Page 59 of Wings
Trauma two was empty, recently cleaned, waiting for the next crisis. I ducked inside, ostensibly checking supplies. The crash cart was fully stocked—had been since I'd refilled it an hour ago. But the backup supplies in the cabinet . . . those were fair game.
A handful of alcohol swabs joined the growing collection in my tote bag. Butterfly closures that would handle cuts too small for the ER but too big to ignore. Basic antibiotics that could mean the difference between a healing wound and sepsis.
Each item was a calculated choice. Nothing controlled, nothing that would trigger inventory flags. Just the everyday supplies that disappeared into the chaos of a busy ER anyway.
By seven-thirty, my tote was strategically full. Not bulging, not obvious, just a nurse's bag with the usual detritus of a long shift. The little lunch bag Gabe had given me sat on top, innocent as Sunday morning.
I clocked out right on time, waving to the day shift as they stumbled in with their coffee and exhaustion. Nobody paid attention to the night nurse heading home. Nobody ever did.
The morning air hit like a slap after hours of recycled hospital atmosphere. I'd parked in the staff lot as usual, but instead of heading home, I drove toward Riverside Park. New location, new time. Gabe had picked it—far enough from the hospital to avoid connection, public enough to look innocent, isolated enough for a quick transfer.
My hands stayed steady on the wheel, but my heart picked up pace. Not from fear. From anticipation. In twenty minutes, I'd see him again. My Daddy, my protector, the man who'd taken my guilt and transformed it into something useful.
The park was nearly empty at eight in the morning. A few joggers, an elderly man feeding ducks, normal people doing normal things. I parked near the playground, scanning the area with habits born from years of watching over my shoulder.
There. His familiar motorcycle tucked under the trees, a figure leaning against it that made my pulse skip. Even from across the lot, Gabe commanded attention. Not flashy, not obvious, just that quiet intensity that made people step carefully around him.
He'd changed clothes—tactical pants and a dark henley that stretched across his shoulders. Professional, prepared, every inch the security specialist. But when his eyes found mine across the distance, I saw the flicker of warmth meant just for me.
I grabbed my tote and climbed out, forcing myself to walk normally. Just a woman meeting someone in a park. Nothing suspicious about that.
"Morning," I said as I approached, proud of how level my voice stayed.
"Morning." He'd already opened the saddlebags. Quick transfer, then he'd leave on the bike while I drove away separately. Smart. "How'd it go?"
"Smooth." I set the tote on the ground, beginning the transfer. I handed off supplies, he packed them efficiently, neither of us speaking more than necessary. The air between us crackled with last night's memory, with the new dimension to our relationship.
His fingers brushed mine as I passed him a box of gauze, deliberate contact that sent warmth up my arm. Such a small thing, but it grounded me.
"Antibiotics?" He sorted through the supplies with practiced ease.
"Basic stuff. Nothing flagged." I glanced around again, habit more than concern. "Should help with that knife wound Thor's prospect picked up."
"Good girl."
Two words, quiet approval, but they hit like a physical touch. My skin flushed, remembering other times he'd said them. Different context, same devastating effect.
We finished the transfer in minutes. Efficient, professional, except for the way his hand lingered on my lower back as he closed the saddlebags. A claim, a comfort, a promise all rolled into one touch.
"Drive safe," he murmured. "I'll see you tonight."
I nodded, already turning back to my car, when something caught my eye. Movement across the park, sun flashing off chrome in a way that sent ice down my spine.
I knew that bike.
Custom Harley, chrome pipes that probably cost more than my car, red serpent wrapped around the tank. And next to the bike, Connor. The Serpent from the restaurant, the one whose presence had made my skin crawl with remembered fear.
I didn't freeze. Didn't gasp or grab for Gabe. Instead, clarity descended like a cold sheet of glass. He was watching us. Had probably been watching the whole time, cataloging our moves just like we'd cataloged the supplies.
My feet kept moving toward my car, steady and unhurried. I didn't look directly at the bike again, didn't give any sign I'd noticed. But my mind was already working, filing details. Location, angle of observation, how long he might have been there.
Behind me, I heard Gabe's bike roar to life. He hadn't seen Connor—the angle was wrong from where he stood. And I couldn't signal him without tipping our hand.
So I got in my car, started the engine, and drove away like nothing was wrong. Just a nurse heading home after a long shift. Nothing to see here.
But my hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, and my mind was already racing ahead. Gabe needed to know. Duke needed to know. The Serpents watching our supply runs changed everything.
The clarity was strange, almost disconnecting. No panic, no desperate need to flee. Just cold assessment of threat and response. Maybe this was what Gabe felt in combat—that crystalline focus that pushed emotion aside for pure tactical thought.
