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Saylor

All I felt was the weight. Not on my body, but in my head—like someone had stuffed it full of cotton and then wrapped it in fog. Thick. Slow. Heavy. Everything inside me felt like it was trying to float to the surface but couldn’t quite make it. I knew I was trying to wake up, but my body wasn’t on the same page.

I drifted in and out for what felt like forever. Time didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know if it had been minutes, hours, or days. But slowly, painfully, the fog started to lift.

My eyes cracked open, and light filtered in—too bright and too white. The kind of light that could only mean one place. Hospital.

I didn’t know how I got here at first. My brain was still lagging behind, clawing its way through the haze. But then—

I remembered.

All of it hit me at once, like a brick wall.

I had only stepped a few feet out the back door of my tiny house. I’d been heading toward Mac’s tiny house. I didn’t even hear him coming. One second, I glanced up at the night sky; the next—I was on the ground.

Something—no, someone—slammed into me from behind.

I hit the dirt hard, and my shoulder took the brunt of it. Before I could scream, he was on me.

Panic had surged through me like a shot of adrenaline. I bucked and thrashed, and my fingernails clawed at anything I could get to. I kicked my feet, flailed my arms, twisted my body like my life depended on it—because it did.

He was a big guy—heavy, built like a truck. I couldn’t make out much in the dark, but I could smell him—sweat, booze, and something sharp, like blood.

He grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked it, ripping it halfway down the middle.

I screamed.

I kicked.

I caught him in the thigh, maybe the stomach. Didn’t matter. He didn’t let go.

He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back so hard I saw stars. Then he slammed my face into the ground. Pain exploded behind my eyes. My cheekbone scraped against the patio, and I felt it rip open. I tasted dirt and blood.

I was going to die.

But something in me didn’t give up.

The second he shifted his weight—just slightly—I wrenched myself sideways and scrambled forward. I dragged my body through the flowerbed like a goddamn animal.

My hand landed on something solid. Rough. A stone about the size of a softball.

I grabbed it.

He lunged.

I swung.

Missed.

He cursed and grabbed for me again.

I swung again—this time, I connected. Hard. Right into his shoulder.

He howled but didn’t stop.

He came at me again.

I screamed and brought the rock around one more time with every ounce of strength I had left.

This time it hit his head.

He fell back. Stunned. Blood on his temple.

I didn’t wait.

I lunged at him and hit him again. Same spot. I heard a sickening sound—bone, maybe—and he let out a low moan before his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled.

I didn’t check if he was dead. I didn’t care.

I ran. Bloody, broken, beaten—I ran.

I remembered all of it now. The fear. The fight. The taste of iron in my mouth. The stone in my hand. I remembered making it to Mac’s house. Knocking. Collapsing. Then everything went black.

“Saylor,” a voice cut through the memory, low and steady, male.

My heart jolted.

My eyes fluttered open again, this time with more effort and more purpose. The room was still a little hazy, but the voice had anchored me.

“Pirate?” I rasped.

Even just saying that one word took everything I had.

I remembered him being there when the paramedics loaded me up. His face was blurry above me. I didn’t know why he was there, but I remembered the relief I felt when I saw him.

My mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. Dry and disgusting. I smacked my lips and tried to wet them, but it didn’t help.

“Water,” I croaked.

“I got you, baby,” Pirate said, and I heard him move.

I blinked slowly and tried to clear the fuzz from my vision. Bit by bit, the room came into focus. The sterile walls. The sound of a machine beeping nearby. The smell of antiseptic.

And him.

Pirate stood by the counter and grabbed a plastic cup of water. He stuck a straw into it, then turned and walked back toward me. He looked so out of place in this room—like something wild and dangerous had stepped into a world that didn’t know what to do with it.

He leaned down beside the bed and held the straw to my lips.

I took a small sip. It was cold, and it tasted like heaven.

But even as I drank, I couldn’t help the thought that crept into my mind.

Why is he here?

The guys from the club never paid attention to Mac and me. We were just background noise—girls with cameras and microphones, poking into business they didn’t want us in. At best, we were tolerated. At worst? Ignored.

But here he was. Pirate. Sitting at my bedside like I mattered. And he called me baby. What in the world?

I pulled my lips from the straw, and he moved the cup away to set it on the little table beside the bed.

I looked up at him.

His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—concern, maybe even guilt. It felt strange. Too intimate.

Pirate was handsome. I’d have had to be blind not to notice that.

He had dark hair, short on the sides but longer on top, styled just right to look like he didn’t try too hard. The longer strands swooped across his forehead in a way that made him look effortless and rugged at the same time. His jaw was covered in scruff—just enough to make him look dangerous, like a man who didn’t care for shaving but still somehow made it look good.

His eyes were deep brown, almost black in the low light, and they held something unreadable—like he was carrying the weight of things he never talked about.

Tattoos curled down both his arms, some thick-lined and bold, others more intricate, swirling in designs I couldn’t quite see from my angle. His knuckles were bruised and scarred. His shoulders were wide. The black T-shirt he wore stretched tight across his chest, and I had the sudden thought that he could probably break someone in half if he wanted to.

And yet, here he was, holding water to my lips and watching me like I might fall apart if he looked away.

“What are you doing here?” I asked softly. My voice was rough and scratchy, like sandpaper against my throat.

Pirate didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me. Those dark brown eyes unreadable and intense, like he was trying to see straight through me. Finally, he said, “You should be resting.”

I furrowed my brow and winced as the movement made my head throb harder. “And you should tell me why you’re here,” I repeated a little firmer this time.

How had he even known to come to the house, let alone the hospital? I didn’t remember much after making it to Mac’s place. Maybe she’d called the club? But that didn’t really make sense. She and I had both agreed—we kept our distance from the club. We knew the club had its secrets. Dangerous ones. We just wanted to do our job and get the hell out of Dodge before something else exploded.

And now… here I was, laid up in a hospital bed with my head pounding and my body aching. So much for leaving before something bad happened.

Pirate finally answered and shifted his weight like he wasn’t entirely comfortable. “Dice heard the call to your house, so we decided to come check on you guys.”

“Why?”

His brows pulled together like I’d just asked the world’s dumbest question. “What do you mean why?”

I tilted my head slightly and ignored the flare of pain that came with it. “You hate me.” My voice was flat. Not accusing, just… tired. True.

I didn’t have the strength to sugarcoat things, not that I ever really did. And besides, we both knew it. Mac and I had been background noise to them at best and intrusions at worst. They tolerated us only because the cameras we carried gave their club the end of their contract. Did anyone really want a camera in their face all the time? No, not really.

Pirate sat down in the chair next to the bed. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He looked like he had no intention of going anywhere.

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I hate your job, but I don’t hate you.”

I blinked slowly. That… was not what I expected to hear.

I closed my eyes and let my head sink back into the pillow. The scratchy hospital linen was somehow still better than concrete and blood. “Makes perfect sense,” I whispered. Not.

He didn’t argue with me. Just let the silence settle between us like a blanket. For some reason, it didn’t feel uncomfortable.

“Just rest,” he said, softer this time.

Not like I had a choice. The small burst of energy I’d conjured to ask him those questions was already gone. It was drained out of me like someone had pulled the plug. My body felt heavy, as if gravity had doubled. Every breath I took seemed to require more effort than the last.

I wanted to ask him more. A dozen questions hovered in the back of my mind—about the club, about who attacked me, about why the hell Pirate, of all people, had shown up and climbed into the back of that ambulance with me like he actually gave a damn.

But none of them made it to my mouth.

The world was starting to blur again, and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. My fingers twitched weakly at my sides, still feeling the ghost of the stone I’d used to defend myself. I didn’t even know if the man had lived or died. I didn’t care. All I knew was I’d survived. Somehow.

My breathing slowed, and the sounds around me faded into a soft hum. The monitors beeped steadily, and my heartbeat echoed from the machines nearby. Pirate didn’t move. He was still there beside me, a quiet and steady presence that shouldn’t have felt as comforting as it did.

And just before I let the darkness pull me under again, I heard his voice.

Low. Gentle.

“Sleep, Saylor,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

Then everything went quiet.