Page 12 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Duke, Tyson, and Thor exchanged the kind of look that said I might as well have tattooed "hopelessly in love" across my forehead.

Duke stood, all six-foot-four of him unfolding with the controlled power of a man who'd never needed to throw his weight around because everyone already knew what he was capable of.

"One more thing, prospect." He rounded the desk, stopping close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath. "That girl is running from something that left marks. If that something is your brother, I need to know—are you strong enough to stand up to him?"

My twin, my blood, the kid I'd protected from bullies and bad decisions until I couldn't anymore. The brother who'd spiraled into darkness while I was overseas trying to be the hero neither of us could actually be.

"If he hurt her—" My voice came out rough, scraped raw by possibilities I'd never let myself fully consider. "If he's the reason she's running, then yes. Absolutely."

"And if he comes for her? If the Serpents decide she's unfinished business?"

"Then they go through me first."

"Good." Duke nodded slowly, decision made. "Because if your brother weakens our club—if his bullshit brings Serpent heat to our doorstep—you'll answer for it. Blood or not, prospect. You're claiming responsibility here."

The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a yoke.

I was now personally accountable for whatever chaos my connection to Ki might bring.

If she ran, it was on me. If Alex showed up, it was on me.

If the whole thing went sideways and the medical pipeline collapsed, leaving brothers to bleed out rather than risk hospitals—all on me.

"I understand."

"Do you?" Duke returned to his chair, the king settling back on his throne. "Because what I'm hearing is that you've got feelings for a woman who's terrified of your twin brother, who's now patched into our biggest rival. That's the kind of Greek tragedy shit that gets people killed."

"I'll handle it."

"You'd better." Duke waved a hand in dismissal. "Get out of here. And prospect? Next time you've got relevant intel about connections to the Serpents, you bring it to me before it becomes a problem. Clear?"

"Crystal."

I headed for the door, Thor's parting words following me out: "Remember, kid—the heart wants what it wants, but the patch demands what it demands. Don't confuse the two."

*

My apartment was a shithole, but it was my shithole.

Second floor of a building that had given up on respectability sometime during the Reagan administration, close enough to the clubhouse that I could make it in ten minutes, far enough that I had space to breathe.

I'd pushed the couch against the wall to clear floor space for PT, because the VA's gym had too many eyes and too many questions about how a twenty-three-year-old had ended up like me.

Push-up number forty-seven. The burn in my shoulders was good, clean, honest. My prostethic stood propped against the wall—I always took it off for floor work, the socket interfering with proper form.

Forty-eight. Forty-nine. The meeting with Duke played on repeat in my head. Ki's real name on his lips. The weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders like a sack full of stones. The way Thor had looked at me like he could see straight through my bullshit denial about not loving her.

Fifty. I held the position, arms shaking, sweat dripping onto the worn carpet. The burn spread from shoulders to core, drowning out the memory of Ki backing away from me in that garage. Almost.

My arms gave out at fifty-five, and I collapsed onto the floor. Heart hammering, breath coming in gasps.

The phone rang while I was still face-down, Duke's warnings echoing in my skull. The display showed Doc's name, and my stomach clenched. He never called unless shit was sideways.

"Yeah?" I managed, rolling onto my back.

"We got problems, kid." Doc's voice had that particular gravel that meant he was lighting his pipe, promise to quit be damned. "Hospital suspended Kiara pending investigation. Anonymous complaint about drug diversion."

I sat up so fast my vision sparked. "When?"

"This afternoon. She went in for a meeting at three, came out on administrative leave. They're investigating, could take weeks."

The pause stretched, filled with the sound of Doc taking a pull from his pipe. I could picture him in his kitchen, the one that still looked exactly like it had when his wife was alive, worrying at this new problem like a dog with a bone.

"Timing's suspicious as hell," he continued.

Because it happened the morning after our garage encounter. The morning after someone might have seen us together, might have made connections, might have decided to send a message.

"This is Serpent shit." The words came out hard, certain. "Has to be. They know about the pipeline, want to cut it off."

"Maybe. Or maybe someone saw something. Three years is a long time to keep a secret." Doc sighed, the sound of a man who'd seen too much to believe in coincidences but too much to discount them either. "Point is, she's scared. Last thing we need is her running before this gets sorted."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Go check on her. Make sure she knows we’ve got her back.”

My heart pounded in my chest. "Right. You don’t think she’ll bolt?"

"Let’s hope not. I’ll send you the address and call if anything changes."

The line went dead. I finished attaching the prosthetic, muscle memory guiding me through the adjustments.

We protected the ones we loved. No matter what.

*

Her address wasn't hard to find. The building rose like a fortress on Maple Street, all reinforced glass and security keypads, the kind of place someone chose when they needed locks between them and the world.

I'd seen the type before in base housing—military families who'd seen too much, needed too many barriers just to sleep at night.

I stood at the entry panel, fluorescent light washing everything gray, and tried to remember how to breathe.

Forty-eight names on the directory, each with a call button that might as well have been a detonator.

K. Mitchell, 4B. Such a small thing, her fake name on a metal plate, but it made my chest tight.

My finger hovered over the button. She'd made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me.

But after what had happened today, I felt a pull, an urge to protect her. Something I hadn't felt for many, many years.

I pressed the button before I could talk myself out of it.

The intercom crackled. Long seconds of nothing, then her voice, thin and fractured: "Yes?"

"Ki? It's Gabe. Please. I'm here to check you're okay."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by static and the sound of traffic outside. I pressed my forehead against the cold metal of the entry panel, prosthetic aching from the stairs I'd have to climb.

"Ki, I know you don't want to see me, but Doc told me about the hospital. I just need to know—"

The door buzzed. No words, just that harsh electronic sound of admission. I grabbed the handle before she could change her mind.

The lobby smelled like industrial cleaner and fear-sweat. Security cameras tracked my movement across worn linoleum. Everything about this place screamed transient, temporary, ready to run. I took the stairs, each step echoing in the narrow stairwell.

Fourth floor. Her hallway stretched empty, more cameras at each end. I found 4B and knocked, the sound too loud in the silence.

Locks disengaged—deadbolt, chain, something heavier that scraped metal on metal. The door opened six inches, stopped by a security chain that looked strong enough to stop a battering ram. Through the gap, I saw her face and forgot how to breathe.

She looked wrecked. Eyes swollen and red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy from crying, hair hanging limp around her face. The composed nurse from this morning was gone, replaced by someone hanging on by fingernails and spite.

"How did you—what are you doing here?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

"Doc told me about the hospital. I just . . ." I spread my hands, helpless. "I needed to know you were okay."

A sound escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "I'm not okay. They know I'm stealing drugs. They're investigating. I could lose my license, go to jail, and there’s more, Gabe I’m so scared, I can't—"

Her breathing went shallow, rapid. I recognized the signs—had seen them in too many soldiers, felt them in my own chest during the bad nights. Panic attack, incoming fast.

"Ki, let me in. Please. Just to help you breathe."

She stared at me through the gap, chest heaving. For a moment, I thought she'd slam the door. Then the chain dropped with a metallic rattle. She backed away as I entered, arms wrapped around herself like armor.

The apartment felt almost barren. White walls, beige carpet, furniture that looked like it came from a hospital waiting room.

No photos, no personality, no signs of life beyond basic survival.

Even forward operating bases had more character.

This wasn't a home—it was a safe house, built for leaving fast.

Multiple locks on the door—I counted four different mechanisms as I closed it behind me. Security bar leaning in the corner. Windows with blackout curtains drawn tight. Everything positioned for maximum defense, minimum vulnerability.

"There's something—" She moved toward the kitchen counter, movements jerky and uncoordinated. "It came while I was—someone left it outside my door."

A box sat on the white countertop. Plain brown cardboard, her name written in black marker. My gut clenched—I recognized that handwriting. Alex's. The same scrawl from birthday cards and grocery lists back when we all pretended to be a family.

"Don't—" I started, but she was already opening it.

Inside, nestled in white tissue paper like some sick parody of a gift, lay a teddy bear. Brown fur, one of those classic bears with the bow tie. But its head had been severed, cotton stuffing spilling out, dyed red like blood. A folded note was pinned to its chest.

Kiara's hands shook as she unfolded it. I read over her shoulder, Alex's words making my jaw clench:

Baby girl,

Heard you've been playing nurse for the wrong team. The Serpents don't like that. Stop the medical runs or the next cut won't be on a toy.

Miss you. A

The paper fluttered from her fingers. She stared at the decapitated bear, and I watched her face cycle through emotions—shock, fear, then something worse. Recognition.

"This was—" Her voice came out strangled. "Mr. Butterscotch. My childhood bear. I thought I lost him when I moved but he—Alex kept it? All this time?"

Her breathing went from bad to worse, great gulping gasps that weren't pulling in enough air. The panic attack hit full force, and she clutched at her chest like she could manually make her lungs work.

"Can't breathe," she gasped, hands clutching at her chest. "Too much. It's too much."

"Here." I moved slow, telegraphing every motion. No sudden movements, nothing that might spook her worse. I swept the box and its contents into the trash, getting it out of sight. "Let's sit. Just for a minute."

I guided her to the couch—beige like everything else, no throw pillows, no blanket. She collapsed more than sat, knees drawn up, making herself small. I settled close but not touching, angling my body to give her space while staying within reach.

"Match my breathing," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "In for four, hold for four, out for four. Watch me."

I exaggerated each breath, making it visible. In through the nose, chest expanding. Hold. Out through the mouth, slow and controlled. She tried to follow, but her rhythm kept breaking, little gasps and stutters destroying the pattern.

"I can't—" She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Everything's falling apart. They're going to arrest me. I'll lose everything. And now Alex—he knows where I live. I can't—"

"You are not going to jail. Not going to happen. And I'll handle Alex. You are safe, you hear me, safe?" The promise came out harder than I intended, edged with the kind of violence I'd tried to leave in the desert. "Now, look at me. Just my breathing. Nothing else matters right now."

She dropped her hands, eyes finding mine. The panic was there, but underneath I saw something else—trust, fragile as spun glass. She tried again, matching my inhale. Failed. Tried again.

On the third round, something shifted. Her breathing hitched, but not from panic. Her eyes went wide and vulnerable, pupils dilating. When she spoke, her voice came out small, young, nothing like the woman who'd fled the parking garage this morning.

"Mister Gabe?" The words were barely a whisper. "I'm scared."

Everything in me stilled.

My entire demeanor shifted without thought. Voice dropping lower but softer, shoulders squaring, presence becoming something solid she could lean against without falling through.

"I've got you, little one." The words came out sure, certain. "Just breathe for me."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. This time when she tried to match my breathing, it held. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Her shoulders slowly dropped from around her ears.

"That's it," I murmured. "You're doing so good. Just like that."

She shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough I could feel her warmth. The couch dipped under our combined weight, and her knee brushed mine. Such a small point of contact, but she didn't pull away.

"We'll figure it all out," I promised, though I had no idea how. "Right now, just breathe. Everything else can wait."

She nodded against my shoulder—when had she gotten that close?—and kept breathing. In and out, matching my rhythm like her life depended on it. Maybe it did. Maybe this was what drowning looked like from the inside, and all I could do was breathe with her until the water receded.

The apartment's silence wrapped around us, broken only by our synchronized breathing and the distant sound of traffic four floors below.

And suddenly, for the first time in three years, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.