Page 36 of Ride Me Reckless

With each agonizing step, I stumbled through the smoke-filled living room, Dalia limp against my chest. Her breath was shallow and raspy, and my eyes burned. My lungs begged me to stop.

But I didn't.

Couldn't.

Outside, the air was clearer—but the sirens were still distant.

I couldn't wait.

I laid Dalia in the passenger seat of my truck as gently as I could manage, trying not to scream when the angle wrenched my spine again. I slammed the door shut and ran around to the driver's side, barely able to climb behind the wheel. Every nerve in my back was on fire.

I drove like a bat out of hell, windshield streaked with soot, one hand clamped to the wheel, the other bracing my side. My teeth were grinding, and my breath was shallow. But I kept going.

Half a mile down the road, red lights blazed in the rearview mirror. The fire crew. Too late.

I leaned on the horn as I passed them, flashing my lights. One of the firefighters recognized me—I saw his mouth form my name even as they rolled by.

"Hang on, Dalia," I muttered. "We're almost there."

She didn't answer.

But her chest still moved.

And that was enough to keep me driving.

Even if my back was screaming.

Even if the pain made the edges of my vision blur.

Even if something deep inside me already knew—this wasn't just about Dalia anymore.

It was about what happens when fate grabs you by the collar… and drags you back into someone's life, whether you're ready or not.

The fluorescent lights in the ER made everything feel too sharp—too clean. Like they were trying to scrub away the smoke, the adrenaline, the pain still curling like barbed wire in my spine.

A nurse pressed a cold pack to my lower back while I sat propped against stiff pillows on the exam table. I must've looked like hell, but I could only think about whether Dalia was still breathing in the next room.

"She's stable," the doctor finally said when he returned, flipping through a chart. "Some smoke inhalation, but she was lucky. You got her out just in time."

I nodded once, jaw tight.

"Unfortunately," he added, glancing over his glasses, "you weren't as lucky."

I gave him a look. "Doc, I've been thrown by bulls. I'll bounce back."

"You've slipped a disc. We'll do imaging to confirm, but I'd bet it's herniated." He looked almost apologetic. "You're going to need surgery."

The words hit like a quiet punch.

Not because I hadn't known. I'd felt the pop. Heard the way my back screamed on every step outta that house.

But hearing it said out loud—surgery—it meant downtime. No training. No riding. No pretending I wasn't still haunted by the last time my body betrayed me.

I exhaled slowly. "Well. That's just damn peachy."

He offered a sympathetic smile and stepped out.

The room felt too still. I leaned back and let the silence stretch, only now letting my hands tremble.