"Mason Vaughan's family?"
"We're his family," Falcon says, standing beside me. "How is he?"
"The surgery went well. He had a piece of shrapnel lodged near his kidney. We removed it and repaired the damage, but he lost a significant amount of blood. We've given him transfusions, and he's stable now." The doctor looks at me. "He's asking for Ava. Are you Ava?"
"That's me."
"You can see him, but only for a few minutes. He needs rest." The doctor leads us through double doors into the recovery wing. "Room 314. Don't tire him out."
I follow the numbers until I find his room, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Pushing open the door, I find Mason propped up in bed, pale and hooked to more machines than I can count, but awake and watching the door like he's been waiting for me.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough.
"Hey yourself." I cross to his bedside, taking his hand carefully. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry about that. Wasn't planning on getting stabbed by flying metal."
"Next time, wear better armor." I'm trying for humor, but my voice breaks on the last word.
His hand tightens around mine. "Come here."
"The doctor said not to tire you out."
"Don't care. Come here."
I perch carefully on the edge of his bed, mindful of all the tubes and wires, and he pulls me down until my forehead's resting against his.
"I'm okay," he murmurs. "Takes more than some shrapnel to kill me."
"That's what Falcon said. Something about you having nine lives."
"He's exaggerating. I've only got three or four left." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Did they get Castellano?"
"In custody and looking at enough charges to keep him locked up for multiple lifetimes. The FBI's already building their case, and Agent Forrister says your testimony combined with mine and the evidence we collected is airtight." I lean back enough to see his face. "It's over, Mason. Really over."
"Good. Then you can finally finish your article and make sure the whole world knows what he did."
"I'm going to do more than that. I'm going to write a series. About the trafficking operation, about the girls who were saved, about how corruption and wealth can hide monsters in plain sight." I pause. "And I'm going to write about the Saints Outlaws helping to take them down."
His expression shifts, something cautious entering his eyes. "You sure that's a good idea? Publicly connecting the club to a federal investigation?"
"I'll be careful. I’ll focus on the heroic aspects, leave out the gray areas. But people deserve to know that sometimes the good guys wear leather cuts instead of badges." I trace the line of his jaw. "You saved those girls, Mason. You and your brothers. That matters."
"We did it for you. Because you asked."
"You did it because it was the right thing to do." I kiss him softly, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. "And because somewhere along the way, you started caring about more than just the club."
"Yeah. I started caring about a stubborn journalist who doesn't know when to quit."
"Good thing you love stubborn."
"Good thing I love you." He winces as he shifts, trying to get more comfortable. "How long do I have to stay in this place?"
"Doctor said at least three days for observation. They want to make sure there's no infection or complications."
"Three days of hospital food and fluorescent lights. Sounds like hell."
"I'll stay with you, make sure the nurses don't give you too much trouble."