Page 57 of Fang

He’s referring to the hours I’ve spent hunched over keyboards with him, leveraging my cartel knowledge to strengthen the club’s cybersecurity, tracking money movements that might lead to Juan Vasquez, identifying potential weak points in the cartel’s communication networks. It’s been a crash course in club operations, in how they protect their people.

Still, this is different. This is Rory’s life.

“The club takes care of its own,” Fang says simply, as if that settles everything.

And maybe it does. Maybe, after all these years of fighting alone, we’re not alone anymore. The realization hits me like a physical force.

Before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet, throwing my arms around Fang’s solid frame. His body tenses for a fraction of a second—surprise, not rejection—before his arms wrap around me, pulling me close. His heartbeat thuds steady and strong against my cheek, and I realize with startling clarity that I trust this man more than I’ve trusted anyone in years.

“Wow, get a room, you two,” Rory pipes up from the bed, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Or at least warn a guy before you start with the PDA. I’m in a weakened state here.”

Heat rushes to my face as I remember we have an audience. I start to pull away, but Fang’s arms remain firm around me, one hand sliding to the small of my back in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive.

“Sorry,” I mutter, not actually sorry at all. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—rusty and unfamiliar after so many years of having nothing to laugh about. It feels good, this moment of lightness after so much darkness.

“Don’t apologize on my account,” Rory says, grinning. His eyes dart between Fang and me with obvious approval. “It’s about time you found someone who isn’t a complete disaster.”

“See, I’m only a partial train wreck,” Fang jokes, using his thumb to trace small circles against my back.

“You obviously like her, super gross, but at least she’s happy,” Rory says.

“You’re right,” Fang says, his deep voice vibrating through his chest where I’m still pressed against him. “I care about your sister a lot.”

The simple directness of his words steals my breath. No games, no hidden meanings, just honest acknowledgment of what’s been growing between us since we met. There’s so much I want to say, but before I can respond, Alice enters carrying a tray of fresh medical supplies.

“Time for a dressing change,” she announces cheerfully, then pauses as she takes in the scene—Fang and I still partially embraced, Rory grinning from his bed, Scalpel with his tablet of medical miracles.

Something shifts in Scalpel’s demeanor the moment Alice walks in. It’s subtle—a straightening of his already excellent posture, a slight lift of his chin, his eyes tracking her movements with an intensity that seems to transcend his usual clinical observation. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the tablet he holds, knuckles whitening just enough for me to notice.

Alice’s eyes meet his briefly as she sets down her tray. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems casual but carries weight when Scalpel’s gaze follows the movement with laser focus.

I watch this wordless exchange with fascination. Are they together? There’s certainly something there—a current of awareness that makes the air between them seem charged with kinetic energy. But there’s restraint too, as if they’re holding themselves carefully in check. I make a mental note to ask Alice about it later, when we’re alone. She’s been friendly to me since we first met last week, offering quiet support while we waited for Rory to stabilize.

“Back to what we were discussing earlier,” Fang steps slightly away from me but keeps one hand at the small of my back, “the club will foot the bill on the treatment, but it’s ultimately Rory’s decision to undertake it.”

Rory’s expression sobers as he processes Fang’s words. “What are the risks?” he asks, looking at Scalpel. “I’m guessing experimental treatments come with a few.”

Scalpel nods, his focus returning fully to the medical discussion. “The main risks are immune rejection of the gene therapy vector and potential liver stress from the enzymecomponents. There’s also the standard risks of any medical procedure—infection, adverse drug reactions.” He pauses, then adds, “But the benefit-to-risk ratio is exceptional for a condition with so few treatment options.”

Alice moves to Rory’s side, beginning to check his IV site with gentle efficiency. “From what I’ve read of the protocol, the monitoring is intensive,” she adds. “Any adverse reactions would be caught early and addressed.”

Rory watches her hands as she works, then looks up at me. His eyes—so like mine—hold a determination I recognize from our childhood, from all the times he faced painful procedures with so much courage it humbled me.

“How long have I been sick?” he asks rhetorically. “Ten years? Almost eleven? I’ve spent most of my existence hooked up to machines, watching life pass me by.” He shifts, sitting up straighter against his pillows. “I’m sick of being stuck in a hospital bed. I want to try the treatment.”

The certainty in his voice sends a wave of both pride and fear through me. This is my little brother, facing the unknown with more bravery than I could ever muster.

“Are you sure?” I ask, needing to hear it again.

His jaw sets in that stubborn way I know too well. “I’m sure. If there’s even a chance I could get off dialysis, live something close to a normal life—” he glances around the room, at the machines that has defined his existence for too long, “—then it’s worth the risk.”

I look to Fang, who nods slightly, his expression telling me he understands both my hope and my fear. Then to Scalpel, whose clinical gaze holds rare warmth as he regards my brother’s conviction. Finally to Alice, whose gentle smile offers reassurance born of medical knowledge.

For the first time in years, I allow myself to imagine a future where Rory isn’t defined by his illness—where both of us are free from the chains that have bound us for so long.

“Well, that settles it.” Scalpel nods and tucks the tablet under his arm. “I’ll make the arrangements. The treatment protocol is administered at a specialized research facility in Baltimore. They’ve been pioneering this approach for the past three years.” His fingers tap against the tablet’s edge, the only outward sign of his barely contained excitement.

“Baltimore?” I repeat, mentally calculating the distance. “That’s what, a thousand miles from here?”

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