Page 40 of Knox (The Devil’s Luck MC #6)

KNOX

W atching Caroline boss some knocked-on-their-asses bikers around made me want to buy her a crown, a shotgun, and some lingerie all at once.

That scruffy kid made a good point, though—Caroline committed some serious crimes against the law over the years.

Without Bates as a buffer, their contacts in the police departments were effectively dissolved.

Hell, maybe they would thank us for eliminating him so they didn’t have to deal with his shady ass anymore.

But that was something that we would deal with together when it came to it. Right now, I wanted to go to the Well, order seven rounds of the strongest booze Sam had, put Caroline in my lap, and get drunk on kissing her.

Everything after that went slowly. The Devils didn’t deal with Wolverine bodies—not even Walter Bates’s. Caroline didn’t give a shit what they did with him or Vane. As soon as their hearts stopped beating, she was done .

I kept Caroline tucked against me through our much more minor cleanup. Brody kept checking everyone’s bandaged wounds like he expected them to blow up as we headed toward a back door. Right before we walked out, Caroline gasped loudly.

I panicked. “What? You okay? What’s?—”

“I’ll be right back.”

She snatched the gun I’d stashed in my waistband and ran inside.

“What’s she doing?” Abel asked, half in concern, half intrigued.

I shrugged. “Beats me. I just hope?—”

BANG!

I was already moving. “Caroline!”

She came skipping— skipping —from around the corner, brushed past me, and rejoined the Devils, who now looked faintly disturbed. Even Jackson was wary.

I stormed after her, reclaiming the gun. “The fuck, woman?”

Caroline slipped her hand in mine and tugged me toward the truck. “Sorry. I just had some unfinished business.”

“Dare I ask?”

I opened the door to the truck like it was a limo as the other guys loaded into their vehicles. Since I was the least battered, I would drive the one with Brody, Mason, and Grant squished in the backseat. It wasn’t long before the cabin smelled overwhelmingly like blood and sweat.

Jameson got into the driver’s seat of the other truck with Jackson and Abel in the back. They rolled down their windows to hear Caroline’s explanation.

She turned up the AC like she owned it, redoing her hair, leaving us all hanging by a thread.

“Baby,” I implored.

Caroline huffed. “It’s no big deal. I just had to fulfill a promise to myself.”

“And what was that?”

She lifted her chin proudly and smiled—the first real fucking smile I had ever seen from her ever —and said, “I shot Vane in the dick.”

After our delirious, howling laughter faded halfway through the drive to the Well, everyone but me and Jameson passed the fuck out. I focused on the road, listening to the hum and rattle of the old pickup and the snores of my girl and brothers.

It was over. Walter Bates was dead. The Wolverines were dissolved. The Devil’s Luck had secured safe futures for Sam and Elle’s babies.

My grip loosened on the wheel when Caroline shifted in her sleep.

She had her head on my shoulder, squishing her cheek, and for the first time, she was completely unguarded.

Like she knew she was really, truly, once and for all safe , and finally believed me that I could keep her from falling apart.

Caroline didn’t have to hide in warehouses or trailers in the middle of forests or hotels with thin walls anymore. She didn’t have to be surrounded by fucked-up old men anymore. She didn’t have to wear pantsuits, heels, and a ponytail tight enough to qualify as a facelift anymore.

I smiled to myself. Nope, she didn’t have to do none of that shit anymore. Now Caroline could stay at my place, sleep in my—our—bed until five in the evening for all I cared, wear my oversized shirts and the panties I bought her, and eat greasy fries at the Well on weekends.

I was going to treat her like a damn queen from here on out.

We weren’t capable of calling the women to tell them we were on our way or even alive—we’d all lost or forgotten our phones somewhere.

So when we pulled up to the back lot, all five of them came flooding out—well, Elle and Sam more waddling than running—both furious and relieved.

They crashed into their respective men, heedless of their injuries. Half of them knocked the Devils off their feet. They were all tough as fucking nails women, but even Suzie and Carrie were emotional wrecks.

“How are you still standing after a knife went through your fucking shoulder ?!” Suzie snapped at Mason, looking like she wanted to punch the wound.

“Occupational hazard, Suz,” Mason said weakly.

“I was ready to hunt your ass down,” Carrie said to Jameson, pointing a threatening finger at him. “And haul you back here, you stupidhead.”

Tex wheezed a weak laugh. “‘Stupidhead’?”

“Yes. Shut the fuck up and let me look at these.”

Elle was bawling, clinging to Abel, covering herself in smears of blood while he tried to pry her off to prevent her getting sticky with it.

“Easy, mama,” Abel groaned when she crushed him in a hug, which looked pretty funny with her big belly between them. “You’re supposed to be relaxing, Elle.”

“Not when you leave me thinking I’m going to go into early labor while you’re bleeding out in a warehouse, you jerk,” she blubbered.

Sam and Jackson, meanwhile, were having a romantic moment. Their eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, Jackson’s hands on Sam’s hips, his thumbs stroking the sides of her belly. They didn’t need words. Jackson being alive for his girl and his baby was enough.

But we all knew Sam would give him an earful when he wasn’t covered in blood.

Andy, though, was the most vocal.

She was livid with Brody, wanting to take him to his own damn hospital to get checked out—hell, all of us should! Her badgering invited the other women to do the same, and then every man was getting berated by a suddenly nagging girlfriend, and there was no defense.

And so all thirteen members of the Devil’s Luck—unofficially including Caroline—were driven to Tahoe Pacific.

Brody’s coworkers were not happy about so many bodies to scrape blood off of.

Everything was a whirlwind after that.

I hated hospitals, even when I trusted Brody’s, with their nasty smells, depressing decor, and beeping machines. I wasn’t afraid of needles or any of that kind of shit, but I’d still rather patch myself up in a ditch than get shoved into one of those waiting rooms.

Caroline didn’t give me a choice.

“We’re both going in there even if I have to drag you by the balls,” she said, deadpan. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“I won’t if I get a lollipop afterward.”

Hours later, around two in the morning, we were deemed stable, but Suzie and Andy forced Mason and Brody to stay and rest overnight before letting them free to, as Suzie claimed, “Haul your broken asses to go get shitfaced at the Well for a celebratory blackout.”

“Not shitfaced,” Abel muttered, picking at one of his bandages, earning a slap from Elouise. “Just enough to dull the pain of getting stitched up like a ragdoll.”

Suzie glowered at him. “So help me God, I will?—”

“Enough, all of you,” Jackson boomed. “Can’t believe I’m telling my club this, but… rest before booze.”

There was a low chorus of groans, but no one pushed back.

Slowly, everyone who was not staying started to disperse. Since we all carpooled, we drove to Grant’s house to have a messed-up adult sleepover thanks to Brody’s multiple threats.

The Devils made themselves at home—it damn near was, after all these years together.

My brothers all limped around, half pretending they were fine, half milking their injuries for all they were worth.

Their women alternated between doting and berating.

One minute, they brought ice packs; the next, they were withholding orgasms like it was a reward system for good behavior.

Caroline, however, stuck to my side like glue. She kept telling me I was fine and didn’t need babying. She didn’t need babying either—she made that quite clear. It was almost funny seeing her shy and hesitant to even ask for a glass of water.

None of the women paid her much heed except for Sam, who only gave Caroline the bare minimum of things. But she ensured the two of us were well hydrated and had plenty in our stomachs to help us recover.

When the Devil’s Luck all finally passed out, it was in various places all over the house. Caroline and I ended up on a blowup mattress in the living room. I didn’t give a single damn if I slept on dirt so long as I could hold my woman while we slept our stress away.

Caroline was safe in my arms. We had won more battles than one today.

Now we could live instead of just surviving.

The next day was a blur of the first phase of the healing process: mentally, physically, and emotionally—and for Caroline, psychologically.

She had to learn how to function without her father and his fucked-up reign.

No more orders or commands or missions to follow.

Just her life to live as she wanted, no strings, bullets, or blood attached.

And I would be right there with her.

That first phase, luckily, included booze.

By the late afternoon, we were all at the Well, where Sam had shut down early. Mason and Brody had been released from the hospital to join us at the Frankenstein table, which we made with a bunch of tables pushed together to accommodate thirteen people.

Jackson insisted that Sam sit; Sam insisted that Sam get everyone’s drinks. There was no stopping her until each one of us was nursing a hearty glass of booze—or a non-alcoholic drink for the pregnant ladies.

From there, we all chatted away like we were on our own trashy reality show about bikers who fought off rival MC gangs, got laid, and never went a day without spilling blood.