Page 118 of The Games We Play

“You won’t be talking to the police. You’ll be talking to the FBI, and you’ll tell them everything, little chick.”

“But what about you? I don’t want you all to get into trouble. You killed that man. You can’t go to prison, Spark. I won’t give information that leads to you being arrested.”

Spark shakes his head and looks down at the bedding. “You tell them everything about the people who took you. But only Saint rescued you and saved you from a fight between the Brotherhood and the Russians. We’ll go over the full story later.”

“Why Saint?”

“Saint. He ... fuck. He’s an undercover ATF agent who blew his cover to save you.”

“Saint did?”

“Saint betrayed the club at a level I can’t even begin to explain. But ... he gave us, you and me, this.”

“That was ... brave of him.”

“I’m not ready to say that yet.”

Iris pats the mattress, and I shift from the chair to the bed, looping her fingers with mine. “You need to look after him. I don’t know what the rules of the club are when people—”

“We can’t talk about this,” I say.

“We have to. I’m asking you to promise me, Spark. I don’t know why Saint joined the club. I don’t want to know what damage Saint may or may not have done to the club. But I know he helped me when I needed it. And when the club and my family helped me, he took the fall so neither of you would end up in trouble for it. Promise me you’ll help him. Speak up for him if there’s a vote on what to do at the club. Defend the man whose life is on the line. He needs you.”

I sigh. “Helping him is going against my club.”

“Just be transparent. He saved my life. He saved your old lady. Surely that counts for something.”

I smile at that. “You progressing from my woman to my old lady?”

She shrugs, then winces at the action. “I’m progressing to living with you, bringing my brother home, being with you every day we can. Is that old lady, or is there something else?”

I touch my lips to hers, gently at first, then with more feeling. “I’m teasing. Old lady sounds real fucking good. And is it okay? To kiss you like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“After what you’ve been through. I wondered if ... I don’t know ... that it might be too much. Remind you of shit.”

She squeezes my hand. “I feel like coming back from this is going to be bumpy. But that was okay.”

“We use the wordrainlike always, yeah? Safety blanket for you if something ...”

“Thank you,” she whispers and tries to blink away tears. “Did they tell you what ... I mean ... am I ... was I? My injuries?”

“Cracked rib, fracture of your orbital bone. Your face is a mess of swelling. Hanging like you did messed with your rotator cuff and you’re back in that brace for another six weeks.” I fold her fingers over mine before kissing each one. “They did a rape kit. It was negative, and there were no obvious signs of rape or trauma.”

She swallows hard and looks down at the bed. “No obvious signs?”

“Hey.” I use my knuckle to lift her chin. “You’re alive. And that’s good news. But, when I start my stuff for PTSD next week, you’ll do the same. We’ll process our shit together and apart. We’re this good now, we’re going to be undefeatable in the future. I promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says, and it’s the first time I’ve seen the flicker of a smile. It buoys my heart.

I remind her every hour just how undefeatable we are.

I remind her when I pick her up and take her home to a house full of meals cooked by Tessa and Marlie and Gwen.

I remind her when she goes to see a therapist in town, and when I have an online consult with a PTSD specialist at the VA.

I remind her weeks later when we pick up Michael from Cillian’s for his first weekend stay, to help him adjust to his new and hopefully permanent bedroom.