Page 10

eight

Meadow

I wake with a jolt, my heart racing. Disorientation hits first, then pain. Every muscle screams in protest as I push myself up. This isn’t my bed. Then I remember Peterson. The scalpel.

Mason.

My hand reaches out, finding only cool sheets beside me. A pang of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, twists in my gut.

Laughter erupts from the hallway, startling me. I glance at the clock. 10:23 AM. Shit.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my stitches pull. The room spins for a moment, exhaustion and lingering fear battling for dominance. I force myself to breathe, in and out, until the world steadies.

A pile of clothes catches my eye. Not mine, but clean. Mason’s scent clings to them, leather and something uniquely him. A note sits on top.

For you. Come down when you’re ready.

- M

My throat tightens. Such a simple gesture, but it hits me hard. I dress quickly, the soft fabric a balm against my battered skin.

Another round of laughter filters through the door. Curiosity wars with anxiety. What’s waiting for me out there? The clubhouse suddenly feels like alien territory.

I reach for the doorknob, and hesitate. My hand trembles slightly. Get it together, Meadow. You’ve faced worse. The memory of Peterson’s wild eyes flashes through my mind. I shove it away, hard.

The door creaks as I open it. Voices drift up the stairs, a low rumble punctuated by occasional bouts of laughter. I square my shoulders. Time to face whatever’s waiting.

My bare feet are silent on the wooden floor as I make my way toward the stairs. Each step sends a dull throb through my side. I grit my teeth, pushing through it.

The voices grow clearer as I descend. I hear snippets of their conversation, something about surveillance and patrols. My stomach clenches. They’re planning. For Peterson.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly unsure. Do I belong here, in this world of leather and chrome and danger? But before I can retreat, a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.

“Meadow.”

Mason. My eyes find him instantly, drawn to him like a magnet. He’s across the room in seconds, his warm hands cupping my face.

“How are you feeling, darlin’?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick to my throat. How am I feeling? Scared. Angry. Confused. Safe, with his hands on me.

“I’m fine,” I manage, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

Mason’s eyes narrow, seeing right through me. He opens his mouth to argue, but another voice interrupts.

“Well, look who decided to join the land of the living!”

I turn, the movement sending a sharp twinge through my side. Christopher’s grin hits me like a spotlight, too bright, too exposed. The clubhouse swims into focus, a sea of leather and denim, familiar faces mixed with strangers. Every eye locks on to me.

Heat crawls up my neck, painting my cheeks crimson. My fingers twitch, itching to grab Mason’s shirt, to use his bulk as a shield. No. The memory of Peterson’s wild eyes flashes once more, unbidden. My jaw clenches. I plant my feet, chin lifting. I won’t cower. Not again.

Mason’s arm snakes around my waist, solid and warm. His touch grounds me, chasing away the phantom chill of the scalpel at my throat. “You should be resting,” he murmurs, breath tickling my ear.

I open my mouth to argue, but Christopher’s booming laugh cuts me off. He calls, striding over, “How you feeling, Doc?”

“Fine,” I lie, the word tasting like ash. My eyes dart to the papers scattered across the table behind him. Maps. Lists of names. My stomach clenches. “What’s all that?”

Mason’s arm tightens, a silent warning. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he says, voice low and firm. “We’ve got it handled.”

Frustration bubbles up, hot and insistent. “Mason, please. I can’t just sit around while?—”

“While what?” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “While we hunt down the psycho who tried to kill you? While we make sure he can never hurt you again?”

The intensity in his gaze pins me in place. My heart hammers against my ribs, a mix of fear and something else, something darker, more primal. I swallow hard.

“I want to help,” I manage, hating how small my voice sounds.

Mason’s jaw tics. He opens his mouth, but Christopher beats him to it.

“Come on, Mase,” he says, clapping a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “Girl’s tough as nails. Maybe she can give us some insight.”

Mason’s eyes narrow, a silent battle raging behind them. I hold my breath, caught in the crossfire of their wordless exchange.

“Meadow.” The warning in his tone is clear. His eyes flick to Christopher, who takes the hint and makes himself scarce. Once we’re alone, Mason cups my face in his hands, his touch gentle despite the steel in his voice. “We talked about this last night. You agreed to stay out of it.”

I bite my lip, torn between the need to help and the desire to honor my promise. “I know, but?—”

“No buts,” Mason cuts me off. His thumb traces my bottom lip, the gesture oddly intimate given our surroundings. “Your job right now is to heal. Let me take care of the rest.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends heat through me, even as part of me bristles at being sidelined. I’m about to argue further, when a commotion near the entrance catches our attention.

Konrad runs through the door, his face grim. “We’ve got a problem,” he announces to the room at large. “Peterson’s made contact.”

The clubhouse erupts into chaos. Mason’s arm wraps around me instinctively as he turns to face Konrad. “What kind of contact?” he demands.

Konrad’s eyes flick to me, then back to Mason. “You’re gonna want to see this for yourself, brother.”

As Mason moves to follow Konrad, I grab his arm. “I’m coming with you,” I insist.

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. But then he nods, his expression grave. “Stay close,” he orders.

Together, we make our way through the crowd, my heart pounding with each step. Whatever Peterson’s done, I know one thing for certain: we will get him.

As we follow Konrad into a side room, my stomach churns with dread. The air feels thick, oppressive. Mason’s hand on my lower back is the only thing keeping me grounded.

Konrad gestures to a laptop on the desk, its screen glowing ominously in the dimly lit room. “This came about an hour ago. Courier dropped it off at the hospital’s front desk.”

Mason pulls me closer as Konrad inserts a small flash drive into the computer. The screen flickers to life, and I let out a hiss.

Peterson’s face fills the frame, his eyes wild and bloodshot. But it’s not him that draws my horrified gaze, it’s the figure beside him. Sarah, one of the nurses I work with, trembles in Peterson’s grip. Her eyes are wide with terror, tears streaming down her face. The barrel of a gun presses against her temple.

“Hello, Meadow.” Peterson’s voice crackles through the speakers, dripping with malice. “I hope this message finds you well. As you can see, I have a guest with me today.”

Sarah whimpers as Peterson tightens his grip on her hair. I feel Mason tense beside me, his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You thought you could ruin me, didn’t you?” Peterson continues, his voice rising. “Thought you and your biker thug could take everything from me? Well, now it’s my turn.”

He presses the gun harder against Sarah’s head, eliciting a muffled sob. “Here’s how this is going to work. Every day you don’t turn yourself over to me, someone dies. Your coworkers, your friends, maybe even some of those leather-clad degenerates you call family.”

My legs wobble, threatening to give out. Mason’s arm around my waist is the only thing keeping me upright.

“The choice is yours, Meadow,” Peterson sneers. “How many people are you willing to sacrifice to save yourself? I’ll be in touch with instructions. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

The screen goes black, plunging the room into silence. For a moment, no one moves. The weight of Peterson’s threat hangs heavy in the air, suffocating.

Then, all at once, chaos erupts. Voices overlap, shouting suggestions and accusations. I barely hear them over the roaring in my ears. Sarah’s terrified face is burned into my mind, her silent plea for help echoing in my head.

“I have to go to him.” The words scrape out of my throat, barely audible. “I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of me.”

Mason’s fingers dig into my waist. “Not a fucking chance,” he says, his breath hot on my ear. “We’re not playing his game.”

I whirl to face him, vision blurring. “But Sarah?—”

“We’ll get her back.” His voice cuts like steel, brooking no argument.

The room erupts, a cacophony of anger and fear. I catch snippets.

“…track the bastard down…”

“…sweep every warehouse in the county…”

“…call in every favor we’ve got…”

My head pounds. The walls close in. I can’t breathe.

“I need air,” I gasp, pushing past Mason.

I stumble out of the room, down the hallway. My bare feet slap against cold wood. The front door looms ahead, a beacon of escape.

Fresh air hits me like a slap. I gulp it down, hands braced on my knees. The gravel of the parking lot bites into my skin.

Footsteps crunch behind me. Mason’s presence, solid and warm, at my back.

“Meadow.” His voice is softer now, gentler. “Look at me.”

I straighten, turning to face him. His eyes, dark with worry, search mine.

“We will find her,” he says, each word deliberate. “And we will end this. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

I want to scream, to rage about the unfairness of it all. But looking into Mason’s eyes, I see the determination there. The promise.

I nod, once. “Okay.”

He pulls me to him, crushing me against his chest. I breathe him in and for a moment, I let myself believe everything will be okay.

My dad walks out of the clubhouse and I tear myself out of Mason’s arms and into my dad’s.

My dad’s arms wrap around me, solid and familiar. For a moment, I’m a little girl again, safe in his embrace. The scent of leather and motor oil envelops me, a comforting reminder of home.

“I’ve got you, baby girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “We’re gonna fix this.”

I cling to him, my fingers digging into the worn leather of his cut. Tears burn behind my closed eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. I’ve cried enough.

“How?” The word comes out small and broken. “How do we fix this, Dad? Sarah’s in danger because of me. Because I?—”

“No.” Dad pulls back, his calloused hands cupping my face. His eyes, so like my own, blaze with fierce determination. “This is not your fault, Meadow. You hear me? That psycho is the only one to blame here.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Dad’s thumb brushes away a tear I didn’t realize had escaped.

“We’ve got the whole club working on this,” he continues. “Devil Souls and Grim Sinners—we’re all in. We’ll find Sarah and make that bastard pay.”

The steel in his voice should be comforting. Instead, it sends a chill down my spine. Because I know what “make him pay” means in their world. More violence. More blood.

“Dad, I—” I start, but the words die in my throat as Mason steps closer.

“We need to get her inside,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “It’s not safe out here.”

Dad nods, his arm tightening around my shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go back in.”

As we turn toward the clubhouse, I catch sight of a figure lurking at the edge of the parking lot. My heart leaps into my throat.

“Mason,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. “Over there.”

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he scans the area. In an instant, he’s in front of me, shielding me with his body.

The world explodes into chaos.

A sharp crack splits the air, followed by the sickening thud of a bullet embedding itself in the wooden siding of the clubhouse. Splinters spray outward, stinging my cheek.

“Get down!” Mason roars, tackling me to the ground. His body covers mine, a human shield against the hail of gunfire.

The gravel bites into my palms as I hit the ground hard. The air rushes from my lungs on impact. Mason’s weight presses me down, his heartbeat thundering against my back. The acrid scent of gunpowder fills my nostrils.

More shots ring out in rapid succession. The air buzzes with lethal projectiles. Bullets ping off metal and shatter glass. The windshield of a nearby bike explodes in a shower of crystalline shards.

“Stay down!” Dad bellows from somewhere to my left. I hear the distinctive click of a gun being cocked, then the booming retort of return fire.

The parking lot erupts into a war zone. Engines roar to life as bikers scramble for cover. Tires squeal against asphalt. Shouts and curses mingle with the deafening gunfire.

Mason’s lips brush my ear, his voice low and urgent. “When I say go, we run for the clubhouse. You ready?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. My entire body trembles, adrenaline surging through my veins.

“Now!”

Mason hauls me to my feet. We sprint across the open space, bullets kicking up gravel at our heels. My bare feet slap against the pavement, each step jarring my aching body.

We’re halfway to safety when a searing pain explodes in my left calf. My leg buckles beneath me. I cry out, stumbling.

Mason doesn’t miss a beat. He scoops me into his arms without breaking stride, cradling me against his chest as he races for the door.

We hurry through the entrance, Mason’s momentum carrying us several steps into the clubhouse before he sets me down. The heavy oak door slams shut behind us, muffling the chaos outside.

“Meadow!” Mason’s hands roam over me, checking for injuries. His face is pale, eyes wild with fear and rage. “Where are you hit?”

“My leg,” I gasp, the pain finally registering fully. “It’s not bad, I don’t think.”

Mason drops to his knees, examining the wound. Blood seeps through my jeans, staining the denim a dark crimson.

“Graze,” he mutters, relief evident in his voice. “Missed the artery. You’re gonna be okay.”

As the adrenaline fades, the reality of the situation crashes over me. Tears spring to my eyes, hot and stinging. “Oh God,” I choke out.

The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. “Everyone I care about is going to get hurt.” My body shakes, each sob racking my frame. The metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils.

Mason’s hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes blaze with an intensity that steals my breath. “Listen to me, Meadow. No one else is getting hurt. You hear me? No one.”

But the images flash through my mind, relentless. Sarah’s terrified face. The shattered windshield. The gravel kicking up around us as we ran.

“You can’t promise that,” I choke out. My fingers dig into his arms, seeking an anchor. “Peterson, he?—”

“Fuck Peterson.” His thumb brushes away a tear, the gentleness at odds with the fury in his voice. “That bastard’s days are numbered. We’ll find him, and we’ll end this?—”

A commotion at the door cuts him off. Dad runs in, his face etched with worry and rage. “Meadow! Are you—” His eyes land on my bloodied leg, and his expression darkens. “Son of a bitch.”

He strides over, dropping to his knees beside us. His calloused hand grips mine, squeezing tight.

Over his shoulder, my eyes go to Reid holding his arm with blood running down the length of it, his mother screaming at the sight of her son bleeding.

Elle, who is pregnant, holds her stomach, her eyes wide while taking in the chaos.

I snap into doctor mode, pushing aside my own pain and fear. “Reid,” I call out, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let me see that arm.”

Mason starts to protest, but I silence him with a look. “I’m fine. It’s just a graze. Reid needs help.”

I struggle to my feet, wincing as weight lands on my injured leg. Mason’s arm wraps around my waist, supporting me as I limp over to Reid.

“Sit,” I order, gesturing to a nearby chair. Reid obeys, his face pale beneath the tattoos.

I examine the wound, my hands steady despite the situation. “Through and through,” I mutter, relief flooding me. “Missed the major arteries. You’ll need stitches, but you’ll be okay.”

Reid’s mother hovers nearby, her eyes wide with fear. “He’ll be all right?” she asks, voice trembling.

I nod, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile. “He’ll be fine. I need a first aid kit and some clean towels.”

As she hurries off, I turn my attention to Elle. “Are you hurt?” I ask, scanning her for visible injuries.

Elle shakes her head, one hand still protectively cradling her belly. “No, I… I think I’m okay. Just scared.”

“Sit down,” I tell her gently. “Try to take some deep breaths. Stress isn’t good for the baby.”

As I work on Reid’s arm, cleaning and stitching the wound, I feel a sense of calm settle over me. This, at least, I know how to do. This is familiar territory.

“Meadow.” Mason’s voice is low, urgent. I glance up to see him watching me, a mix of admiration and concern in his eyes. “You need to let someone look at your leg.”

I shake my head, tying off the last stitch in Reid’s arm. “In a minute. I need to check on everyone else first.”

Mason’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he stays close, hovering protectively as I move from person to person, assessing injuries and offering what help I can.

It’s only when I’ve seen to everyone else that I allow myself to sink into a chair, the adrenaline finally wearing off. The pain in my leg flares, sharp and insistent.

“Okay, Doc,” Mason says, kneeling in front of me. “Your turn.”

As he begins cleaning my wound, his touch gentle despite the anger simmering in his eyes, I let out a shaky breath. “What happened out there?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Reid sits up suddenly, his eyes wide with panic. “Shit, I need to get to the bakery!” he exclaims, wincing as the movement jostles his injured arm. “Lily’s working the afternoon shift today. If Peterson’s targeting people we care about…”

His words trail off, but the implication hangs heavy in the air. A collective shudder runs through the room as we all consider the possibilities.

Mason’s hands are still on my leg, his jaw clenching. “Reid, you’re in no condition to go anywhere,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind.

“The hell I’m not,” Reid yells, struggling to his feet and swaying slightly. “That’s my woman out there. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

The room erupts into a flurry of activity. Voices overlap as plans are made and strategies debated. I watch as Reid’s mother fusses over him, trying to convince him to stay put. But the determination in his eyes is unmistakable. He’s going, injured or not.

Reid has had a crush on the woman that works at the bakery in town that the MC owns and we all know about it.

“I’ll go with him,” Christopher volunteers, already reaching for his cut. “We’ll bring Lily back here where it’s safe.”

Mason nods, his expression grim. “Take backup. We don’t know if Peterson’s got eyes on the bakery.”

As the men prepare to leave, I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. Peterson’s threat echoes in my mind, a sinister promise of more violence to come. How many more people will be caught in the crossfire before this is over?

I look around the room at the faces of those I’ve come to care for, some bruised, some bloodied, all wearing expressions of grim determination. This makeshift family, brought together by leather and chrome, now united against a common enemy.

My mom walks over to me, holding me close, and I clench my eyes shut and try not to get so emotional over everything.

These people I care about, they’re my family, and it breaks my heart knowing that someone is out to hurt them.

I cling to my mom, trying to draw strength from her embrace. The chaos of the room fades away for a moment as I breathe in her familiar scent.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she murmurs, stroking my hair. “We’ll get through this together.”

I want to believe her, but doubt gnaws at me. How can anything be okay when there’s a madman out there targeting the people I love?

As if reading my thoughts, Mom pulls back and cups my face in her hands. Her eyes are filled with fierce determination. “Listen to me, Meadow. You are stronger than you know. And you have all of us behind you. We will end this.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Mom presses a kiss to my forehead before turning to help with the preparations.

Reid argues with his mother, insisting he’s well enough to go check on Lily. Christopher and a few others gear up, ready to provide backup. Mason confers with my dad in low, urgent tones.

I feel useless, perched on this chair while everyone else springs into action. The doctor in me itches to do more, to help in some tangible way. But as I shift, pain lances through my injured leg, a stark reminder of my limitations.

Mason catches my eye from across the room. In an instant, he’s by my side, his hand warm on my shoulder. “How you holding up, darlin’?” he asks, voice low with concern.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just worried about everyone else.”

His eyes narrow, seeing right through me. “We’re going to fix this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But as Reid and the others prepare to leave, I know they’re heading out into a world where danger lurks around every corner.

The weight of responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders. All of this—the injuries, the fear, the looming threat—it’s because of me. Because Peterson’s obsessed with making me pay.

As if sensing my spiraling thoughts, Mason crouches down, bringing his face level with mine. “Hey,” he says softly, tilting my chin up. “This is not your fault. You hear me? None of this is on you.”

I meet Mason’s gaze, the intensity in his eyes stealing my breath. For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe him. Let myself think that maybe, just maybe, we can get through this.

A sharp electronic chime cuts through the tension. My head snaps toward the TV still playing in the background. The scrolling news ticker catches my eye, and my stomach drops.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Names. So many names. Women coming forward one after another, their stories a horrifying tapestry of abuse and exploitation. Peterson’s victims, spanning years, decades even. It all makes my skin crawl.

“Mason,” I choke out, grabbing his arm. “Look.”

His jaw clenches as he takes in the news. I can feel the fury radiating from him in waves.

A nurse’s tearful testimony fills the screen. “They said they’d hurt my family if I didn’t… if I didn’t do what they wanted.” Her voice cracks, and I feel bile rise in my throat.

The clubhouse door crashes open, startling me. River strides in, leading a group of Grim Sinners Rebels as they’re hauling crates of equipment.

“I heard we got us a trafficker that needs to be taken down?” River’s voice is all steel and venom, a predatory gleam in her eye.

Mason’s arm tightens around me. “River,” he nods, his voice low and dangerous. “Glad you could join the party.”

River’s gaze sweeps the room, taking in the tense faces, the bloodied bandages. Her eyes land on me, narrowing slightly. “Doc,” she says, a hint of respect in her tone. “You good?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The weight of everything—the attack, the news, River’s arrival—it’s overwhelming. My leg throbs, a constant reminder of how close we came to a disaster.

“All right,” River claps her hands, all business, “let’s get set up. We’ve got a bastard to catch.”

The room erupts into a flurry of activity. Rebels and Sinners working side by side, unpacking equipment, setting up monitors. It’s like watching a well-oiled machine spring into action.

There hasn’t been a war in the MC in a long time, hell, since before we were born.

A chill runs down my spine at the realization of how far this has gone and how much darker than just Peterson.

Women have been ruined by this man for so many years, and fierce anger blossoms from the pit of my stomach.

The only way this can end is if all of them die.