Page 63 of Fang

“They’ll be back soon, cher.” Babet’s voice startles me from behind. She approaches in a swirl of bright fabric, her muumuu a riot of tropical flowers against the gathering darkness. Despite the late hour, her white hair still stands in perfectly gelledspikes, defying gravity and age alike. “You’re gonna wear a trench in the driveway if you keep pacing.”

“I can’t just sit inside and wait,” I confess, hands fidgeting at my sides. “Rory called from Baltimore earlier. He’s settling in fine, his doctors are optimistic, but all I could think was ‘What if I have to tell him Fang didn’t make it?’”

Babet steps closer, her weathered hand finding my shoulder with surprising strength. “That boy’s gonna make it back to you. They all will.” Her voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen bikers leave and return countless times, who understands the rhythm of club life in a way I’m still learning. “Underground Vengeance takes care of their own, no matter what. You and your brother are part of that now. Even if something happened, you’re still a part of our family.”

“Oh, Babet…” My throat tightens. “Even after all the trouble I’ve caused? The cartel coming after us, Rory needing so much help…”

“Especially because of that,” Babet says firmly. She guides me to a bench near the clubhouse entrance, settling beside me with a soft grunt. “This club was built on helping people who need it. That’s what makes them different from most MCs.” Her eyes sharp. “You’re good for Fang, you know. Never seen that boy light up the way he does around you.”

I look down at my hands, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “I didn’t tell him,” I whisper, the admission painful in my chest. “Before he left, I didn’t tell him how I feel. And now if something happened—”

“Nothing happened that those boys can’t handle,” Babet interrupts, patting my knee. “Vapor wouldn’t let it.”

“How can you be so sure? All we know is they’re alive. Vapor wouldn’t tell me anything else over the phone.” The frustration spills out in my voice. “Just that they were coming back and to keep Rory’s security tight during his flight toBaltimore. Vapor didn’t say anything about how badly they’re hurt, or about what happened with Juan, nothing.”

Babet nods sagely. “Smart man. Phones can be tapped, messages intercepted. The less said, the less the cartel knows about what went down after their bomb.”

My head snaps up. “You know about the bomb?”

“Tank called Vicki, his woman, last night. Told her enough to keep her from freaking out. Apparently, the place was rigged to explode. They got out, but not without some damage.” Her face remains neutral, giving nothing away about the extent of their injuries.

I process this, trying to keep my imagination from conjuring images of Fang caught in the blast. “Why wouldn’t Vapor just tell me that?”

“Club protocol. Protection through ignorance. Sometimes it’s for the best.” She gives my hand a squeeze.

We lapse into silence as darkness fully claims the sky. Moths flutter around the security lights that illuminate the yard, casting bizarre, dancing shadows across the gravel. In the distance, a lone motorcycle engine growls then fades, just another night sound in a world that keeps turning despite my personal purgatory.

“When did you know?” I ask suddenly. “With your husband, I mean. When did you know it was real?”

A distant rumble breaks the moment—the unmistakable sound of an engine approaching. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my entire body alert. Babet rises more slowly, her hand finding my arm.

“See? Told you they’d be back,” she says.

Headlights pull up to the gate. One of the brothers checks it then opens the gate. I force myself to breathe, to remain still as the van pulls into the yard, gravel crunching beneath its tires. The engine cuts off, plunging the compound into relative silence.

The driver’s door opens first. Vapor emerges, his movements stiff but determined. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruises darkening his face, and the way he favors his left side. His eyes find mine immediately. He gives me a quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then the side door slides open, and my heart stops.

Fang sits just inside, his face illuminated by the interior light. Purple-black bruises mottle his left cheek and eye, a nasty gash runs along his hairline, and his lip’s swollen. His right arm is held protectively against his ribs, and when he attempts to stand, he winces visibly.

But he’s alive.

My feet move of their own accord, carrying me across the gravel at a run. I reach him just as he manages to stand, throwing my arms around him with enough force to make him stagger back against the van. He groans in pain, but his left arm wraps around me immediately, pulling me close despite his injuries.

“Easy,” he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m still in one piece, but barely.”

I pull back just enough to examine his face, my fingers hovering over his injuries, afraid to touch and cause more pain. “What happened? How bad is it?”

He attempts a smile, though it clearly hurts. “I’m okay. I just look and feel like shit, but I’ll recover in a few days.” His eyes hold mine, conveying what words can’t—that despite everything, he’s genuinely alright, that we’ve been granted more time together.

Behind us, Babet claps her hands, her voice carrying across the yard. “Welcome home, boys! I’ve got a feast waiting in the kitchen—gumbo, cornbread, everything to put some strength back in you.”

The other men emerge from the van, each bearing their own collection of cuts and bruises. Ice with a bandage around his forearm, Tank limping slightly, Diablo with his right hand wrapped in gauze. Scalpel gets out last, carrying a first aid kit. They nod in Babet’s direction, gratitude evident in their tired faces.

“Thank you, Babet,” Fang says, his voice rough with fatigue. “But I think I need to lie down before I can appreciate your cooking properly.”

“No. I want everyone to report to the medical room to get X-rays before you lay down,” Scalpel says sternly.

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