Page 11

Chapter 11

Mira

“But, Ghost, I’ll be fine.” I smooth my hands over Ghost's leather cut. "You’re the president of an MC. You have important business to handle.”

"Nothing's more important than you, angel."

His words wrap around me like a cozy blanket, warm, soothing, and comforting. After a lifetime of being nobody's anything, being somebody's priority is overwhelming. In a good way—in an awesome way.

But I know something’s going down with the club today. I heard him tell Blade, the VP, and Saint, the club Sergeant-at-Arms, that he wanted the plan to be foolproof since he wouldn't be with them for its execution. Ghost has already done so much for me, I’d feel like a spoiled princess if he had to miss important club business to accompany me to the doctor’s office.

“Well, I’m no newbie to doctors’ appointments. It’ll just be a consultation—reviewing my history, running some tests. Basic stuff."

His jaw clenches as he studies my face.

“Really.” I use my best persuasive tone and I can see I’m wearing him down. “Probably just a quick exam, a prescription refill, and I’ll be on my way.”

He lets out a resigned breath. “I’m sending a prospect with you and he’s to stay with you at all times. No arguments.”

“No arguments,” I agree.

Ghost's steel-gray eyes narrow. “And you call me for any reason whatsoever, got it?”

“Got it.” I nod emphatically.

“Rash,” he calls for the prospect who’s already hovering nearby. “You do not let her out of your sight. And you call immediately if anything—and I mean anything—feels off. Understand?"

Rash’s posture straightens and I almost expect him to salute. “I understand, Prez.”

“Stop worrying about me.” I stretch up on my tiptoes to kiss Ghost’s stubbled jaw and breathe in his spicy leather scent. I can’t get enough of him, and I secretly love how overprotective and uber-possessive he is of me. “Now go save the world, or whatever it is big bad bikers do."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Smartass." His large hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I mean it about calling. For any reason."

"Yes, sir." I throw him a mock salute that earns me a growl and another kiss—this one decidedly less innocent—before he reluctantly releases me.

The ride to the specialist's office is quiet. Rash keeps checking his mirrors and making strange turns. It has me wondering if Ghost ordered him to take a circuitous route to avoid being followed. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Dr. Cariloha’s office is housed in a gleaming medical complex that screams upper-class expensive. The kind of place I'd never have dreamed of visiting before Ghost crashed into my life like a leather and chrome hurricane.

The doctor himself is older, distinguished-looking, with kind eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. But his expression grows increasingly grave as he reviews my test results.

"Miss Stillwell," he begins, his tone carrying a careful neutrality that makes my stomach clench. "Your condition seems to have progressed significantly. The inadequate medication management"—his lips thin disapprovingly—"has allowed the damage to accelerate."

“Umm,” I twist my hands in my lap. "How bad?"

"Without major immediate surgical intervention—within the next couple months—the damage will become irreversible." He pulls up some images on his computer screen. "See these areas here? The tissue is already showing signs of?—"

The rest of his explanation fades into white noise as the numbers run through my mind. Surgical costs. Hospital stays. Recovery time. Follow-up care. The total makes my head spin.

Even with insurance—which I don't have—it would be astronomical. Without it? Impossible.

I manage to maintain my composure through the rest of the appointment, nodding at appropriate intervals as Dr. Cariloha outlines treatment options. But inside, I'm crumbling.

I meet Rash back in the waiting room and as we leave the building, Rash touches my elbow gently. "You okay?"

No. I'm not okay. I'll never be okay. I'm broken, damaged, and—just like I've always been—a huge burden.

"Can we make a stop before heading back to the compound?” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. "There's someone I need to visit.”

He hesitates. "Prez said straight back..."

"Please?" I hate the desperation in my voice, but I can't help it. "I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important."

Something in my expression must convince him because he nods slowly. "Where to?"

“Evergreen Cemetery”