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six

Meadow

Mason bursts through the door, his eyes wild, chest heaving. One look and I know. Peterson’s gone.

“Fuck,” he slams his fist against the wall. The impact echoes through the room.

My stomach drops. “What happened?”

Mason’s jaw clenches. “Slippery bastard got into a car. Couldn’t get to him in time.”

Konrad curses under his breath. I sink onto the exam table, wincing as the movement pulls at my freshly stitched wound.

“Mrs. Peterson,” I say, the realization hitting me like a freight train. “She’s not safe here.”

Mason’s at my side in an instant, his hand warm on my back. “We’ll protect her,” he says, his voice low and fierce.

Konrad nods, already reaching for his phone. “The compound,” he says. “Brian’s running it now, but there should be room.”

“Perfect,” Mason agrees. “We’ll have eyes on her twenty-four seven.”

I look between them, hope blooming in my chest. “You really think that’ll work?”

Mason’s eyes lock with mine, intense and unwavering. “I promise you, darlin’. That bastard won’t get within a mile of her.”

The determination in his voice has me trembling with emotion. I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s do it.”

Konrad’s already dialing, barking orders into the phone. Mason pulls me closer, his lips brushing my temple.

“We’ll end this,” he murmurs. “Whatever it takes.”

I nod, trying to ignore the knot of fear in my gut. Because as safe as I feel in Mason’s arms, I can’t shake the feeling that this is far from over.

The door bursts open again. A nurse, wide-eyed and breathless. “Dr. Beckham! Mrs. Peterson… she’s coding!”

My heart stops. Then I’m moving, adrenaline surging through my veins. “Let’s go!”

I sprint down the hallway toward Mrs. Peterson’s room, my heart pounding. The sound of alarms grows louder as we approach. Mason is right behind me, his presence a comforting anchor in the chaos.

We hurry into the room. The scene that greets us is one of controlled frenzy. Nurses swarm around Mrs. Peterson’s bed, their movements quick and precise. The cardiac monitor wails, its screen showing a terrifying flat line.

“How long has she been down?” I demand, snapping on gloves.

“Two minutes,” a nurse replies, not pausing in her chest compressions.

I nod, my mind racing through protocols. “Push one of epi,” I order, moving to the head of the bed. “I’m taking over airway.”

As I tilt Mrs. Peterson’s head back to intubate, I catch a glimpse of her face. The bruises from her husband’s attack stand out starkly against her pale skin. My jaw clenches. Not like this. You don’t get to die like this.

“Come on, Mrs. Peterson,” I mutter as I slide the tube down her throat. “Fight.”

Minutes tick by, feeling like hours. We work in a synchronized dance—compressions, medications, shocks. The room is a cacophony of beeps, shouts, and the rhythmic sounds of CPR.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a blip appears on the monitor. Then another. And another.

“We’ve got a rhythm!” a nurse calls out.

The tension in the room eases slightly, but I don’t relax. “Let’s get her stabilized and down to ICU,” I order, my eyes fixed on the monitors. “I want a head CT and full blood workup.”

As the team prepares to move Mrs. Peterson, I step back, suddenly aware of how badly I’m shaking. The adrenaline crash hits hard, making my knees weak.

Mason’s there in an instant, his arm around my waist steadying me. “You okay, darlin’?” he asks, his voice low with concern.

I nod, leaning into him. “Yeah. Just… that was close.”

His arm tightens around me. “You did good. Real good.”

The hospital doors hiss open. Cool, night air hits my face, a stark contrast to the sterile warmth inside. My scrubs cling to me, sticky with dried sweat and blood. Every muscle aches. Exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket.

Mason steadies me. “Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

A shout pierces the air. My head snaps up. A figure sprints across the parking lot, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights.

“Dad?” My voice cracks.

He barrels toward us, face etched with worry. Without thinking, I break from Mason’s grip. My purse hits the ground with a dull thud. I stumble forward, fatigue forgotten.

We collide. Dad’s arms wrap around me, crushing me to his chest. The familiar scent of leather and motor oil envelops me. I bury my face in his cut, feeling like a little girl again.

“Jesus Christ, Meadow,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “When I heard…”

“I’m okay,” I mumble into his shirt. But even as I say it, I feel myself start to shake. The events of the night crash over me like a tidal wave. Peterson’s face, contorted with rage. The cold bite of the scalpel against my throat. The sickening sound of flesh tearing as?—

“Hey.” Dad pulls back, cupping my face in his calloused hands. His eyes, so like my own, search mine. “You with me, sweet girl?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“That’s my girl,” he says softly. Then his gaze hardens, shifting to something over my shoulder. Mason.

“We need to talk,” Dad says.

Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back. No time for that now. “Dad, please?—”

“Baby!” Mom’s voice cuts through the tension. She’s rushing toward us from the parking lot, her face pale with worry.

The rumble of motorcycles fills the air, growing louder by the second. Headlights pierce the darkness as bikes pull into the lot, one after another. The Grim Sinners, coming to check on their own.

My legs wobble, exhaustion and fading adrenaline taking their toll. Mason’s arm snakes around my waist, steadying me once more. The warmth of his body against mine is comforting—grounding.

Dad’s eyes narrow at the contact, but before he can say anything, Mom reaches us. She pulls me into a fierce hug, nearly knocking me off-balance.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “When we got the call…”

I breathe in her familiar scent, vanilla and home. For a moment, I’m a little girl again, safe in my mother’s arms. But reality crashes back as pain flares in my side, reminding me of the night’s events.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, wincing as I pull back. “Just a little banged up.”

Mom’s eyes widen as she takes in my appearance, the torn scrubs, the bandage peeking out from beneath. Her gaze hardens as she turns to Dad.

“Liam,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “Now is not the time for your macho bullshit. Our daughter needs us.”

Dad opens his mouth to argue, but Mom silences him with a look. It’s a familiar dance, one I’ve seen play out countless times over the years.

The bikers are dismounting now, their boots hitting the pavement with dull thuds. Christopher is the first to reach us, his face a mask of concern.

“Meadow,” he says, eyes scanning me for injuries. “Jesus Christ, are you all right?”

I nod, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks to Mason.”

Christopher’s gaze shifts to Mason, a silent conversation passing between them. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him. He nods once, clapping Mason on the shoulder.

“Good work, brother,” he says, his voice gruff with emotion.

The rest of the club gathers around us, a protective circle of leather and chrome. Their presence is oddly comforting, a reminder that I’m not alone in this.

Dad clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. His eyes lock with Mason’s, the tension between them palpable.

“We still need to talk,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “But… thank you. For protecting my little girl.”

Mason nods, his arm tightening around me further. “Always,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, heavy with promise. I lean into Mason’s side, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the night. My eyelids feel heavy, the world starting to blur around the edges.

“We should get her home,” Mom says, her voice cutting through the fog in my brain. “She needs rest.”

The roar of approaching motorcycles cuts through the night air, a familiar rumble that sends a jolt of recognition through me. I turn, my body tensing instinctively. The Devil Souls MC. My family.

Headlights pierce the darkness, illuminating the parking lot in harsh relief. The lead bike emerges from the shadows, its rider’s silhouette unmistakable even from a distance. Grandpa. His broad shoulders and commanding presence are as recognizable to me as my own reflection.

Right behind him, Grandma’s smaller frame leans into the curves of the road, her silver hair whipping out from beneath her helmet. The sight of them, both wearing their cuts, sends a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over me. Relief. Comfort.

The bikes come to a stop, engines cutting out in near-perfect synchronization. Grandpa swings his leg over, boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud. His eyes, sharp as ever, scan the scene before locking on to me.

“Meadow,” he calls out, voice gruff with concern. He strides toward us, Grandma right on his heels.

I step forward, suddenly feeling like a little girl again. “Grandpa, I?—”

He cuts me off, pulling me into a bear hug that nearly lifts me off my feet. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest.

I nod against him, not trusting my voice. When he releases me, Grandma’s there, her hands cupping my face.

“Oh, my baby,” she says, eyes glistening. Her thumb brushes over a scrape on my cheek I hadn’t even noticed. “What happened?”

Before I can answer, Grandpa’s attention shifts. His eyes narrow, focusing on Mason with laser-like intensity. The air between them crackles with tension.

“You,” Grandpa pants with anger, taking a step forward. “This happen on your watch?”

Mason stands his ground, meeting Grandpa’s glare head-on. “Sir, I?—”

“Stop,” I interject, placing a hand on Grandpa’s arm. “Mason saved my life tonight. If he hadn’t been here…” I trail off, the words catching in my throat.

Grandpa’s jaw clenches, his gaze flicking between Mason and me. I can see the battle waging inside him—protective anger versus grudging respect.

“Is that right?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

Mason nods, his posture relaxed but alert. “Yes, sir. I’d die before I let anything happen to her.”

The conviction in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Grandpa studies him for a long moment, then gives a curt nod.

“We’ll talk more about this later,” he says, the threat clear in his tone. “For now, let’s get our girl home.”

As Grandpa turns to confer with Dad, Grandma pulls me close again. Her eyes, so like my own, search my face.

“You sure you’re all right, sweetheart?” she asks softly.

I open my mouth to reassure her, but the words won’t come. Instead, a sob bubbles up from somewhere inside me, and suddenly I’m clinging to her, shaking uncontrollably.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Grandma soothes, stroking my hair. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Mason’s hand never leaves me, a constant anchor amid the chaos. His touch burns through my scrubs, grounding me. I lean into him, drawing strength from his solid presence.

Lane and his dad hover nearby, their eyes tight with concern. The weight of their gazes prickles my skin.

Exhaustion crashes over me in waves, threatening to pull me under, but Mason holds me steady.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

The memory of Peterson’s wild eyes flashes through my mind. The cold bite of the scalpel against my throat. My heart races, panic clawing at my chest.

“Mason,” I choke out, my voice barely a whisper.

He turns me to face him, his hands cupping my cheeks. “Look at me, darlin’,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

I meet his gaze, losing myself in the depths of his dark eyes. The world narrows to just us, the chaos around us fading away.

“That’s it,” Mason says, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Just breathe with me.”

I match my breathing to his, slow and steady. The panic recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness.

“Can we go home?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

Mason nods, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of here.”

He turns to the others, his voice taking on a commanding tone. “We’re heading out. I’ll keep you updated.”

Dad steps forward, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. “Meadow, are you sure?—”

“She needs rest,” Mason cuts him off, his tone brooking no argument. “We can deal with everything else tomorrow.”

For a moment, I think Dad might argue. But then he nods, his shoulders sagging. “Take care of her,” he says gruffly.

“Always,” Mason replies, the word heavy with promise.

As we make our way to Mason’s bike, I can’t help but lean into him more. The need to be close, to feel his warmth, is overwhelming.

“Hold on tight,” Mason says as we settle onto the bike.

I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back. The familiar rumble of the engine vibrates through me as we pull away from the hospital.

The cool night air whips past us, carrying away the sterile hospital scent. I close my eyes, focusing on the solid warmth of Mason’s body against mine. For the first time since Peterson’s attack, I feel safe.

* * *

MASON

I lift Meadow off the bike, cradling her against my chest. Her weight feels right in my arms, like she belongs there. The clubhouse looms before us, a fortress of brick and steel. Safety.

“Mason,” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion. “My apartment…”

“Not tonight, darlin’.” I tighten my grip, pushing through the heavy doors. “Peterson’s still out there. You’re staying here.”

Brothers nod, their eyes sharp with concern. I feel Meadow tense, her fingers curling into my shirt.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “You’re safe here.”

I carry her up the stairs, each step echoing in the quiet hallway. My suite’s at the end, away from the noise. Private. Secure.

The door clicks shut behind us. I ease Meadow onto the bed, my hands lingering longer than necessary. She looks small against the dark sheets, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Mason,” she starts, her eyes fighting to stay open. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “You’re not,” I move closer. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

She nods, her hand finding mine. I lace our fingers together, marveling at how perfectly they fit.

A commotion downstairs breaks the moment. Voices raised, heavy footsteps. Meadow’s family, no doubt. Here to check on her. To question me.

I stand, reluctant to leave her side. “Rest,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll handle this.”

Meadow’s eyes flutter closed, her breathing already evening out. I pause at the door, drinking in the sight of her. Safe. Here. With me.

The voices grow louder. Time to face the music.

I square my shoulders, heading downstairs to deal with whatever’s coming.

One thing’s for certain: Peterson’s still out there. And when I find him, he’ll wish he’d never laid eyes on Meadow.