The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 214

Chapter 110-2

Jade lets out a strangled scream, her hands flying to her mouth as she sees Mayhem’s shirt, soaked entirely in dark blood across his chest and arms. “Mayhem! Oh God, are you-”

Clace

“It’s not mine, babe,” Mayhem grunts, his lungs heaving as he and Dad haul Bishop’s heavy frame down the corridor. “Get the lights up! Get the tables clear!”

We retreat instantly, backing out of the hallway like ghost-scared shadows as the men burst into the living room. The quiet, pristine penthouse is instantly transformed into a bloody, high-stakes emergency room.

“Hammer, grab the floor lamps, angle them over the sofa,” Stitch orders, dropping his medical bag onto the coffee table with a loud, metallic clatter of instruments. He pulls a heavy pair of trauma shears from his vest and cuts straight through the remains of Bishop’s denim, exposing the wound. “Locke, I need the IV kit from the steel case, two bags of saline… move, man!”

Locke doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look like an MC guy now; he moves like a disciplined medical assistant, retrieving what Stitch asked for, preparing a syringe, handing over a scalpel.

Jade and I press our backs against the far wall, frozen together, watching the horror unfold under the bright, artificial glow of the lamps.

The wound on Bishop’s upper leg is horrific. The shotgun blast tore through the outer thigh, leaving a jagged, gaping hole where skin and muscle used to be. The tourniquet is the only reason that Bishop didn’t bleed to death on the highway, but the dark, sluggish pooling of blood around the tear shows he’s slipping fast.

“He’s in hemorrhagic shock,” Stitch grunts, jamming a rubber tourniquet around Bishop’s forearm and slapping the vein. “BP is bottoming out. Locke, give me that line.”

Locke snaps the sterile packaging open, handing the IV line to Stitch before spiking a bag of saline and hanging it from the light fixture above the sofa. His movements are sharp, fast, and completely devoid of panic, but I can see the tight, rigid tension in his shoulders, the muscle ticking wildly in his jaw.

Bishop groans, a low, terrifying sound that vibrates out of his chest as Stitch jams the needle into his vein and tapes it down.

“Pushing ketamine,” Stitch says, reaching into his kit and pulling out a small glass vial. “He’s going under in ten seconds. Hammer, hold his shoulders down in case he spasms.”

Hammer slams his massive hands over Bishop’s chest, pinning him to the cushions. Bishop twitches violently once, a sharp gasping breath rattling in his throat, and then his eyes drift shut completely, his head loll-flopping to the side as the powerful anesthetic takes control of his brain.

“He’s under,” Stitch breathes, wiping a sleeve over his sweaty forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his skin. “Bleeding is contained by the tourniquet, but I’ve got to dig out the lead shot and tie off the femoral branch before the tissue dies. I need clean towels, all of them. And hot water.”

“I’ve got it,” Dad says instantly, sprinting toward the kitchen.

I want to follow him, to help, but my feet are nailed to the floor. I’m frozen in place, just staring at Bishop.

1/21

Mayhem stands back, stripping off his cut. He drops the blood-soaked leather onto the floor with a heavy Thad, his chest heaving as he stares down at his hands, covered in his brother’s blood.

Jade breaks.

She leaves the wall, crossing the room in three rapid strides, and hurls herself directly against Mayhem’s

chest.

Mayhem catches her automatically, his massive arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her up off her feet. Jade wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, unmindful of the blood staining her sweatshirt, holding him like he might dissolve if she lets go.

And then, Locke looks around.

The cold, icy detachment he wore while helping Stitch fades in a single second, leaving behind a raw, exhausted relief that makes my breath catch in my throat.

He steps around the coffee table, his heavy boots leaving faint red prints on the rug, and walks straight toward me.

I don’t wait for him to reach me. I close the distance, throwing my arms around his neck, burying my face into the hard curve where his shoulder meets his throat.

Locke’s arms lock around my waist like iron bands, lifting me slightly off my feet, pulling me so flush against his broad chest that I can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart right through my own ribs. He smells of ash, copper, sleet, and his own sharp heat, and I breathe him in like oxygen after drowning.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, my voice cracking, my hands clutching the torn fabric of his shirt. “You’re really okay.”

“I’ve got you,” Locke murmurs into my hair, his low, rough voice vibrating right through my skull. His massive hand comes up to cup the back of my head, holding me tight, pressing me into him until there isn’t a single inch of air between us. “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here.”

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