“What? How?”
Pope sighs again, and I lean my shoulder against the cool corridor wall to listen closely.
“Because we didn’t know the depths of who you are, Marigold. We didn’t know your past.”
“But—”
“Hang on. Let me finish. Please,” he says, a rare note of vulnerability in his voice. “Now that we’ve heard your story... well, I understand it more now. Your man pointed out to me that you didn’t owe us your trauma. And he’s right.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you all, you know?” she murmurs, the toughness bleeding out of her tone. “I just didn’t want to tell anyone. Not even Tomcat. I don’t like thinking about what happened over there. I didn’t get to say goodbye to myparents. I didn’t get to lay them to rest. All I have left of them are my memories... and this necklace. They were my family. All I had. I originally came to you all for protection because I knew the Saint's Outlaws were the only ones brave enough and powerful enough to protect me from Damon if he ever found me. But it grew into so much more than that. You all became my family. My big brothers.” She lets out a weak, breathy snicker. “Well... except Tomcat.”
“I’m sorry we hurt you, Marigold,” Pope says. “You’re part of this club. You’re family. I know it’s hard to believe that after the shit we pulled in the chapel, but it's the goddamn truth.”
Marigold heaves a heavy, theatrical sigh, letting the dramatic pause hang in the air before she finally speaks. “IguessI can forgive you.”
The cold knot of anxiety in my chest completely dissolves. I push the heavy wooden door open, tapping my knuckles against the frame with a quiet, warning knock so I don’t startle her. The second she spots me, a genuine smile breaks across her pale face before she turns her sharp gaze back to our President.
“Only on one condition,” she adds, her voice dripping with playful malice.
Pope lets out a low, miserable groan, sinking back into the worn leather of the chair and scrubbing his massive, calloused hands over his face. “Why do I feel like I’m going to profoundly regret this?”
“Oh, all of you definitely will.” She beams at him, a wicked spark returning to her eyes. “Who do you all use as your tattoo artist?”
“D-Bag handles all of the club’s ink,” Pope says, his brow furrowing. “Why?”
A flicker of nervousness creeps into Pope’s voice, and seeing the club’s iron-willed President sweat under the glare of a woman in a hospital bed is downright hilarious.
“Because. I need to know who to talk to about a mandatory group design.”
“What is it?”
“Jack the Dripper, of course.”
A completely bewildered expression settles over Pope’s rugged features as he stares at her, trying to figure out if she’s hallucinating from the blood loss. “Let me get this straight. In order for you to forgive this club, you want a pack of hardened, lawless bikers to get a hot-pink dildo tattooed on their skin?”
“Yep. And he needs a little leather kutte, maybe some googly eyes or something. Oh! A mustache, too. He’ll look so cute.”
Pope slowly turns his head, fixing a deadpan, desperate stare on me. “And you’re getting this monstrosity, too?”
I let out a rough laugh, holding my hands up defensively. “Fuck no. I didn’t doubt her. This penance is entirely on you motherfuckers.”
“Shit,” he groans, but a reluctant smile finally cracks his hard jaw. He shakes his head, pushing himself up to his feet. “Fine. Okay. Fuck it. I better go break the news to the rest of the guys.” He walks toward the door, his boots thudding against the floorboards. Before he steps out into the hallway, he glances back at Marigold, his eyes softening with deep, remorseful sincerity. “I really am sorry, sunshine. You’re family. That means something unshakeable here, and we forgot that for a minute.”
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, I grab the back of the leather chair he just vacated, dragging it right up against the edge of the medical bed. “I can’t believe the man who carves people up with an axe actually just agreed to tattoo a fucking fake dick on his body.”
Marigold purses her lips, a smug, exhausted little look on her face. “Me either. Especially since I would have forgiven them all anyway.”
I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head at her sheer audacity. I take her small, cold hand in mine, bringing her knuckles to my lips for a long, steady kiss. “You scared the living shit out of me today, baby. I knew the wound wasn’t fatal the second I checked it, but I’ve officially had my lifetime fill of finding you bleeding out on the pavement.”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her eyelids drooping slightly. “It might be worth a little blood loss just to get this sweet, gentle side of you.”
“Woman. I will literally spank your ass if you start hunting down physical trauma just to get a softer version of me. Newsflash, baby. You get that side of me regardless.”
She squeezes my fingers, her eyes drifting closed as the exhaustion finally starts to win. “I kind of love you. Did you know that?”
“Fucking love you, Goldie.” Leaning over the guardrail, I gently cup her jaw, brushing a soft, bruising kiss across her lips. “How’s the pain? How are you actually feeling?”
A sharp, tight grimace crosses her face as she tries to shift her weight into a more comfortable position on the stiff mattress. “Sore. But it’s fine. I’ve had worse.”
