Page 86 of Fury
Zach steps forward, taking me from Greyson's arms just as his knees begin to buckle. Trenton catches him, supporting his weight as they move toward the truck.
"Hospital," I insist, panic rising as I see how pale Greyson has become. "He needs a doctor."
"No hospitals," Greyson counters weakly. "Too many questions. Clubhouse. Xavier can patch us up."
Dad nods, already on his phone. "Xavier's waiting. Bikes will lead, truck in the middle, more bikes behind. Full protection detail."
As Torch helps me into the truck's back seat, I catch a glimpse of the men assembling on the road—twenty, maybe thirty bikes, riders armed and grim-faced. This isn't just a rescue mission anymore. It's war.
Greyson slides in beside me, his body finally giving in to exhaustion as he slumps against the seat. I pull his head into my lap, stroking his blood-matted hair as Dad climbs in on my other side.
"Diane," I say quietly as the truck engine roars to life. "We need to find her."
Dad's hand covers mine, his touch gentle despite the rage evident in every line of his body. "We will, baby girl. But first we take care of our own."
As the convoy moves out, bikes flanking us like a lethal honor guard, I look down at Greyson's face. Even unconscious, he maintains his stance, one hand still gripping my knee.
"I love you," I whisper, though I'm not sure he can hear me. "We're going to be okay."
Dad's arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. "Damn right you are," he says fiercely. "And when you're patched up, we're going hunting."
The steel in his voice sends a chill down my spine—not fear, but recognition. This is what it means to be a Bennett, to be part of the Devil Souls and Grim Sinners. When someone hurts one of us, the entire club responds with devastating force.
As we speed toward the compound, the night air filled with the thunderous roar of motorcycles, I realize I've never felt more certain of my place in this world. These men—my father, Greyson, the brothers of the clubs—would burn everything to the ground to protect what's theirs.
And God help anyone who stands in their way.
Chapter
Fifteen
Livie
The familiar weight of Greyson's arm drapes across my waist, his body curved around mine as we lie in his bedroom at the clubhouse. Xavier had spent hours patching us up, cleaning Greyson's head wound, wrapping my ankle, and cataloging our various cuts and bruises with clinical efficiency. The painkillers he administered have dulled the sharp edges of discomfort, leaving me floating in a hazy twilight between wakefulness and sleep.
Exhaustion had claimed Greyson almost immediately after we'd been settled into his bed, his body finally surrendering to the trauma it had endured. I'd followed soon after, lulled by his steady breathing and the knowledge that we were surrounded by men who would die to protect us.
A creak penetrates my consciousness, the sound of the bedroom door opening. Before I can fully register what's happening, Greyson explodes into motion. His arm sweeps me behind him as he rolls, his other hand emerging from beneath the pillow with a gun that he levels at the doorway.
"Jesus Christ!" My father's voice cuts through the tension, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just me, son."
Greyson doesn't lower the weapon immediately, his body coiled tight as a spring, breath coming in harsh pants. I place a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremors running through his muscles.
"Greyson," I murmur, "it's okay. It's just Dad."
The wildness in his eyes recedes gradually, recognition dawning as he lowers the gun. "Wilder," he says, voice rough with sleep and adrenaline. "Sorry."
Dad steps into the room cautiously, his gaze moving between us. "My fault. Should have knocked." His expression changes as he takes in Greyson's stance. "Just wanted to check on you both."
Greyson runs a hand through his hair, the movement revealing fresh blood on the bandage at his temple. "We're okay." He glances back at me for confirmation, his eyes still haunted. "Right?"
"We're okay," I agree, though the lingering fear in his gaze tells me neither of us truly believes it yet.
Dad pulls a chair closer to the bed, settling into it with a heavy sigh. "Club's on lockdown. We've got men stationed at every entrance, and Torch has set up motion sensors around the perimeter." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "No one's getting to either of you again."
"Volkov won't stop," Greyson says, setting the gun on the nightstand but keeping it within easy reach. "Not until he gets what he wants."
"And what exactly is that?" Dad asks, his tone carefully neutral.
