Page 17 of Saint’s Revenge

His hands move to my ribs. "I'm going to lift your shirt. Need to see the bruising."

"Okay."

He lifts my shirt slowly, revealing my torso. I don't need to look to know what it looks like. Can feel the damage in every breath. Can remember every kick.

Lucas makes a sound, something between a curse and a sob. His hands hover over the bruising, shaking slightly, like he's afraid to touch me.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Riley, what did he—"

"Lucas." I open my eyes. Look at him. "I know what you're thinking. Don't."

"You need proper medical care. You need scans, X-rays, imaging to check for internal…"

"No hospital."

"Riley—"

"You know why." My voice is firm despite the pain. "You know exactly why we can't do that."

He stares at me. His hands still shaking. "You could have internal bleeding. Punctured lung. I can't just—"

"Don’t forget I was in a club too," I interrupt. "I know the rules, Lucas. Hospital means questions. Police reports. Records. People digging into who I am, where I came from, what happened."

His jaw clenches. He knows I'm right.

"And when they connect me to Daniel?" I continue. "To the Vipers? When they start asking about tonight, about the warehouse that's burning sixty miles away? It all leads back here. To you. To your brothers. To everything you've built."

"I don't care about that if you're dying."

"I'm not dying."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you." I reach for his hand. Grip it despite the weakness in my fingers. "But I know you. I know you can do this. And I know I'd rather trust you than risk bringing cops down on everyone here."

Lucas closes his eyes. Takes a shaking breath. When he opens them again, they're wet. "If I miss something. If you have internal bleeding I can't see. If you—"

"Then that's the risk we take." I squeeze his hand harder. "It's the same risk every club takes when something goes wrong. You know that. Daniel used to patch himself up in bathroom sinks rather than go to hospitals. This is how it works."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No. But it makes it necessary." I hold his gaze. "I trust you with my life, Lucas. I always have."

He stares at me for a long moment. Something crumbles in his expression: five years of holding himself together, five years of guilt, grief and loss, all of it breaking apart at once.

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay. But if anything gets worse, if you show any signs of serious internal damage, I don't care about the consequences. I'll carry you to a hospital myself."

"Deal."

A tear slides down his cheek. Just one. He wipes it away roughly with the back of his hand, then turns to call toward the door. "I need help in here."

The woman with auburn hair returns with another woman, this one with long dark hair and bright blue eyes. They don't introduce themselves. Just move into position like they've done this before.

Like this isn't the first time someone's been brought to this room with injuries that can't go to a hospital.

"IV setup," Lucas says. His voice is steadier now but still strained. "Pain meds. Bandages. Ice packs. Everything we've got."

They work quickly. The dark-haired woman sets up the IV while the auburn-haired one gathers supplies from cabinets that are better stocked than most emergency rooms. Professional. Efficient. No questions asked.