Page 54 of Malice

We step into the main room of the clubhouse, where leather couches and a scarred pool table wait, the air tinged with cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of pine cleaner mingling with old wood. A few prospects hang around, falling silent when they notice us, eyes trained on the floor like men who’ve learned when to keep their heads down.

My mother leads me toward a couch, and my legs buckle before I reach it. I collapse into the leather, the deep shudder I’ve been holding back finally taking over. It starts with a fine shake in my hands, no matter how tight I clench them, and spreads, rattling in my chest like a trapped bird.

The blood on my fingertips has turned sticky, darkening from pink to rusty red. I press a tissue to my scalp, but it’s already soaked, a fresh warmth trickling down my cheek.

“Here.” My mother kneels in front of me, gently pressing another tissue to my head. “Hold this. Press hard.”

I do, my hands shaking so much that the tissue flutters against my skin like a moth.

Behind us, there’s only a tense silence from the back room that’s worse than noise. They’ve taken those men in there. Carter’s in there. I don’t turn around. I can’t. Picturing his face, with that icy fury in his eyes, would break me.

“Breathe, baby,” my mother says, cutting through the static in my mind. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You know this.”

I do. I’ve told others to do it countless times. Controlled breath in, steady exhale, calm counting to stave off the panic. But knowing and feeling it work are miles apart when the blood on your hands is your own.

I breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

My knees throb beneath my ripped jeans, each pulse stoking the fire of the scraped skin. The bruise on my arm has turned a deep, mottled purple, each mark like fingers pressed hard into muscle. My palms are shredded, scraped from the concrete, and the spot on my scalp aches with a pulse that blurs my vision if I move too fast.

“Trixie.” A woman’s voice, calm and clinical, slices through the haze. Dr. Myra steps into view, her medical bag already open on the table. She’s a staple here, the unofficial doctor for a brotherhood that invites injury. Her dark hair is pulled tight, her eyes sweeping over me with practiced efficiency.

“Hi, Myra.” My voice is steadier than I expected, almost professional. The nurse in me kicks in, compartmentalizing, storing the trauma for later.

She sits beside me, knee touching mine. “Let me see.”

I lower the tissue from my scalp, and she leans in, her fingers sifting through my hair with a gentle touch that’s nothing like the man’s rough grip in the alley. Her warm breath covers my forehead as she inspects the wound.

“Laceration. Not deep, but you’ve lost some hair.” Her eyes lock with mine, voice calm. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot. You know that.”

I do know. I’ve stitched up dozens in the trauma bay, seen blood gush from cuts that looked nasty but weren’t. Even so, the trickle down my neck sends an uncomfortable shiver through me.

She turns her attention to my hands, flipping them palm up with careful fingers. The skin’s shredded, grit embedded from the concrete, and looking at the raw, swollen mess twists my stomach. These are my hands, the ones that hold instruments, chart vitals, stop bleeding. Now they feel like strangers.

“I’ll need to clean these,” Myra says, already digging out antiseptic. “It’s going to sting.”

“Got it.”

She works with efficient silence, swabbing my palms with antiseptic-soaked gauze. The pain stabs up through my wrists, and I suck air through my teeth but stay still. My mother’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing once, a silent show of support.

“Your knees,” Myra says, glancing at my torn jeans. “Let me see.”

I shift, carefully pulling up the fabric. The scrapes underneath are raw and red, oozing sluggishly. Myra clicks her tongue, not with worry but with the sound doctors make when assessing damage.

“Superficial,” she declares. “I’ll bandage them after your hands.” She grabs a roll of gauze, tearing off a strip with precision. “The bruise on your arm, any numbness? Tingling?”

I flex my wrist, wiggle my fingers. “No, just sore.”

She nods, wrapping my left hand with steady, even pressure. The gauze feels cool on my burning skin, and I focus on it, trying to ground myself in the rhythm of her hands.

The front door of the clubhouse crashes open.

The noise is explosive, and every head turns toward it. Myra’s hands pause, and my mother rises smoothly, positioning herself between me and the door.

Mia flies in like a storm, her hair wild, chest heaving. She’s Myra’s daughter, with the same sharp features and a fiery temperament that’s all her own. Her father, Ryan, is one of the originals, like mine, which means she knows this clubhouse as well as I do. Right now, that doesn’t seem to matter.

Her eyes widening and mouth falling open, her whole body leans back as she takes in the blood staining my temple, the gauze wrapped around my hands, the torn jeans and the bruises and the shaking that I still can’t stop.

“Trixie,” she breathes, and her voice cracks on my name. “Oh my God… your face⁠—”