Page 14 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"And this is Cleo!" Mia tugged me toward a corner where another young woman sat cross-legged on the floor, organizing a box of toys with intense concentration. A man with graying temples watched her from a nearby chair, fond smile creasing his weathered face.

"These go by color," Cleo explained to no one in particular, sorting toy cars into rainbow rows. "But also by size. But if they're the same color and size, then by how fast they look."

"Sound logic," the man—Dex, Mia informed me—agreed seriously.

My mind reeled. These women were clearly in little space, in public, in a motorcycle clubhouse, and no one was mocking them. No one was calling them crazy or weak or demanding they act their age. The cognitive dissonance made me dizzy.

"Kiara."

Duke's voice cut through the introductions like a blade.

The club president stood in a doorway I hadn't noticed, filling it completely. I’d met him once before, early on in my medical supply stealing career.

He was six-foot-four of controlled power, the kind of presence that commanded without demanding.

His steel-blue eyes assessed me in one sweep, cataloging everything from my defensive posture to the way I'd unconsciously stepped closer to Gabe.

"Miss Mitchell—or Miss Santos," he corrected himself, formal but not unkind. "Doc and I need to speak with you about your situation. Gabe, you too."

It wasn't a request.

The office felt like entering a different world—organized, professional, at odds with the chaos outside. Doc sat in a leather chair, looking older than I remembered from our dawn meetings. Duke settled behind a massive desk while Gabe guided me to a chair, then stood behind it like a sentinel.

"First things first," Duke began, fingers steepled. "You're safe here. Whatever your history with the Serpents, specifically with Alex Moreno, it ends at our door. Clear?"

I nodded, throat too tight for words.

"Good. Now, the hospital situation." He slid a folder across the desk. "My lawyers are already on it. The anonymous complaint originated from a computer in Serpent territory—sloppy work, really. We'll have it traced properly, filed as harassment, turned into ammunition instead of attack."

"You have lawyers?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

Doc chuckled, a raspy sound. "What, you think we handle everything with fists and firearms? This is a business, girl. Multiple businesses, actually, all requiring proper legal representation. Lawyers, accountants, charity portfolio investment managers—you name it, we’ve got it."

"Three weeks tops," Duke continued like I hadn't interrupted. "We'll have you cleared and back at work. The hospital needs you—their night shift's been hemorrhaging staff, and you're one of their best. They'll be motivated to resolve this quickly once our lawyers present the evidence."

"I don't—how can you be sure?"

"Because I don't make promises I can't keep." His tone brooked no argument. "You've been reliable for three years. Saved several of my brothers with those supplies. That builds credit. Now we're calling it in."

The certainty in his voice made my eyes burn. After years of handling everything alone, having someone else take charge felt like removing a weight I'd forgotten I was carrying.

Behind me, Gabe shifted slightly. I heard his knuckles pop like he was clenching fists, fighting the urge to comfort me. The restraint in that small sound made my chest ache more than if he'd actually touched me.

"Questions?" Duke asked.

"Why?" The word came out small. "Why help me? I'm nobody. Just a nurse who—"

"You're not nobody." His voice gentled fractionally. "Your work has saved lives. You're under our protection. In this club, that means everything. Clear?"

I nodded again, blinking hard against the tears that wanted to fall. Three years of being strong, being alone, and now leather-clad outlaws were offering more security than I'd ever managed to build myself.

"Good. Gabe will show you to your room. Take today to settle in. Tomorrow we'll discuss the medical supply situation going forward."

Dismissed, I stood on shaky legs. Gabe's hand found my elbow, steady and sure, guiding me toward the door. Just before we exited, Duke called out.

"Miss Mitchell? Welcome to the Heavy Kings."

The words followed me out, a promise and a claim all at once.

By nine PM, the walls of my assigned room had started closing in.

It was nice enough—clean bed, dresser, even a small window overlooking the back lot where motorcycles slept like chrome beasts.

But after hours of sitting on the bed, pretending to read on my phone while my mind spiraled through worst-case scenarios, I needed air.

Or movement. Or something that wasn't the inside of my own head.

The clubhouse at night was a different animal than the morning chaos.

Quieter, though not silent—music drifted from somewhere, the low rumble of conversations behind closed doors, occasional laughter that sounded more tired than wild.

I padded downstairs in socked feet, hoping to find the kitchen and maybe some tea.

Instead, I found Gabe.

He sat in a corner booth, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of an office supply store explosion.

Folders in every color of the rainbow, spreadsheets covering the table, a laptop glowing with what appeared to be the world's most complex Excel file.

He'd stripped down to a t-shirt that clung in all the right ways, and his prosthetic leaned against the table's edge, abandoned.

I froze in the archway, caught by the intimacy of the scene.

He was absently massaging his residual limb while frowning at the screen, completely absorbed.

A pencil tucked behind his ear. Reading glasses I didn't know he needed perched on his nose.

The overhead light caught the gold in his hazel eyes, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.

This was Gabe unguarded, and it stole my breath.

I must have made some sound because he looked up, expression shifting from concentration to something softer.

"Can't sleep?" His voice carried that particular late-night quality, lower and more intimate than daylight allowed.

I shrugged, arms wrapping around myself. "Restless. New place and all."

"Want to help?" He gestured at the chaos. "I'm trying to create a better tracking system for medical supplies. Keep losing track of what we need versus what we have."

The invitation surprised me. After this morning's emotional intensity, I'd expected awkwardness, distance. Instead, he was offering normal. Offering distraction.

I slid into the opposite bench, careful not to disturb his system. "What's the problem?"

"No standardization. Doc's been tracking things in his head for years, but with volume increasing .

. ." He rubbed his face, and I noticed the tired lines around his eyes.

"I'm trying to create something sustainable.

Color-coded by type, priority levels, expiration tracking. But it's turning into a monster."

I pulled the laptop closer, studying his work. The spreadsheet was meticulous but overwhelming—dozens of tabs, conditional formatting everywhere, formulas that probably worked but made my eyes cross.

"You're overcomplicating it," I said without thinking, then winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, you're right." He leaned back, not offended. "I do that. Get in my own head, make things harder than necessary."

I noticed the small details then. Tiny star stickers on some of the folders—gold for completed, silver for pending, red for urgent. Smiley faces drawn next to successful supply runs. Color-coded tabs that followed no organizational system except what made sense in his brain.

"Your system is . . . sweet," I said carefully, not wanting to trigger whatever had happened this morning when he'd called himself that.

He actually smiled, small but real. "The stickers make it easier to process information when my brain gets scrambled. Helps me focus."

"PTSD?" I asked softly.

"Among other things." He slid a sheet of stickers across the table. "Want to mark the critical supplies? Purple for antibiotics, gold for pain meds?"

We worked in comfortable quiet, the kind that didn't need filling. I sorted physical inventory lists while he updated digital records. Occasionally our hands would brush reaching for the same pen, and neither of us pulled away.

Without conscious thought, I started doodling in the margins of his notepad. First just a tiny unicorn in the corner—nervous habit from years of lectures and meetings. Then another, slightly larger, with more detail in the mane. A rainbow connecting them. Tiny clouds.

"You still draw," he said, watching my hand move.

"Just doodles." I added wings to one of the unicorns without thinking. "Nothing like before."

Before. When I'd filled sketchbooks with dreams and butterflies and beautiful things I thought the world might hold. Before reality had taught me that beautiful things were just easier to break.

"I kept one," he said quietly. "Of your butterflies. Carried it through two deployments.It was my good luck charm. This little monarch with blue and purple wings instead of orange. You'd written 'dare to dream' underneath in tiny letters. Then it got destroyed. And my luck ran out."

He gave a tired smile.

I remembered that butterfly. Drawn the night before his going-away party, when I'd been trying not to think about him leaving. I'd given it to him impulsively, pressed it into his hand when Alex wasn't looking, told him to stay safe.

"I'm surprised you kept it," I whispered.

"It reminded me there were still beautiful things in the world. That someone thought I was worth wishing safety for."