Page 34 of Dark Surrender

Cell’s sister’s ex-husband, Dark.

A Sacred Sinner biker.

How did this happen?

In a rush of you-damn-well-better-not-die, Dee returns out of breath, carrying the biggest first-aid kit we own. Inside, she rips out a syringe of morphine and stabs it into his thigh. Knowing I’m better with a needle and thread than she is, and since she’s shaking like a leaf, I squirt half a bottle of alcohol over my hands before I pick up our suture kit and get to stitching this man back together.

“How in the hell did this happen?” I growl, shaking my head at the passed-out mess on the floor.

“Don’t know.”

“He can’t die.”

Dee, knowing about as much as I do about his backstory, which is basically nothing, nods in agreement. All I know is he’s a Sacred Sinner, and the whos and whys he’s in deep with Penelope and her father might be a mystery, but one I’m gonna find out, as long as this stubborn fucker doesn’t die.

My stitches are a shaky mess in the half-assed lighting, and the fact that he’s still bleeding like a stuck pig as I attempt to put him back together is not a good sign.

“Why didn’t she tell us Kali’s ex was remarried?” I hiss.

Dee shrugs, looking pale as hell, as she stares at the carnage.

As I remove my shorts from his upper thigh and groin area, I nod toward the damage. “Why there?”

Rummaging around on the floor on her hands and knees, Dee finds what she’s looking for and holds up a flap of skin with a tattooed lip print.

“Dee,” I admonish.

She shrugs.

Alright. I can’t worry about that now.

All that matters is he’s alive and stays that way.

Fuck. This must be why he fascinated me and my gut kept pulling me toward him. It knew something I didn’t. Well, obviously that’s the case, but why?

Dammit.

Cell did this. She and I need to have a serious fucking chat after this. She knew what we planned, all the way down to the drugs, kidnapping, and killing. She knew he was gonna die. The question is, why was she okay with it? Why didn’t she tell me?

With every cut sutured shut and his bleeding under control, I do what I can to cover Dark’s injuries with gauze and bandages before collapsing on the floor beside him, emotionally and physically drained.

Dee unlocks his ankles and wrists, places two water bottles on the floor, and gets to her feet.

“I’ll be back,” she whispers.

“Bring blankets, painkillers…everything you can.”

At the door, Dee nods, and she goes, taking the last dregs of my energy with her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dark

This is death.

No.

It’s worse than death.