Page 45 of Wings
"Duke doesn't mess around when it comes to protecting family." I traced her cheek with my thumb. "Hospital needs you. Night shift's been a disaster without you, apparently. They're eager to have you back."
Tears spilled over, but she was smiling so bright it could have powered the city. "I can work again? Really?"
"Really. Tonight if you want, though I'd suggest taking another day or two. Ease back in."
She threw her arms around my neck, laughing and crying at once. "I can't believe it. I thought—I was so sure I'd lost everything."
"Never." I held her tight. "Not on my watch. You're Heavy Kings family now. We protect our own."
She pulled back to look at me, fingers finding the collar again. "Thank you. For all of it. For seeing me in that garage and not letting me run. For the rules and the discipline and this." She touched the butterfly. "For making me yours."
"Best decision I ever made," I told her honestly.
She kissed me then, soft and sweet and full of promise. When we finally left the greenhouse, she walked different—taller, prouder, fingers occasionally touching her collar like a talisman.
My baby girl. My butterfly. Safe and claimed and ready to face the world again.
But this time, she wouldn't face it alone.
Chapter 9
Kiara
TheautomaticdoorsofIronridge General's ER whooshed open with the same pneumatic hiss that had greeted me for three years, but everything about walking through them felt different now. My scrubs were the same scratchy blue polyester, my shoes the same sensible white sneakers that could handle twelve hours of blood and chaos. But under the v-neck of my top, the delicate silver butterfly rested against my throat, its weight both secret and sacred.
I touched it through the fabric—a new habit already, like checking for keys or phone—and felt my shoulders drop from around my ears. Three weeks ago, I'd fled this place in tears, certain my career was over. Now I walked the familiar hallways like I belonged here. Because I did. Because someone had fought for me, had made sure I could come back.
The ER hummed with its usual controlled chaos. Monitors beeped their electronic heartbeats, phones rang with incoming traumas, and the smell of industrial disinfectant mixed withburnt coffee from the nurses' station. Dr. Martinez looked up from a chart, his face breaking into a genuine smile.
"Mitchell! Thank God you're back. Night shift's been a disaster without you."
"Good to be back," I said, and meant it. The words came out steady, sure. No tremor of anxiety, no second-guessing. Just truth.
The first few hours flew by in a blur of IVs, medication administration, and patient assessments. But it wasn't the frantic, edge-of-panic blur I'd grown accustomed to. My hands moved with practiced efficiency, my mind clear and focused. When a combative drunk in Bay 3 started screaming obscenities, I didn't flinch. When we got slammed with a multi-vehicle accident, I triaged with calm precision.
The difference was the collar. Every time I moved, I felt it shift against my skin—not heavy, just present. A constant reminder that someone was thinking about me, that I had rules to follow and someone who cared if I followed them. That I'd eaten breakfast because Daddy had made sure of it. That I'd get eight hours sleep tonight because bedtime was non-negotiable. That I mattered to someone in a way that went bone-deep.
During a blessed lull around two AM, I escaped to the break room for coffee. The ancient machine gurgled and hissed, producing something that barely qualified as coffee. I'd just taken my first sip when arms wrapped around me from behind.
"Oh my God, Ki!"
I turned to find Stephanie—my closest friend here, the friend I’d spoken to about Gabe all those weeks ago. She worked nights maybe once a month, picking up overtime, and seeing her face made something in my chest loosen.
"Steph!" I hugged her back, breathing in her familiar vanilla lotion scent. "What are you doing here?"
"Picked up a shift. Saving for vacation." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying me with those sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. "Holy shit, look at you."
"What?" I ducked my head, suddenly self-conscious.
"You look . . ." She tilted her head, searching for words. "Good. Like, really good. You've put on weight—in a healthy way," she added quickly when I stiffened. "Your skin's glowing. And you're not doing that thing where you hunch like you're trying to disappear."
Heat crept up my neck. "I've just been taking better care of myself."
"Bullshit." But her grin took the sting out of it. "This is man-related, isn’t it?"
She dragged me to the corner table, the one farthest from the door where we'd shared countless conversations over the years. The break room was empty—that magic hour when most of the staff were catching up on charting—giving us privacy I both wanted and feared.
"There's . . . someone," I admitted, fidgeting with my coffee cup.
