Page 36 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

It ’ s been a week since we brought Rory to the clubhouse.

Although I ’ m still not used to the mostly naked women running around, it ’ s starting to feel more and more like home.

As I walk toward his room, I nod at some of the patched guys.

They ’ ve all been extremely helpful and friendly since we returned from Mexico.

Fang must have said something to them. Even the club girls go out of their way to hang out in Rory ’ s room to keep him company.

At first, I was worried about them having ulterior motives, but Babet said she ’ d take care of it.

She ’ s like the grandmother of the club, and all the girls follow her rules.

From what I can tell, she has the authority to boot out any of the girls who try to cause problems. Babet doesn ’ t put up with anybody ’ s bullshit.

She ’ s awesome. I hope I can be half as cool as her when I ’ m her age.

I pause in the doorway to Rory ’ s room.

My breath catches at the sight of my brother sitting up in bed.

Each day, his color improves a bit more.

For the first time since our rescue mission, he looks almost like himself again—thin, yes, but now he ’ s got a spark in his eyes.

A half-eaten bowl of oatmeal sits on the tray beside him.

Getting his appetite back is another good sign.

I rap my knuckles against the doorframe. “ Can I come in?”

“Look who finally decided to visit,” Rory teases as he glances at the wall clock. “ It ’ s been a whole three hours since you were last here.”

“Be nice or I ’ ll smother you with a pillow.” I grin, crossing to sit in the chair beside his bed. The leather creaks beneath me, still new and stiff. “You were half-asleep earlier.”

“ I can only watch so much TV,” he grumbles.

I take his hand in mine, noting how the IV tape looks brand new, as if it was changed recently. Alice’s work, no doubt. Her nursing skills are as impressive as her ability to blend seamlessly into club life. “How are you feeling? And don’t lie to me.”

Rory shifts, the sheets rustling around his thin frame. “Better. Not great, but better.” His fingers tighten around mine. “Scalpel says my numbers are improving. Whatever that means.”

“It means your kidney function is less terrible than it was,” I clarify, allowing myself a small smile. “That’s a win.”

“Sure,” he says, then sighs dramatically.

“But I’m going crazy in this bed. I’ve counted the pressed tin ceiling tiles sixteen times.

There are forty-eight, in case you’re wondering.

” He gestures toward the window. “I can hear motorcycles out there. People laughing. Living. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here watching reruns of shows I didn’t even like the first time around. ”

I squeeze his hand. “It’s only been a few days. Your body went through hell in that cartel hospital. You need to—”

The door swings open, cutting off my lecture. Scalpel enters, his usual clinical expression replaced by something I’ve never seen on his face before—excitement. He’s holding a tablet, fingers tapping rapidly against its surface as he approaches the bed.

“Good, you’re both here,” he says, glancing up briefly before returning to whatever has captured his attention on the screen.

“I’ve been reviewing some recent medical journal publications.

There’s an experimental treatment protocol that shows remarkable promise for Primary Hyperoxaluria Type 1,” he continues, turning the tablet toward us.

The screen displays a variety of medical charts—graphs with upward trajectories, molecular diagrams, statistical tables with highlighted sections. Scalpel’s finger traces a particular line of data, his nail following the path with exact precision.

“This is a gene therapy approach combined with enzyme replacement,” he explains, zooming in on a complex diagram. “Instead of managing symptoms through dialysis indefinitely, this targets the underlying genetic defect in the AGXT gene that causes your body to overproduce oxalate.”

Rory sits up straighter, his attention completely captured. “You mean it could fix me? Not just keep me alive, but actually repair what’s wrong?”

Scalpel’s expression remains measured, but something like genuine hope flickers in his eyes.

“The preliminary data from the phase two trials is extraordinary. Seventy-eight percent of participants showed a dramatic reduction in urinary oxalate levels within three months. Sixty-five percent maintained normal kidney function without dialysis after six months.”

I stare at him, afraid to believe what he’s saying. “Are you telling us there’s a cure?”

“Not a guaranteed cure,” Scalpel cautions, his doctor’s restraint reasserting itself. “But potentially the most promising treatment advance for this condition in decades.”

A shadow in the doorway draws my attention. Fang leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, his expression alert with interest. I wonder how long he’s been there, listening.

“What are the success rates in patients with advanced disease?” Fang asks, pushing off from the doorway to step inside. “Rory’s been symptomatic for years.”

Leave it to Fang to ask the practical questions my hope-stunned mind hasn’t formulated yet. His gaze meets mine briefly, a silent promise of support that makes my chest tighten.

Scalpel swipes to another chart. “That’s what makes this particularly relevant.

The trial deliberately included advanced cases.

” His finger traces another line of data.

“Even with significant kidney damage, forty-seven percent of patients showed partial regeneration of kidney tissue after twelve months. Not complete healing, but significant improvement.”

“What’s the cost?” The question bursts from my lips. The most advanced treatment in the world won ’ t matter if I can ’ t afford it.

Fang moves to stand beside me, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeps through my shirt, steadying me.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “The club will cover the entire cost of the treatment. I’ll make sure you get all the money you need.”

“I can’t let you—”

“You ’ ve earned every penny of whatever his treatment costs,” Fang cuts me off, his grip on my shoulder tightening slightly. His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “Your help the last few days has been invaluable.”

He’s referring to the hours I’ve spent hunched over keyboards with him, leveraging my cartel knowledge to strengthen the club’s cybersecurity, tracking money movements that might lead to Juan Vasquez, identifying potential weak points in the cartel’s communication networks.

It’s been a crash course in club operations, in how they protect their people.

Still, this is different. This is Rory’s life.

“The club takes care of its own,” Fang says simply, as if that settles everything.

And maybe it does. Maybe, after all these years of fighting alone, we’re not alone anymore. The realization hits me like a physical force.

Before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet, throwing my arms around Fang’s solid frame.

His body tenses for a fraction of a second—surprise, not rejection—before his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.

His heartbeat thuds steady and strong against my cheek, and I realize with startling clarity that I trust this man more than I’ve trusted anyone in years.

“Wow, get a room, you two,” Rory pipes up from the bed, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Or at least warn a guy before you start with the PDA. I’m in a weakened state here.”

Heat rushes to my face as I remember we have an audience. I start to pull away, but Fang’s arms remain firm around me, one hand sliding to the small of my back in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive.

“Sorry,” I mutter, not actually sorry at all. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—rusty and unfamiliar after so many years of having nothing to laugh about. It feels good, this moment of lightness after so much darkness.

“Don’t apologize on my account,” Rory says, grinning. His eyes dart between Fang and me with obvious approval. “It’s about time you found someone who isn’t a complete disaster.”

“ See, I ’ m only a partial train wreck,” Fang jokes, using his thumb to trace small circles against my back.

“ You obviously like her, super gross, but at least she ’ s happy,” Rory says.

“You’re right,” Fang says, his deep voice vibrating through his chest where I’m still pressed against him. “I care about your sister a lot.”

The simple directness of his words steals my breath. No games, no hidden meanings, just honest acknowledgment of what’s been growing between us since we met. There ’ s so much I want to say, but before I can respond, Alice enters carrying a tray of fresh medical supplies.

“Time for a dressing change,” she announces cheerfully, then pauses as she takes in the scene—Fang and I still partially embraced, Rory grinning from his bed, Scalpel with his tablet of medical miracles.

Something shifts in Scalpel’s demeanor the moment Alice walks in.

It’s subtle—a straightening of his already excellent posture, a slight lift of his chin, his eyes tracking her movements with an intensity that seems to transcend his usual clinical observation.

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the tablet he holds, knuckles whitening just enough for me to notice.

Alice’s eyes meet his briefly as she sets down her tray. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems casual but carries weight when Scalpel’s gaze follows the movement with laser focus.