Page 32 of Property of Bones

The doctor hesitates. And honestly? Who can blame her? She’s surrounded by five men who look like they could kill a man with a spoon and bury him before sunrise.

And we would.

“Fentanyl,” she says, voice quieter now but still clear. “There wasn’t a large amount in her system, but it was enough to depress her respiratory function. If you hadn’t gotten her here when you did, she wouldn’t have made it.”

I see Spike’s hand curl into a fist at his side. Controlled fury. Ready to explode.

“We administered naloxone to counteract the opioid,” the doctor continues. “Got her on high-flow oxygen right away. Her vitals stabilized quickly, which is a good sign. She’s still groggy, but alert and improving. We’ll keep her under observation for the next several hours.”

“You’resureshe took it?” Spike asks, his voice like a loaded gun. “There’snoway she did that willingly.”

The doctor’s expression softens. “No signs of injection. No pill fragments. No known history of use. Honestly? It was most likely ingested without her knowledge. Possibly through contaminated food, drink, or even medication. We’ve seen a rise in cases like that lately.”

Spike doesn’t respond. But the rage that rolls off him says more than words ever could.

The bastards that are pushing this poison know we’re gunning for them. We haven’t exactly been quiet. It was only a matter of time before they made a move.

Wrong.

Fucking.

Move.

Even though we kicked Billy out of Palm Springs, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t replaced. We need to deal with this shit…Now.

“She can only have one visitor at a time,” the doctor adds. “She’s in room two-fifteen.”

“Skip, you, Knuckles, and Crusher head back to the compound,” Spike orders, dragging a hand down his face. “Have Foster pull the security footage from my place. Everything from the last few hours. I want to know what happened before she hit that floor.”

They nod and head out without a word. I follow Spike toward Riley’s room.

She looks better than she did on the bathroom floor. Less gray, more alive. But it’s still jarring to see her hooked up to machines, breathing slow and steady.

Over the next three hours, she fades in and out of sleep. Each time she wakes, she’s a little more alert. Finally, somewhere around 2:30 in the morning, she opens her eyes and sits up slowly.

“Did you say I was drugged?” she asks, voice raspy but firm.

“No,” Spike says flatly. “I asked how you were feeling.”

“Earlier,” she pushes. “Someone said I was drugged.”

“Babe…”

“I’m fine, Spike,” she says, cutting him off with a tired sigh. “Just a little foggy. But I’m okay. Now someone tell me who drugged me?”

When Spike just stares at her like she’s cracked, I step in. “Doctor said there was fentanyl in something you ate or drank.”

The doctor reenters like she’s been summoned. “Or a medication you took. How’s your head?”

“A little fuzzy,” Riley says. “Feels like I’m waking up from a weird dream.”

“Do you remember anything out of the ordinary before you collapsed?” the doctor asks.

Riley frowns in thought. “I put the baby down for bed. Got in my own bed with a book and must’ve fallen asleep. Next thing I know, I’m bolting up, stomach churning, skin clammy, and everything buzzing around me. I ran for the bathroom and… well, I guess I never made it.”

The doctor nods. “That tracks with what we’re seeing. The fentanyl dose you were exposed to was enough to trigger rapid-onset symptoms such as confusion, nausea, and respiratory depression. You’re lucky your husband found you when he did.”

Spike’s glare could melt steel as he stares down at his phone. “Had my guys check the home security footage. Nothing. No signs of tampering. No one unexpected in or out.”

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