Page 9 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

T he keys wouldn't cooperate. My hands shook so violently that metal scraped against metal, missing the lock entirely. Third try—the key found home but my fingers couldn't manage the simple twist. Behind me, the hallway stretched empty, but I felt eyes everywhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like he might have followed me, might be standing at the stairwell door with that same shocked recognition freezing his features.

Finally, the deadbolt gave. I stumbled through, slamming the door behind me and throwing all three locks with movements more muscle memory than conscious thought. The chain rattled against wood. The bar lock slid home with its familiar thunk.

My knees buckled before I made it past the kitchen.

I caught myself on the counter, fingernails digging into laminate as my body decided to revolt.

Cold sweat broke across my skin, instant and drenching.

My scrubs clung to my spine like wet tissue paper.

The careful order of my apartment—white walls, beige carpet, everything in its place—warped and tilted.

No. Not here. Not in the middle of my kitchen where I'd have to see the evidence every morning.

I lurched toward the bathroom, one hand on the wall for balance. My stomach churned empty threats—nothing there to throw up. Didn't matter. My body wanted to purge something, even if it was just bile and bad memories.

The bathroom door banged against the wall.

I dropped to my knees on cold tile, barely managing to lift the toilet lid before the dry heaves started.

Nothing came up. Just painful spasms that made my ribs ache, my throat burn.

My body trying to reject something that wasn't physical, couldn't be expelled no matter how hard I retched.

When the worst passed, I slumped sideways, sliding down the narrow space between toilet and tub until my back hit the wall. The tiles felt blissfully cold against my burning face. I drew my knees up, making myself as small as possible in the cramped space.

But it wasn’t just panic. There was more.

My body remembered Gabe's touch like a brand.

Those few seconds of contact in the garage had lit up neural pathways I'd thought were dead.

His fingers gentle against mine. The calluses that hadn't been there before—war had roughened the hands that used to fix bikes with methodical patience.

The way he'd said my name like a prayer answered and a heart breaking all at once.

I shouldn’t be feeling this, though.

This need, this want.

"Not him," I chanted, pressing harder against the scar. Physical pain to combat emotional devastation. "Gabe left. Gabe's Heavy Kings. Gabe is Alex's brother."

Each fact was supposed to build a wall. Instead, they crumbled under the weight of other truths.

Gabe's eyes going wide with recognition.

Gabe stumbling on his prosthetic trying to reach me.

Gabe organizing medical supplies with the same careful precision he'd once used on Alex's tools, back when we all pretended things were normal.

Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. My heart still raced but no longer felt like it would explode. Breathing came easier—still too fast, but functional. The tingling in my fingers faded to pins and needles, then to normal sensation.

I peeled off my scrubs with mechanical efficiency. Top first, the fabric clinging to sweat-damp skin. Then bottoms, having to sit on the toilet lid when my balance wavered. Everything went into a pile by the door. I'd deal with laundry later. Always later.

The shower handle turned easily to its familiar position—as far left as it would go. Scalding. Hot enough to hurt.

I rinsed quickly, efficiently. Conditioner. Body wash. The routine of getting clean when everything inside felt permanently stained. The water ran clear but I still felt dirty.

Marked.

Like Gabe's recognition had peeled back three years of carefully constructed armor, leaving me exposed and raw.

I couldn't stay here. The apartment walls pressed too close, full of white noise and the phantom sensation of fingers against mine.

I needed air. Coffee. Another human voice to prove I still existed in the present and not in some garage where past and present had collided hard enough to leave wreckage.

I typed the message and hit send: "Emergency coffee needed. Now." No explanation. No context. But Stephanie would understand—three years of friendship had taught her my distress signals.

The walk to Grounded Coffee normally took eight minutes. Today, I made it in five, moving like something was chasing me.

Morning foot traffic parted around me—a woman clearly on the edge wasn't worth the collision. I kept my head down, counting cracks in the sidewalk. One, two, three, turn left. Four, five, six, cross against the light because waiting meant thinking and thinking meant drowning.

The coffee shop materialized like an oasis. Exposed brick facade, windows crowded with concert flyers and community board postings. The neon sign flickered—the second "E" had been dying for two years, turning "GROUNDED" into "GROUND D" at unpredictable intervals.

I pushed through the door and the familiar sensory wall hit me. Espresso steam and baked goods. Indie music. The constant hum of the ancient espresso machine they refused to replace because Maya swore it made better foam than anything modern.

This place had become my sanctuary. Three years of the same order. Three years of tipping well but never lingering too long. Three years of being friendly but not friends with the baristas. They knew my name, my drink, my preference for the corner table with sight lines to both exits.

"Rough night?" Maya called from behind the counter, already reaching for a large cup.

"The roughest." I managed something that might pass for a smile in bad lighting.

"Lavender latte coming up. Extra shot?"

"Make it two."

Her eyebrows rose but she didn't comment. That's why I loved this place. Caffeine and comfort, dispensed without judgment.

I claimed my usual corner table. The chair wobbled—left front leg had always been short—but the view was perfect. Door, window, back exit past the restrooms.

My hands had almost stopped shaking by the time Stephanie burst through the door fifteen minutes later.

Her scrubs were different from last night, but equally rumpled. Hair in a messy bun that listed dangerously to one side, skewered with a pen. Her face was full of the kind of exhaustion that came from twelve hours of other people's traumas.

But her eyes were sharp when they found me. Assessing. Cataloging. The same look she gave critical patients, checking for immediate threats to life and limb.

Triage.

"Jesus, Ki." She slid into the opposite chair without preamble. "You look like death warmed over."

"Charming."

"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept? Actually slept, not just that thing you do where you lie in bed calculating ceiling tiles."

I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it. .

"Few days ago," I admitted.

"I bet it’s more than a few."

"Your point?"

She flagged down Maya with the confidence of someone used to emergency situations. "Latte, please. Extra shot. And whatever pastry has the most sugar."

Maya took the order and smiled.

Steph leaned back, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. "So? Spill."

I wrapped both hands around my mug, letting the heat seep through ceramic into my palms. The lavender smell mixed with coffee should have been soothing. Instead, it reminded me of the botanical garden. Of butterflies. Of sitting next to Gabe while Alex flirted with strangers.

"Remember that guy I told you about?" The words came out carefully neutral. "From before?"

Stephanie's entire demeanor shifted. From concerned friend to protective mother bear in two seconds flat. She knew about before. Not everything—I'd never told anyone everything—but enough.

"Which guy?" But her tone said she already knew. There'd only been one guy worth mentioning from before. Only one whose memory could put that particular expression on my face.

"Motorcycle twin." I forced the words past the tightness in my throat. "The one who joined the Army."

Her eyebrows shot toward her hairline. "The one you had the massive crush on?"

Heat flooded my face, automatic and embarrassing. "I didn't have a massive—"

"Ki." She held up one hand. "You literally drew hearts around his name in the margins of your anatomy notes."

The memory hit like a slap. Second year pre-med, cramming for finals in the university library.

Alex passed out at home after another bender, and me pretending everything was fine.

Drawing little hearts around "Gabe" in the margins while highlighting the bones of the hand.

Writing "Kiara Moreno" in tiny letters, then scribbling it out because what kind of person fantasized about their boyfriend's twin brother?

"That was one time," I muttered.

"One time that I caught you." Maya appeared with Stephanie's order, setting a fresh latte and something that looked like a cinnamon roll had mated with a diabetes diagnosis. "You used to get this look whenever anyone mentioned him. Like someone had lit a candle inside you."

She was right. I had been that obvious, that pathetic. Crushing on the good brother while dating the broken one. Like some terrible soap opera plot, except soap operas didn't usually end with emergency room visits and restraining orders.

“I saw him. Today.”

"Holy shit." Stephanie leaned forward, voice dropping. "He's back? Did he find you? Do we need to—"

"No." I cut her off before she could start planning my relocation. Steph had contingency plans for my contingency plans, all centered around keeping me safe from ghosts that might turn solid. "Not exactly. He's . . ."

I took a shaky breath. The coffee shop sounds seemed too loud suddenly. The espresso machine's hiss sounded like accusations.