Page 6

four

Mason

One Week Later

The rumble of my bike echoes through the empty parking lot as I cut the engine. Dawn’s first light paints the sky in hues of pink and orange. The hospital looms before me, a sentinel of steel and glass.

I’ve been here every morning this week, watching. Waiting. Making sure she arrives safely.

The memory of that night at her apartment, her father’s anger, still burns in my mind. It ignited something primal in me. A need to protect. To claim.

Every night since, I’ve found myself at her place. We pretend it’s accidental, the way we fall asleep tangled together on her couch. But we both know better. I couldn’t tear myself away if I tried.

The screech of tires on asphalt snaps me back to the present. Meadow’s car pulls into the lot, sleek and efficient just like her. My heart rate kicks up a notch.

She steps out, all long legs and messy bun. Even in scrubs, she’s a fucking vision. Our eyes lock across the parking lot. A smile tugs at her lips, and suddenly, the early hour doesn’t seem so bad.

“Stalking me now, Mason?” she calls out, her voice a mix of amusement and something deeper.

I swing off my bike, closing the distance between us in long strides. “Just making sure my girl gets to work safe.”

She melts into me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for it. I breathe in the scent of her shampoo, coconut and something uniquely Meadow.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she murmurs against my chest, but there’s no real heat in her words.

I tilt her chin up, meeting those bright green eyes. “I know you can, darlin’. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here.”

Her gaze softens, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Then she’s pushing up on her toes, pressing a quick kiss to my lips.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, reluctantly pulling away. “Lives to save and all that.”

I watch her walk toward the hospital entrance, my body already aching for her touch again. She turns back just before she reaches the doors, flashing me a smile that could light up the whole damn city.

As I climb back on my bike, I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s changed. That Meadow’s become as essential to me as breathing. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to her.

The clubhouse is buzzing with activity as I walk in, nodding to the brothers gathered around the bar. It’s been a week since that night at Meadow’s apartment, a week of stolen moments and heated glances. We’ve been taking things slow, but the anticipation is killing me.

I spot Christopher at a table in the corner, poring over some paperwork. As I approach, he looks up with a grin.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovestruck puppy,” he teases. “How’s our girl doing?”

I roll my eyes but can’t hide my smile. “She’s good. Working hard, as always.”

Christopher’s expression turns serious. “And that Peterson asshole? No more trouble from him?”

I clench my jaw at the mention of that creep. “Not a peep. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay far away from her.”

“Good,” Christopher nods, “because if he doesn’t, I might have to pay him a visit myself.”

The protective rage in his voice mirrors my own. Meadow isn’t just my girl, she’s family to all of us. And we protect our own.

My dad comes in and sits down beside us. “What did I just hear about a fucker bothering Meadow?”

Before we know it, every single brother in the club is surrounding our table, pissed off that someone harassed Meadow in any way.

The door slams open. Liam storms in, eyes blazing. “Why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?”

Silence falls. Every eye turns to me.

I meet Liam’s glare head-on. “It slipped my mind when you were busting down her door, old man.”

For a moment, I think he might take a swing. Then his lips twitch. A chuckle escapes.

“I like your boy, Wilder,” he says, clapping my dad on the shoulder.

The tension breaks. Laughter ripples through the room.

But underneath, the rage still simmers. I can feel it in my bones, see it in the hard glint of their eyes.

Okay, that felt fucking good.

My dad grins. “Well, your daughter is an angel. It took them long enough,” he jokes, and we all join in the laughter.

I have thought about going to her many times over the years, but I didn’t want to be a selfish fucker and take away from her dreams.

“It started small,” I begin, watching Liam’s face for his reactions, letting him know how it started with fuckerson. “Creepy comments, lingering looks. Meadow brushed it off at first.”

Liam’s jaw clenches, but he stays silent.

“Then he cornered her in the locker room,” I continue, my own anger rising at the memory. “Tried to intimidate her into going out with him.”

“Son of a bitch,” Liam mutters.

“Konrad caught wind of it,” I say. “Turns out Peterson had a history of harassing female staff. They were building a case against him.

“And I have been keeping an eye on the fucker, doing drive-bys at his house and making sure to show up sometimes when he is out in the town. He knows his time is coming but I’m enjoying watching him sweat it out.”

Christopher bursts out laughing first. “Fuck yeah, he probably doesn’t know how to handle someone trying to scare him.”

A while later, Konrad walks into the clubhouse wearing a pair of scrubs. “Peterson was fired today. He fucking lost it in front of the board. He has lost his license to practice after so many women came forward with proof of his actions.”

I hiss, my fists clenching at my sides. “Fucking Peterson. Getting away with that shit for so long.”

The taste of copper fills my mouth. I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. The rage simmers, threatening to boil over.

Liam’s eyes meet mine, cold and hard. “Those who protected him need to learn a lesson.”

I nod, jaw clenched. “A painful one.”

Konrad’s lips curl into a predatory smile. “I’ll get you their names. Addresses too.”

The clubhouse door swings open. Etta strides in, all swagger and attitude. Her eyes narrow as she takes us in.

“What’s the plan, boys?” She plants her hands on her hips. “And don’t even think about leaving me out. I’m going stir-crazy with the kids in school.”

We exchange glances. Konrad raises an eyebrow at me.

I lean back, thinking. Etta’s no delicate flower. She’s seen her fair share of blood and bruises.

“All right,” I say finally. “But we do this smart. No loose ends.”

Etta’s grin is all teeth. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, sugar.”

The energy in the room shifts. We’re not just talking anymore; this is happening.

My mind races, piecing together a plan. Peterson’s smug face flashes in my mind. I picture him cornered, terrified.

Good.

* * *

Meadow

Later That Night

My pager buzzes, jolting me from a rare moment of peace. I glance at the screen and groan. Emergency C-section. Guess I’m not getting out on time.

I sprint down the hallway, dodging gurneys and harried nurses. The familiar scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils as I burst into the OR. Organized chaos greets me—monitors beeping, nurses prepping instruments, the patient’s labored breathing.

“What’ve we got?” I demand, snapping on gloves.

“Placental abruption,” the resident replies, voice tight with tension. “Baby’s heart rate is dropping fast.”

Adrenaline surges through me. No time to waste. I lock eyes with the terrified mother. “We’re going to take good care of you and your baby,” I promise. “Just hold on.”

The next hour is a blur of controlled intensity. Scalpel slicing, blood pooling, the metallic tang filling the air. My world narrows to this moment, this life in my hands.

Finally, a cry pierces the air. Relief floods through me as I lift the squirming newborn. “It’s a girl,” I announce, grinning behind my mask.

As I hand the baby to the pediatric team, my pager buzzes again. Another emergency. I sigh, stripping off my bloody gown. So much for dinner with Mason.

I grab my phone, fingers flying over the keys.

Emergency came up. Pulling a 24hr shift. Rain check?

His reply is instant. That’s fine, darlin’.

A smile tugs at my lips despite my exhaustion. For the first time in a week, I’ll sleep alone. The thought leaves an unexpected ache in my chest.

Mason: What time do you get dinner?

Me: I’m not sure.

Mason: Let me know when and I will bring you some food.

I smile at his thoughtfulness and slide my phone into my locker, making sure to lock it since Dr. Thompson is here. She is a bitch and it seems like her mood is worse than ever today.

I can feel her eyes on me at times, but I pretend she doesn’t exist, and move out of the locker room before she can unleash her bitchiness on me.

Hours pass in a blur of patients and procedures. By the time I finally get a break, it’s well past midnight. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I slump into a chair in the break room, rubbing my eyes tiredly. Just as I’m debating whether I have the energy to trek to the vending machines, my phone buzzes with a text from Mason.

Still awake, darlin’? I’m outside with food if you can sneak away for a few.

My heart leaps at the message. I glance at the clock—I have about twenty minutes before my next scheduled patient.

Be right there , I text back, already heading for the elevators.

The cool night air hits me as I step outside, instantly reviving me a bit. I spot Mason leaning against his bike, a takeout bag in hand. Even exhausted and disheveled, the sight of him takes my breath away.

“Hey you,” I say softly as I approach.

Mason’s eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, pulling me into a tight hug.

I melt into his embrace, breathing in his familiar scent of leather and spice. For a moment, I let myself forget about the chaos inside, about the lives depending on me. I’m just a woman in the arms of the man she’s falling for.

“Brought you some of that pasta you like,” Mason says, holding up the bag. “Figured you could use some fuel.”

“You’re amazing,” I sigh gratefully, taking the container. “I’m starving.”

We settle on a nearby bench, the food warm between us. As I dig in, savoring each bite, Mason’s hand finds mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm.

“Rough night?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I nod, swallowing a mouthful of pasta. “Emergency C-section earlier. Mom and baby are okay, but it was touch-and-go for a while.”

Mason squeezes my hand. “You’re incredible, you know that? Saving lives every day.”

I feel my cheeks flush at the pride in his voice. “Just doing my job,” I mumble.

“Nah,” Mason shakes his head, “it’s more than that. It’s who you are.”

Our eyes meet, and suddenly the air between us feels charged. Mason leans in, his lips brushing mine in a soft kiss. I sigh into it, feeling some of the tension melt from my shoulders.

All too soon, my pager buzzes. Reality intrudes once more. I pull back reluctantly, already missing his warmth.

“Duty calls,” I say with a rueful smile.

Mason nods, understanding in his eyes. “Go be a hero, darlin’. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

I drop my leftovers into the break room on the way to the ER, then I open my iPad and study my charts, seeing a name on the screen that takes my breath away.

Mrs. Peterson

The notes say that the ambulance brought her in after someone found her unconscious in front of her house. There’s a shortage of staff tonight at the ER, hence I’ve been temporarily pulled away from my department.

I swallow hard, bracing myself for whatever is going to happen.

As I approach the ER bay, my heart pounds in my chest. The curtain is drawn, but I can hear the frantic beeping of monitors and urgent voices behind it. I steel myself and step inside.

The sight that greets me makes my blood run cold. Mrs. Peterson lies on the gurney, barely recognizable beneath the bruises and swelling. Her left eye is swollen shut, a purple hematoma blooming across her cheekbone. Dried blood cakes her split lip and nostrils.

As my eyes travel down her body, I notice the odd angle of her right arm—it’s clearly broken. Her clothes are torn and dirty, as if she’s been in a struggle. Dark bruises in the shape of handprints mar her throat and wrists.

“What happened?” I demand, snapping on gloves as I approach the bedside.

The ER nurse, Sarah, looks up with grim eyes. “Found unconscious on her front lawn by a neighbor. Obvious signs of severe beating and…” She hesitates, lowering her voice. “Sexual assault.”

My stomach lurches. I force myself to remain professional as I begin my examination, but inside I’m reeling. Who could have done this? The obvious suspect springs to mind, but I push the thought away. I can’t jump to conclusions.

Mrs. Peterson’s grip on my arm tightens, her nails digging into my skin. Her eyes, wide with terror, lock on to mine. The monitors beep frantically, matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.

“David,” she chokes out. “He… he did this.”

My stomach lurches. David Peterson. Her husband. The man who’d made my life hell for months.

“Mrs. Peterson,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

She flinches, her gaze darting around the room as if expecting him to materialize at any moment. “He was waiting when I got home. Said I ruined everything. That I should have kept my mouth shut. I was called into the board for an interview, and I decided to tell the truth of what he was.” She stops talking, her lips trembling. “A monster.”

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus. “Did he say anything else?”

Mrs. Peterson’s breath hitches. A tear slides down her bruised cheek. “He said… he said this was just the beginning. That he’d make us all pay.”

A chill runs down my spine. Us all. Who else was he targeting?

The curtain rustles. I whirl around, half expecting to see Peterson’s leering face. Instead, it’s Sarah, the nurse.

“Dr. Beckham,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “There’s a man outside asking for Mrs. Peterson. It’s her husband.”

My blood turns to ice. He’s here. In the hospital.

Mrs. Peterson’s monitors beep frantically as her heart rate spikes. “Don’t let him in,” she begs, her voice raw with panic. “Please, don’t let him near me!”

I squeeze her hand. “It’s okay,” I assure her, even as fear claws at my insides. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

I turn to Sarah, keeping my voice low. “Call security. Now. And page Dr. Konrad.”

As Sarah hurries off, I pull out my phone. My fingers shake as I type out a message to Mason.

Peterson’s here. At the hospital. I need you.

My blood runs cold. David Peterson. The man who tormented me for months. The disgraced doctor. Her own husband.

Mrs. Peterson’s monitors shriek. Her body goes rigid, then she starts thrashing violently. Foam bubbles from her lips.

“She’s seizing!” I shout, leaping into action. “Push ten of lorazepam, now!”

Sarah scrambles for the medication while I try to keep Mrs. Peterson from injuring herself further. Her limbs flail, nearly hitting me in the face. The acrid smell of urine fills the air as her bladder releases.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, watching the monitor. Her heart rate spikes dangerously high.

Sarah returns with the lorazepam. I grab it, injecting it into the IV line with practiced ease. “Page neurosurg, stat!” I order, not taking my eyes off Mrs. Peterson.

Seconds tick by like hours. Finally, her convulsions start to slow. Her body goes limp, vitals stabilizing.

I exhale shakily, adrenaline still coursing through me. As I check her pupils, my mind races. How long had Peterson been abusing her? Was this revenge for his firing? For her speaking out?

A chill runs down my spine. If he’d do this to his own wife, what else is he capable of?

A security guard enters, looking grim.

“Dr. Beckham,” he says, voice low and urgent. “Peterson managed to slip past the front security when they looked away. We lost him.”

My heart slams against my ribs, the security guard’s words echoing in my ears. Peterson. In the hospital. Somewhere. Fear and rage collide, setting my nerves on fire.

“Lock it down,” I snap at the guard. “This wing. Now. No one in or out without clearance. And get more security up here. Fast.”

The guard nods, hurrying off. I turn back to Mrs. Peterson’s unconscious form, my mind racing. Where would he go? What’s his endgame?

His threat replays in my head, each word dripping with venom.

“This is just the beginning. I’ll make you all pay.”

Ice floods my veins as realization hits. Not just his wife. Everyone who spoke out. Which means…

Me.

My hand trembles as I pull out my phone, typing furiously to Mason.

Peterson slipped security. In hospital. Be careful.

I start another message to Konrad, fingers flying over the keys. A rustle sounds from behind me. The curtain moves.

I freeze. My lungs seize. Slowly, I turn.

Peterson stands there. Wild eyes bloodshot. Clothes rumpled, dark stains spattered across his shirt. My stomach lurches. Blood?

In his hand, a scalpel. The blade shines against the harsh fluorescent light, glinting with deadly promise.

“Hello, Dr. Beckham.” His voice is eerily calm. A shark’s smile. “Time we had a little chat, don’t you think?”

My throat closes. Panic claws at my chest. I force it down, squaring my shoulders. “Dr. Peterson. You shouldn’t be here.”

He laughs. The sound grates like broken glass. “Oh, but I should. You see, we have unfinished business, you and I.”

He takes a step closer. I hold my ground, even as every instinct screams to run. “There’s nothing to discuss,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “It’s over, David. You need to leave. Now.”

His eyes narrow. The scalpel twitches in his grip. “Over?” he snarls. “You think you can ruin my life, my career, and just walk away?”

“You did that yourself,” I snap back. Anger overrides fear, fueling my words. “You’re the one who harassed women. Who abused your power. Who beats your wife.”

Peterson’s face contorts with rage. He lunges forward, grabbing my arm. The scalpel presses against my throat, cold and sharp.

“Shut up!” he hisses. His breath is hot on my face, reeking of alcohol. “You don’t know anything. You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Little Miss Perfect, with your fancy degree and your biker boyfriend.”

The blade digs in, a pinprick of pain. I swallow hard, feeling it slice deeper. “David,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Think about what you’re doing. This won’t fix anything.”

He laughs again, a bitter, broken sound. “Fix? Oh, it’s far too late for that. But I can make sure you never forget me. That none of you do.”

His grip tightens, bruising. The monitors behind us beep frantically, Mrs. Peterson stirring on the bed. Peterson’s eyes dart to her, then back to me.

“Now,” his voice is whiny, his voice coming out in pants, “we’re going for a little walk. And if you make a sound, if you try anything… well, let’s just say there are a lot of vulnerable patients in this hospital. It would be a shame if something happened to them.”

My blood runs cold. I nod, once. Peterson smiles, all teeth and madness.

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Let’s go.”

He drags me toward the door, the scalpel never leaving my throat. I swallow hard, my mind racing for a way out of this. But Peterson blocks the only exit, and Mrs. Peterson lies helpless behind me. I’m trapped.

“David,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me. “You don’t want to do this. Think about what you’re risking.”

He laughs, a harsh, brittle sound. “Risking? I’ve already lost everything. My job, my reputation, my wife.” His eyes narrow, hatred blazing in their depths. “And it’s all because of you.”

“That’s not true,” I counter, taking a small step back. “You did this to yourself, David. Your actions, your choices.”

“Shut up!” he snarls, advancing toward me. The scalpel trembles in his grip. “You turned everyone against me. You ruined my life!”

I raise my hands placatingly, my back now pressed against Mrs. Peterson’s bed. “David, please. This isn’t going to solve anything. Just put down the scalpel, and we can talk about this.”

For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him. His hand wavers, the scalpel lowering slightly.

Then his face contorts with rage. “No more talking,” he snarls. “It’s time you learned your lesson.”

Peterson lunges forward, trying to push me ahead of him, but I dig my feet into the floor, throwing my arm up to push his hand that’s holding the scalpel away from my neck.

I throw myself to the side. The blade misses my throat by inches, slicing the sleeve of my scrubs instead. The fabric tears, and I feel a sharp sting as it grazes my arm.

I stumble backward, knocking over a tray of instruments. The crash echoes through the room as metal clatters against the floor. Peterson’s eyes are wild, filled with a manic rage I’ve never seen before. He advances again, his movements jerky and unpredictable.

“You ruined everything!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth. “My career, my life!”

I dodge another swipe of the scalpel, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The room seems to spin around me as adrenaline floods my system. I’m acutely aware of every sound—the steady beep of Mrs. Peterson’s monitors, the ragged breathing of her crazed husband, my own pulse roaring in my ears.

“David, please,” I plead, my voice shaking. “This isn’t you. Think about what you’re doing!”

But there’s no reasoning with him now. His face is contorted into a mask of pure hatred, eyes bulging and teeth bared in a feral snarl. He lunges again, and this time I’m not quick enough. The scalpel hits my side, slicing through my scrubs and into the flesh beneath.

White-hot pain explodes across my rib cage. I cry out, stumbling back against the wall. My hand instinctively presses against the wound, and I feel warm blood seeping between my fingers. The coppery scent fills my nostrils, making me dizzy.

Peterson advances, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “Not so high and mighty now, are you, Dr. Beckham?” he sneers, raising the bloodied scalpel.

I brace myself for the next attack, knowing I have nowhere left to run. But just as Peterson draws back his arm to strike, the curtain behind him explodes inward.

A blur of motion fills my vision. Strong hands grab Peterson, yanking him backward with brutal force. The scalpel clatters to the ground as Peterson is slammed against the opposite wall.

Mason stands there, his face a mask of cold wrath. One hand is wrapped around Peterson’s throat, pinning him in place. The other is cocked back, ready to strike.

“You like picking on women, you piece of shit?” Mason says. “Try me on for size.”

Relief floods through me at the sight of Mason, so overwhelming that my knees nearly buckle. But there’s no time for reunions. Peterson, though caught off guard, isn’t done fighting. He claws at Mason’s arm, trying to break free.

Mason’s grip on Peterson’s throat tightens, his eyes blazing. Peterson’s face turns an alarming shade of purple as he gasps for air, clawing desperately at Mason’s iron grip.

“Mason, stop!” I cry out, stumbling forward. As much as I want Peterson to pay, I can’t let Mason kill him. “He’s not worth it! We can’t kill him here.” I whisper the last part so he understands I don’t want him to go to jail.

For a moment, I think he might not listen. The look in his eyes is feral, all traces of the gentle man I know gone. But at the sound of my voice, something shifts. His grip loosens just enough for Peterson to draw in a ragged breath.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t end this piece of shit right now,” he says, not taking his eyes off Peterson’s terrified face.

“Because he’s not worth it,” I repeat, placing a hand on Mason’s arm. “He’s done. Let the police handle him.”

Mason’s jaw clenches, clearly warring with himself. Finally, he releases Peterson, who crumples to the floor, gasping and coughing.

Security hurries in, Konrad on their heels. The room freezes. Peterson, a crumpled heap on the floor. Mason, fists clenched, murder in his eyes. Me, slumped against the wall, blood seeping through my scrubs.

“Took your sweet time,” Mason snarls at the guards. His jaw tics, muscles coiled tight. “Get this piece of shit out of here before I finish what he started.”

The guards haul Peterson up. He doesn’t resist, eyes wild and unfocused. As they drag him past, his gaze locks on mine. A chill runs down my spine.

Konrad’s at my side in an instant. “Christ, Meadow.” His fingers probe the wound, gentle but clinical. “We need to get this stitched up.”

The adrenaline crash hits hard. My legs wobble, threatening to give out. Mason’s there, arm around my waist, solid and warm.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. The anger gone from his voice, replaced by something soft. Tender. It makes my chest ache.

We shuffle out, Konrad leading the way. The hallway’s a blur of concerned faces and harsh fluorescent lights. My side throbs with each step, a constant reminder of how close I came to?—

No. Don’t think about it.

A flash of movement catches my eye. Mrs. Peterson, awake now. Tears streak down her bruised face as she watches her husband being led away in cuffs. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat.

There’s fear there, yeah. But relief too. And something else. Gratitude, maybe?

Mason’s arm tightens around me. I lean into him, drawing strength from his warmth. It’s over , I tell myself. We’re safe.

But as we round the corner, heading for the exam room, a nagging thought worms its way in.

Is it really over? Or is this just the beginning?