CHAPTER 1
BEX - NO PLACE TO BREATHE
The girl wouldn’t look at me, avoiding eye contact. She stared at the beige curtain of the emergency room bay as if it held all of life’s answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn’t have to feel the pain of why she was here in the first place.
“I’m fine,” she said again, even though she was bleeding through the pad pressed to her ribs. “Just stitch me up. These things happen; it was a club party and I don’t belong to anyone yet.”
Yet.
Someone split her lip clean through, and there were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard, bruising that doesn’t happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place for too long.
I cleaned the first wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that looked broken by a faint old scar and now the addition of this new mark.
The ER smelled of antiseptic and stale cool air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed as a nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick, clipped bursts.
This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose, pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability.
“There’s no need to make it seem less important,” I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. “You can admit that someone hurt you.”
Her fingers tightened on the sheet, and I spotted a broken nail under her dried blood.
“It’s just how it goes,” she replied, her voice so soft I almost missed it.
Just how it goes.
I tied off the last stitch, and her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my number without making her feel any more uncomfortable than she already was.
“If you want to talk,” I said. “About anything.”
She still wouldn’t make eye contact, but she tucked my card into her bra, as if she didn’t want anyone to see it.
Smart girl.
The sun was rising by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out for the day. My body felt hollowed out, the kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. It had become far too common to treat victims from club parties, and it was really weighing on me.
I walked out into the early morning light, breathing through the tension from twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, and overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened.
And now I was driving back through iron gates.
The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance: dark, imposing, and impossible to ignore.
The prospect assigned to gate duty recognized my car as I pulled up and opened the gate without a word.Home sweet home.The thought made my stomach ache.
The gates rolled open slowly, metal dragging against gravel. Inside, bikes lined the lot in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the centre of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home, a frat house, and a bunker.
I let out a deep-seated sigh as I pull up to where I typically park. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid, that this place has history steeped in brotherhood and blood, soaked into the foundation.
I felt watched the second I drove in. It’s always like this when you live among men who built their identity on territory.
I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sat there trying to build up the energy to walk into that building. I love my husband, but I hate this building. It’s a quiet confession, one I don’t say out loud. Not directly, at least.
He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who’d die for them and daughters should know what protection looks like.
He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property, near the tree line. He’s pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit.
I told him I wanted the house first, that I wouldn’t have a baby in a room above a bar.
He took that personally, and we fought. Him saying that I don’t understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself, and me saying that he doesn’t understand what it means to build a family without an audience.