Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

“Holy shit!” I proclaimed, sitting up quickly. I wanted to get a look at the cuts that nearly got me dead. “That bastard. Not only was that experience high on my list on the most terrible experiences of my life, it totally replaces the time my mother subjected me to that guy who was obsessed with feet. But he has totally messed with my ability to wear hot pants. Not that I would ever wear hot pants, but he took away the option. Now I almost die because he’s one weird motherfucker with some seriously whacked sexual preferences. I should have done more than tie him to the freaking bed.” I finished my rant breathing heavily and feeling a little lightheaded.

It seemed all the oxygen in the van had been sucked up when I had mentioned Rafe’s sexual preferences. I forgot how protective these macho men could be.

Hansen’s hand settled on my shoulder, gently putting pressure on it.

“Whoa there, you’ve suffered a significant amount of blood loss. I need you to stay lying down for awhile,” he frowned. “Ideally you need a hospital and possibly a blood transfusion but for now I’d settle for you being horizontal.”

I tried to push against his palm but I felt weak and my body felt like jelly. My mind started to fog but my tongue still seemed to be working fine.

“I don’t need a hospital. I need to cut Rafe’s…” I started, but I didn’t get to finish as the fogginess overtook me.

My eyes snapped open and I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. My legs throbbed and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. I thought I suffered badly with hangovers, but vodka infused sickness had nothing on serious blood loss. It took me a second to realize I wasn’t in a moving vehicle and I wasn’t lying on an uncomfortable surface.

I looked up at the white ceiling and then moved my eyes around the room I was in. I didn’t get far when I saw Brock sitting on a chair close to my bedside, eyes closed. My eyes roved over him and I felt a pang in my heart. He had a rough growth of stubble on his chin which I wasn’t used to; he was always clean shaven. His hair was longer, tied into a loose ponytail. My gaze moved to his cut, then down his muscular arms. I stopped short when I saw the tube attached to his forearm. A tube that had red liquid coming from it.

I tried to sit up in a panic.

What had happened to him? Holy shit, did he get shot? Worry washed over me.

I followed the tube up to an IV stand that looked like it held a bag of blood. Ew. Only then did I realize the bag was running into another tube, one that was attached to my arm.

Brock shifted in his chair, eyes snapping open. “Sparky?”

He leapt from the chair, mindful of the tube and he grasped my hand. “How you feeling, babe? You scared the fuckin’ shit outta me, passin’ out not once but twice.” He looked relieved but still concerned.

I blinked at his manner, completely different than the last time I saw him. Granted, the last time I saw him I hadn’t been kidnapped and knocking on death’s door. I had been a screaming bitch.

“Um…” I started, unsure of what to say.

“Amy Abrams speechless?” he questioned, his eyes teasing. “I never thought I’d see my girl lost for words.”

His girl? When did this happen? I hadn’t seen him for almost a month. The last words I said to him had me convinced he would never want to speak to me again, let alone throw around phrases such as “my girl”.

“I think substantial blood loss is a viable excuse for the lack of my usual quick wit,” I countered, almost instinctively. My gaze flickered to the bag on the stand. “You trying to turn me into a vampire or something?” I joked lamely. “Trust me, things will not go well for you if you stand in the way of me getting my tan on.”

Brock’s face turned serious. His hand came up to push the hair out of my face with a tenderness that stabbed my heart. “Amy, you lost a shit ton of blood. I’ve never seen someone so pale in my life. You looked—” he stopped, almost choking on his words. “You looked…dead. You almost were.” He shook his head as if his was trying to shake away the image. I’d never seen him this rattled.

“I was ready to go all Eric Northman on your ass and feed you my fucking blood if that’s what it took,” he smiled grimly and I returned it, remembering my pestering for him to watch my favorite vampire TV show with me. Before.

“Luckily we were close to this place, a place where we had the right supplies.” His gaze flickered up to the bag again. “If we hadn’t I would’ve sliced open my arm right there, did whatever it took to get you looking rosy like I love.” His gaze softened. “Lucky I’m O negative. Universal donor.”

I sank back in my bed, feeling the wind knocked out of me. This was a lot to process after just waking up. The man who I was sure hated me, the man I was in love with, not only rescued me from what was sure to be a fate worse than death was now literally giving me his blood to survive.

“Abrams?” Brock looked concerned. “You feeling okay?”

“Peachy,” I replied, feeling like my brain had just consumed a quarter pounder heavy on the fries. I was emotionally bloated.

Brock’s gaze turned hard, almost pained. He paused for a second, letting us bathe in the silence before he spoke again.

“We…well, Hansen has been so caught up in getting blood back in you he hasn’t had time to check you over.” He paused again, clenching his fist. His eyes met mine and I almost flinched at the pain in them. “Where else are you hurt?” he asked quietly, sounding devastated.