Page 3 of Life Or Death

Unhinged is what I was, and it fucking showed.

“You can’t go in there,” the head nurse said as she tried to block my path. “Family only.”

Something primal stirred in my gut at the sound of those words. I’m not a man who often hears the word no, and so I did what I do best. I crossed boundaries and broke rules.

“I’m her fucking husband.”

A desperate lie from the lips of a desperate and deranged man. A man too old and too damaged to be obsessed with a twenty-three-year-old girl.

But at least now they don’t bother trying to stop me when I visit.

I nod once as I pass their station and push open the door to room 412. The machines beep and hiss, filling the silence that would otherwise be unbearable as I make my way inside. My gaze instantly finds Jess in the center of the hospital bed, all swaddled in bandages, her chest rising and falling with mechanical precision.

I pull a chair to her bedside and sit, the leather of my cut creaking as I take a seat. The panic that had me in a vise when I first saw her after the explosion rises again and tries to claw its way out of my chest.

That night plays on repeat in my mind—the blaze and the blood-curdling screams that vibrated through my being as I stood outside watching the bar go up in smoke. But what haunts me most is the moment I finally realized Jess was trapped inside, and that those screams I was hearing were most likely hers.

Guilt flooded my veins in an instant, and it only amplified when I watched the firefighters drag her charred body from the wreckage. I had been so consumed by the need for revenge that poisoned my veins, that it didn’t dawn on me that Jess was literally being burned alive.

I’ve been called a monster many times in my life, but that was the first moment I actually felt like one.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the edge of the mattress. The helplessness I feel crushes my lungs. I’ve faced down rival clubs, corrupt corporations, and federal agents without flinching, but this—watching this poor girl struggle for every breath, knowing my selfish obsession with her put her in this fucking bed—breaks me in ways I didn’t know were possible.

It makes a man realize he’s got a conscience when he swore on everything holy that he didn’t.

The door opens behind me, and I sit a little straighter, schooling my features. A familiar nurse with weary eyes enters the room, her scrubs rustling as she moves toward the bed.

“Just need to check her vitals,” she says skittishly as her fingers move over the monitors.

“Any change?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend. It’s the same question I’ve asked daily, and every damn day I get the same fucking answer.

The nurse shakes her head. “Her readings are stable, Mr. Holland.” She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “That’s promising, considering . . .” Her voice trails, and she quickly looks away.

“That’s promising, considering thirty percent of her body has burns,” I finish for her. “It’s promising, considering the amount of smoke she inhaled and how damaged her lungs are. It’s fucking promising, considering she might not wake up at all.” I pause, swiping a hand over my face as I try to keep myself in check. “Did I cover everything?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. The doctors will update you as they see fit.”

With that, she scampers around the bed and quickly exits the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the heavy weight of guilt.

The doctors wasted no time putting Jess into a medically induced coma, claiming they needed to give her body time to heal, but I suspect it was also to spare her the agony of the burns, and in the last three days, there have been no real updates. I don’t know how long she’s supposed to stay like this. So still and at the mercy of the machines.

I stare at the bandages covering her legs, wondering what lies beneath. The doctors mentioned skin grafts, multiple surgeries, and months of rehabilitation. As much as I want her to wake up, I’m dreading what happens when she does. I don’t think I can watch as she mourns the life she knew. I don’t think I can stand in the shadows as she navigates her new reality.

My hand slides close to hers, fingers hovering hesitantly over hers for a moment. The contrast is striking—her delicate skin against my ink-stained hands, symbolizing a roadmap of my violent past. I’ve killed with these hands, and now I’m afraid to touch her with them.

But I do.

I just can’t fucking help myself.

I trace the delicate lines of her knuckles with my thumb as my gaze lifts and locks onto her face. Her legs took the brunt of the burns, but her pretty face didn’t come away from the explosion totally unscathed. They had to remove shards of glass from her forehead, and yet even with the black stitches cutting across her skin, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Beautiful, broken, and so fucking forbidden.

“I’ll make this right,” I rasp.

The chair creaks as I shift my weight, exhaustion finally catching up with me. My eyes grow heavy as I continue to hold her hand, the beeping rhythm of the monitors lulling me into a state of half-consciousness.

It’s not the first time I’ve fallen asleep in this chair, and it won’t be the last.