“Thank fuck,” Reaper sighed, dropping his head to his chest before he took a deep breath and looked around the room. “Anybody got a fucking problem, speak now.”
Silence.
“Alright then.” Reaper turned and walked toward the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. “Somebody get these idiots cleaned up. And somebody call a damn doctor. Chapman looks like he got hit by a truck.”
As the tension in the room finally started to ease, I kneeled beside my brother again. “You good?”
Chapman looked at me, then at Hope, then back at me. Despite the blood and the bruises and the pain, he smiled.
“Yeah, Dig,” he said quietly. “I’m good.”
I clapped him on the shoulder, careful not to jar his ribs. “Good. Because Stella’s gonna want to meet your girl. And trust me, you do not want to keep that woman waitin’.”
Chapman laughed, then winced. “Noted.”
I stood up and walked over to where Stella was standing near the door, watching everything with her arms crossed.
“You done playing hero?” she asked.
“For now,” I said, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. “Glad you suggested we come.”
“Somebody had to save your dumbass brother,” she said, but her voice was soft. “Besides, I like Hope. She’s got spine.”
I looked back at Chapman and Hope, sitting together on the floor, her hand still holding his. Despite the blood, the violence, and the broken rules, they looked right together.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “She does.”
And as I watched my brother lean his head against Hope’s shoulder, I knew that whatever came next, he would be okay, because he had Hope.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Slaughter
The room they put me in was small—just a bed, a chair, and a single window that looked out over the Diamondback compound. I sat on the edge of the mattress, every breath sending sharp, stabbing pain through my torso. My face throbbed. My head pounded. My entire body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder.
Hope stood near the door, her arms wrapped around herself, watching me with worried eyes. Every time I winced, her expression tightened, like she could feel my pain as her own.
Digger leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’d just gotten into a brawl with Ghost Miller. Stella stood beside him, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the room like she was cataloging it for future reference.
The door opened, and a man in his fifties walked in, carrying a black medical bag. He had graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the calm, detached demeanor of someone who’d seen too much violence to be shocked by it anymore.
“Chapman Moore?” he asked, setting his bag on the chair.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Dr. Brennan. Kansas called me in to take a look at you.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped closer, his eyes scanning my face. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”
He started with my head, his fingers probing gently along my scalp. I hissed when he hit a particularly tender spot near my temple.
“Concussion,” he said matter-of-factly. “Moderate, I’d say. You’re going to need rest—no riding, no physical exertion, and definitely no more fighting for at least a week. Probably longer.”
“Noted,” I muttered.
He moved to my nose next, his touch clinical and efficient. The second his fingers pressed against the bridge, white-hot pain exploded through my face, and I jerked back with a growl.
“Broken,” he confirmed. “Clean break, though. It’ll heal on its own, but it’s going to hurt like hell for a while. Ice it regularly and keep your head elevated when you sleep.”
Hope made a small, distressed sound from the doorway. I glanced at her, trying to offer some kind of reassurance, but the look on her face told me she wasn’t buying it.
