Page 41 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The early evening air hangs heavy around me as I pace the gravel driveway, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each turn. Every few seconds, my eyes dart to the road leading to the clubhouse, searching for headlights, for any sign of the van bringing Fang and the others back from Texas.

My stomach twists itself into knots that tighten with each passing minute.

It’s been twenty-four hours since I received Vapor’s cryptic message: “Mission compromised. Team extracting. Will update when secure.” Hours of imagining worst-case scenarios, of picturing Fang bleeding out on Texas soil, of wondering if I’ll ever see him alive again.

The sun bleeds orange and purple across the horizon, casting long shadows across the clubhouse yard.

Cicadas begin their nightly chorus, the sound normally soothing but now just white noise beneath the roar of anxiety in my head.

I check my phone for the hundredth time—no new messages, no missed calls.

Just the wallpaper of Rory smiling from his hospital bed, blissfully unaware in Baltimore that the man who helped save him might be—

I can’t finish the thought.

“They’ll be back soon, cher.” Babet’s voice startles me from behind.

She approaches in a swirl of bright fabric, her muumuu a riot of tropical flowers against the gathering darkness.

Despite the late hour, her white hair still stands in perfectly gelled spikes, defying gravity and age alike.

“You’re gonna wear a trench in the driveway if you keep pacing. ”

“I can’t just sit inside and wait,” I confess, hands fidgeting at my sides. “Rory called from Baltimore earlier. He’s settling in fine, his doctors are optimistic, but all I could think was ‘What if I have to tell him Fang didn’t make it?’”

Babet steps closer, her weathered hand finding my shoulder with surprising strength.

“That boy’s gonna make it back to you. They all will.

” Her voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen bikers leave and return countless times, who understands the rhythm of club life in a way I’m still learning.

“Underground Vengeance takes care of their own, no matter what. You and your brother are part of that now. Even if something happened, you ’ re still a part of our family. ”

“ Oh, Babet…” My throat tightens. “Even after all the trouble I’ve caused? The cartel coming after us, Rory needing so much help…”

“Especially because of that,” Babet says firmly.

She guides me to a bench near the clubhouse entrance, settling beside me with a soft grunt.

“This club was built on helping people who need it. That’s what makes them different from most MCs.

” Her eyes sharp. “You’re good for Fang, you know.

Never seen that boy light up the way he does around you. ”

I look down at my hands, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “I didn’t tell him,” I whisper, the admission painful in my chest. “Before he left, I didn’t tell him how I feel. And now if something happened—”

“Nothing happened that those boys can’t handle,” Babet interrupts, patting my knee. “Vapor wouldn’t let it.”

“How can you be so sure? All we know is they’re alive.

Vapor wouldn’t tell me anything else over the phone.

” The frustration spills out in my voice.

“Just that they were coming back and to keep Rory’s security tight during his flight to Baltimore.

Vapor didn ’ t say anything about how badly they’re hurt, or about what happened with Juan, nothing. ”

Babet nods sagely. “Smart man. Phones can be tapped, messages intercepted. The less said, the less the cartel knows about what went down after their bomb.”

My head snaps up. “You know about the bomb?”

“Tank called Vicki, his woman, last night. Told her enough to keep her from freaking out. Apparently, the place was rigged to explode. They got out, but not without some damage.” Her face remains neutral, giving nothing away about the extent of their injuries.

I process this, trying to keep my imagination from conjuring images of Fang caught in the blast. “Why wouldn’t Vapor just tell me that?”

“Club protocol. Protection through ignorance. Sometimes it ’ s for the best.” She gives my hand a squeeze.

We lapse into silence as darkness fully claims the sky.

Moths flutter around the security lights that illuminate the yard, casting bizarre, dancing shadows across the gravel.

In the distance, a lone motorcycle engine growls then fades, just another night sound in a world that keeps turning despite my personal purgatory.

“When did you know?” I ask suddenly. “With your husband, I mean. When did you know it was real?”

A distant rumble breaks the moment—the unmistakable sound of an engine approaching. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my entire body alert. Babet rises more slowly, her hand finding my arm.

“See? Told you they’d be back,” she says.

Headlights pull up to the gate. One of the brothers checks it then opens the gate. I force myself to breathe, to remain still as the van pulls into the yard, gravel crunching beneath its tires. The engine cuts off, plunging the compound into relative silence.

The driver’s door opens first. Vapor emerges, his movements stiff but determined. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruises darkening his face, and the way he favors his left side. His eyes find mine immediately. He gives me a quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then the side door slides open, and my heart stops.

Fang sits just inside, his face illuminated by the interior light. Purple-black bruises mottle his left cheek and eye, a nasty gash runs along his hairline, and his lip’s swollen. His right arm is held protectively against his ribs, and when he attempts to stand, he winces visibly.

But he’s alive.

My feet move of their own accord, carrying me across the gravel at a run.

I reach him just as he manages to stand, throwing my arms around him with enough force to make him stagger back against the van.

He groans in pain, but his left arm wraps around me immediately, pulling me close despite his injuries.

“Easy,” he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m still in one piece, but barely.”

I pull back just enough to examine his face, my fingers hovering over his injuries, afraid to touch and cause more pain. “What happened? How bad is it?”

He attempts a smile, though it clearly hurts. “I’m okay. I just look and feel like shit, but I’ll recover in a few days.” His eyes hold mine, conveying what words can’t—that despite everything, he’s genuinely alright, that we’ve been granted more time together.

Behind us, Babet claps her hands, her voice carrying across the yard. “Welcome home, boys! I’ve got a feast waiting in the kitchen—gumbo, cornbread, everything to put some strength back in you.”

The other men emerge from the van, each bearing their own collection of cuts and bruises.

Ice with a bandage around his forearm, Tank limping slightly, Diablo with his right hand wrapped in gauze.

Scalpel gets out last, carrying a first aid kit.

They nod in Babet’s direction, gratitude evident in their tired faces.

“Thank you, Babet,” Fang says, his voice rough with fatigue. “But I think I need to lie down before I can appreciate your cooking properly.”

“No. I want everyone to report to the medical room to get X-rays before you lay down,” Scalpel says sternly.

“Everyone check-in with Scalpel, then you can rest,” Vapor barks.

A couple of guys grumble about being hungry.

Babet waves a hand. “Food’ll keep. You boys get X-rayed, then get some rest.” Her sharp eyes assess his condition, maternal concern evident in her furrowed brow. “Need help getting him inside, Mina?”

I tighten my arm around Fang’s waist, careful to avoid pressing against any unseen injuries. “I’ve got him.”

Fang leans into me, more than I expected, suggesting his injuries are worse than he’s letting on. As the others head inside, we follow more slowly, his weight heavy against my side, his breathing carefully controlled.

“Did you get Vasquez?” I ask quietly.

“No,” he murmurs. “But we will. I promise you that.”

His weight grows heavier as we go inside and walk down the hallway toward the medical room inside the clubhouse.

Fang told me about it before he left for Houston.

Apparently Vapor decided to get a few machines they might need, like an X-ray machine, so he wouldn’t have to send any of the men to a local hospital.

Too risky. The doctors and nurses ask too many questions, so for something simple like an X-ray, Vapor wanted to have one in-house.

Fang tries to hide his grimace as we navigate past brothers who nod respectfully, giving us space while clearly curious about what went down in Texas.

The familiar scent of leather and whiskey that permeates the clubhouse mingles with something more metallic—the faint copper tang of dried blood on Fang’s skin and clothes.

When he stumbles slightly, my arm tightens around his waist, careful to avoid putting pressure on his injuries.

“Almost there,” I murmur, guiding him toward the door.

After Scalpel takes a quick X-ray, we find out his ribs are bruised as hell but not broken. Scalpel tells him that rest is the best medicine for him, before sending him out to get the next guy in line outside the door.

We amble back to his bedroom—our bedroom, really, though neither of us has named it that yet. I punch in the code Fang gave me to unlock it.

My free hand fumbles with the knob, pushing it open to reveal the space that’s become my safe haven in recent weeks. The room is exactly as we left it: his bank of computers resting quietly in sleep mode, my laptop closed on the nightstand, our clothes mingled in the half-open dresser drawers.