“Styx,” I whispered as our foreheads touched. A sigh of relief slipped from his cut lips. Drawing back a little, his bloodied finger ran softly down my cheek. I did not care that the wet blood now staining my face probably did not belong to him. At this precious moment in time, I did not care what he had done to those men, even if he had killed them. I lost part of my soul to darkness as these thoughts strayed across my mind. Because if Styx was damned to hell, so was I. I would follow him into the fire.

Styx’s swollen lips parted. He was trying to speak. Suddenly, his eyes widened as if he had just realized there was crowd of brothers right behind me. Styx’s hazel eyes blinked and twitched furiously, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. He swallowed rapidly, desperately trying to loosen his throat and I saw his jaw stiffen, tension mounting in his lost expression.

Styx was lost… confused… he was hurting.

He was trying so very hard to speak, his eyes furiously twitching. But he could not, and I could see it was breaking him up inside.

“Shh,” I whispered for his ears only. “Do not try to speak. I have you… I have you.” His cheek turned in my hand, seeking comfort. I knew then his emotional walls had come crashing down.

Abruptly, the gate lurched into action and, Ky, who was stood behind us, signaled for Tank. The two of them lifted Styx and carried him into the yard; his hand immediately reached for me. Running to him, I grasped his outstretched hand. And at that moment, I made a vow to never again let go.

“Get him to his apartment!” Ky ordered. We raced to the clubhouse and Styx’s pained eyes strayed not once from my eyes.

I will be strong for my man. I will be the perfect old lady.

As we hurried past the bar, Rider jumped off the barstool and seemed to stand to attention. Ky jerked his chin at him. “You’re up, Doc.”

I stiffened a little, unsure how Rider would react, but he nodded his agreement and sprinted to get his medical bag.

Rider was going to help Styx and I could not have been more thankful.

When we entered the apartment I switched on the light. Tank and Ky carefully laid Styx down and running to the washroom, I grabbed the closest towel then raced back toward the bed.

“Tank. Out,” Ky ordered. Without hesitation, Tank left the room. I glanced up at Ky and he motioned for me to clean Styx. He knew Styx could not talk with Tank present.

Lifting my knees onto the black sheets, I hovered over Styx, his eyes squeezing shut, stoically fighting the pain.

Brushing a fallen piece of hair from Styx’s face, I leaned down. “Styx, speak to me. Are you okay?”

“B-babe… M-Mae…”

“Are you hurt?” I waved at Ky to help me remove Styx’s leather jacket.

“S-safe,” he whispered.

“What, Styx?” I asked. Ky rolled down one side of Styx’s jacket as I rolled down the other.

“Y-you’re s-safe… n-now…” he said and the lines of worry marring his face disappeared.

I stilled at his words and my stomach dropped.

He had killed them all.

“Fuckin’ cunts!” Ky spat out, seeing the extent of his injuries. Slashes. Large bleeding slashes up and down the arms. Blood seeped through his shirt and when I slowly pulled the blood-soaked shirt up and over his head, Styx clenched his teeth in pain.

I froze.

“What? What is that?” I pointed, then whispered to Ky.

Ky did not reply. When I looked up, I thought he would explode. Rolling up the towel, I pressed on the gaping wound covering Styx’s top right chest.

Styx squeezed his eyes tight together as I applied greater pressure, then I noticed Ky had still not moved. “Ky, what is this symbol? What have they engraved on him?”

Ky inhaled through his nose. Teeth gritted, he spat out, “A swastika. The motherfuckers carved a FUCKIN’ SWASTIKA ON HIS CHEST!” he screamed. Disbelief had given way to incandescent anger.

Swastika. The sign beloved by the Nazi gang.

“If they are not dead already, they f**kin’ die tonight.”

Rider chose that moment to walk in. He had removed the sling from his injured shoulder. His jaw clenched as he saw me on the bed, caring for Styx, but he quickly composed himself and walked forward.

Rider opened his black leather bag and enquired, “How’s he doing?”

I leaned back and removed the towel.

Rider gasped loudly. “Cock suckers!” he growled, his cheeks reddening in rage.

“Rider. Please help him,” I begged.

Styx groaned and reached out his hand, slapping the mattress. I looked down, worried he was in too much pain.

Ky interpreted. “He’s wanting you, Mae. He’s searching for you. Go to him.”

As I grasped his hand in mine, Styx immediately relaxed. I bent down, whispering for him to be calm. Shining through his cloud of pain, Styx’s lips twitched and a small smile spread across his bloodied face.

“He needs stitches,” Rider said tightly. I glanced in his direction. Those brown eyes were stone as he watched me comfort Styx.

“Then f**kin’ do it!” Ky commanded, his words kick-starting Rider into action.

Styx had fifteen small slashes, plus his newly carved swastika measuring three inches in both height and width. Rider also found rope marks on Styx’s ankles and wrists; he speculated that Styx had been tied to a chair and tortured.

Tortured; yet somehow Styx had made it out alive.

After an hour of treatment, Styx clawed his way back from the shock of his injuries. His eyes were focusing better and Rider had given him medication for the pain. Styx was still filthy and some of the detritus Rider picked off him made me retch.