, only that we should talk about what comes next, about security protocols and data mining and—

“Shhh,” she interrupts, walking backwards, leading me like I’m tethered to her. “For once in your life, stop thinking, Fang.”

She reaches the bathroom door and pushes it open, never breaking eye contact. Releasing my hand, she reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. The black sports bra beneath follows, leaving her torso bare, skin golden in the soft bathroom light.

My breath catches at the sight of her—the curve of her breasts, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the lean muscle of her abdomen. She’s beautiful. And she ’ s mine.

“Your turn,” she says, hands moving to the button of her jeans.

I’ve never undressed so quickly in my life, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers in a way that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.

By the time I’m down to my boxers, she’s completely naked, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.

Steam begins to rise almost immediately, fogging the mirror and transforming the bathroom into a cloudy chamber of possibility.

Mina steps into the shower, water sluicing over her body in rivulets that trace paths I want to follow with my fingertips, with my lips. She extends her hand to me—an invitation to ecstasy. I shed my last piece of clothing and join her under the spray.

The water is hot, almost scalding, but perfect against my skin, washing away the chill of an adrenaline crash.

She tilts her head back, letting the stream wet her hair, transforming the dark strands into a liquid cape down her back.

Droplets cling to her eyelashes, her lips, the curves of her breasts.

I’m transfixed, frozen in appreciation until she reaches for me, pulling our bodies flush against each other.

“We’re alive,” she whispers against my mouth before kissing me with an intensity that sends electricity straight down my spine.

Her lips are soft but insistent, her tongue seeking entrance that I gladly grant.

My hands find her waist, skin slippery with water, pulling her closer until there’s not a molecule of space between us.

She makes a sound against my mouth—part sigh, part moan—that ignites something primal in my chest. I walk her backward until her shoulders meet the tile wall.

She inhales sharply when her back touches the relatively cold tile.

My hands explore her body with the same methodical thoroughness I bring to code-breaking, cataloging each response, each shiver, each gasp.

Her fingers tangle in my wet hair, tugging with just enough pressure to send sparks of pleasure-pain across my scalp.

When I find a particularly sensitive spot at the junction of her neck and shoulder, she rewards me with a sound that reverberates through my entire body.

Steam rises around us, creating a private universe of heat and water and desire.

I trace the curve of her breast with my tongue, tasting water and salt and something uniquely Mina.

Her back arches, pressing her more firmly against my mouth, her hands guiding me where she wants me.

I follow her lead willingly, reverently, losing myself in the exploration of her body.

“Fang,” she gasps as my hand slides between her thighs, finding her slick and ready. “I need you.”

The raw honesty in her voice undoes me. I straighten, lifting her against the tile wall, her legs wrapping around my waist with surprising strength.

Our eyes lock as I position myself, then push forward slowly into her molten heat.

My eyes roll back, but I don ’ t start moving.

Instead, I give her time to adjust to me.

The sensation is overwhelming—heat and pressure and connection so intense my vision blurs at the edges.

“Yes,” she breathes, arms tightening around my shoulders, pulling me even closer.

We move together, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing.

Water pounds against my back, steam swirls around our joined bodies, and the world beyond this ceases to exist. There is only this—Mina’s eyes holding mine, her body yielding and demanding in equal measure.

And the sound of my name spilling from her lips.

I feel her body tightening around mine, her breath coming in shorter gasps, her nails digging crescent moons into my shoulders.

I adjust my angle slightly, driving deeper, watching her face as pleasure overwhelms her.

The sight of her coming apart in my arms pushes me over the edge, dissolving my thoughts and leaving only sensation in its wake.

For long moments afterward, we remain joined, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the steam-thickened air. The water begins to cool, but neither of us moves to adjust it. We ’ re too wrapped up in the afterglow of connection.

“That was…” she begins, then laughs softly, apparently unable to find a word adequate to the experience.

“Yeah,” I agree, equally eloquent in the aftermath.

I carefully lower her legs, making sure she’s steady before releasing her completely. My hands linger on her waist, unwilling to break contact entirely. In the slight chill of the cooling water, her skin pebbles with goosebumps. I reach behind her to shut off the shower.

We dry each other with surprising tenderness, the towels soft against skin sensitized by pleasure.

No words pass between us—none are needed.

Later, there will be time for strategy and planning, for facing the cartel’s inevitable retaliation.

For now, there is only us, and this deep, passionate connection.