Battles of the Broken (Sons of Templar MC 6)

“It should’ve been a first fuckin’ priority to notice,” the too-good-to-be-true voice growled.

“Brother, we didn’t think you were gonna make it. Never had someone that close to death—”

“And I don’t give a fuck if I was shaking hands with the reaper himself and getting my own personal tour of the pit. She comes first. Every. Fucking. Time.”

My heart warmed.

It must’ve been a dream.

A nice one.

It took work to open my eyes. But I did.

It wasn’t the snap moment that seemed to happen all the time in movies. It was a slow, lazy process, like waking from a sleep that wasn’t ready to go.

Escaping from a death that was determined not to let go.

There was grit behind my eyes, making my vision grainy and blurry at first. And there was a not-at-all-gentle pressure on my left hand, the bones squeaking and protesting. My right shoulder ached dull and deep.

My thigh itched.

My entire body felt heavy yet drained, as if someone had sucked all my blood out and replaced it with cement. It wasn’t pleasant.

Memories didn’t rush in. They came sluggishly, on a slow-moving river, passing by my lazy gaze. I had to make the effort to grab the more important ones. I didn’t need to remember Gage being shot. The shards of glass embedded in my chest did that for me.

The edges of them dulled slightly when I thought about moments that I wasn’t sure were real, but the pressure at my hand and the dark shape beside me told me they might’ve been.

That voice wasn’t coming from Heaven or Hell. It was coming from both, because that’s what this place called reality was.

The grip on my hand tightened to the point of agony as my vision cleared and locked on icy eyes. Eyes that had been on me for much longer than mine had on him. I knew because his stare was iron, determined, much like I imagined mine might’ve been when our positions had been reversed.

He leaned forward as I blinked him into existence.

“Will,” he rasped. “Thank fuck.”

He closed his eyes for the longest moment, the grip on my hand loosening enough to stop the bones from breaking. With his eyes still closed, he lifted our intertwined hands and laid his mouth on my fingers. It was a soft and tender gesture, though his hands were still squeezing me in a grip bordering on brutal and his entire body was etched in barely restrained violence.

I devoured him, but I frowned as I lowered my eyes and saw he wasn’t sitting in a chair, and there was a tube connected to the hand not holding mine, trailing to an IV.

“You’re in a wheelchair,” I said, my voice scratchy and raw, the words barely intelligible.

His lips left my hand, his head snapping up. His eyes feasted on mine as if he wasn’t expecting me to speak now. Or ever again.

He was beautiful. The lines of his face slightly sharper around the edges because of his weight loss. His beard was longer than usual, somewhat wild but still groomed. Scarred arms were exposed in the black wifebeater he was wearing, the fabric clinging to the muscles that had yet to disappear despite being freaking shot. My heart stuttered at the sight of the white bandage peeking out from the top of the tank, wrapping around his back and shoulder.

My eyes snapped back up to his.

“You’re in a wheelchair,” I repeated. “And you would pretty much rather do anything in the world than so obviously expose your perceived weakness at not being able to walk after being shot in the chest, unless you’re actually meant to be in bed and nowhere near upright, which I suspect is the case.” I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you got someone to steal that wheelchair, because no way would the doctors give it to you so you could get out of bed.”

Gage’s eyes didn’t leave me the entire time my raspy voice forced out all of those words. He watched me, attention rapt, like I was telling him the secrets of the universe instead of scolding him. Then, after a long beat of silence, he laughed.

Like threw his head back and laughed. Well, as much as he could.

I wanted to keep glaring at him, but the sound—though rattly and slightly strained—was full, bursting with pure happiness mingled with bone-deep relief.

I knew it because that’s what my smile was for too.

He stopped laughing, wincing and shifting slightly in the chair, but never letting go of my hand. “Only you, my rainbow, my Will, my Lauren, can make me fucking laugh when the last time I saw you, you were tied to a fucking chair. After thinking I was going to Hell and not knowing if I could be at peace there knowing that trip saved you.” He squeezed my hand. “And baby, I would’ve been relieved in an eternity of torment had it saved you. All I fucking see is you tied to that chair…” He said it as if that was more traumatic than getting shot. “Rest is blurry,” he grunted. “But I remember you killing her. Proud of you. Hate that that’s on your soul. Should hate it more. A good guy would, but I’m not that. So I’m proud. But I’m also pissed as fuck with you, and as soon as I’m able, and you’re well enough, I’m putting you over my knee and spanking the shit outta you for this.” He nodded to me in my bed.