The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 216

Chapter 111-2

Clam

You need a shower, say softly into his skin, feeling the gritty layer of road dust and dried sweat clinging o his shirt. “Maybe two.”

In a minute,” Locke replies, his arms wrapping around my back, holding me so tightly I can barely draw a ull, deep breath. “Right now, I just need this.”

don’t care that he’s cutting off my air in his iron grip. I need the pressure, I need the constant, heavy proof hat he’s whole, that he’s back, and that the dark stretch of woods on Old County Road didn’t claim him.

For the next hour, the penthouse falls into a slow, subdued rhythm of survival. Stitch finishes applying the heavy white bandages to Bishop’s leg, securing the IV drip to a floor lamp post to keep the saline flowing nto his vein.

Hammer finishes scrubbing the white marble in the hall, sealing the bloodied rags and debris into a heavy biohazard bag to be burned down at the warehouse later.

The sharp, metallic smell of copper and tear gas slowly dissipates under the steady hum of the penthouse air filtration system, replaced once again by the faint, comforting scent of coffee, leather, and soap.

On the sofa, Bishop stirs, letting out a low, raspy groan as the heavy anesthetic begins to wear down. Stitch instantly steps over, checking his pupils with a small penlight and pressing a glass of fresh water to his pale, cracked lips.

‘Easy, brother,” Stitch says gently, steadying Bishop’s head. “You’re back at the penthouse. The shot was clean. You’re fine.”

Bishop blinks heavily, looking around the room with blurred, unfocused eyes before his gaze lands on Locke and Mayhem. “The truck?” he croaks out, his voice barely a rough whisper.

‘In the barn,” Locke answers from the armchair, his tone steady. “The decoy is rolling toward the border. Knox has no idea where to look, and his guards are sitting in a ditch coughing on gas.”

A faint, ghostly smirk touches Bishop’s cracked lips before he closes his eyes again, letting the pain medication and blood loss pull him back down into a deep, healing sleep.

Hammer sets the empty bleach bucket by the utility closet and walks back into the malh room, rolling his shoulders to work out the tight knots in his neck. He reaches for his leather cut hanging over the back of a barstool, slipping it back on with a quiet sigh, and he catches Dad’s eye.

“Me and Hammer are heading down to the garage to check on the prospects,” Dad says, looking over at Locke. “Make sure they’re okay. It’s their first serious op for the club.”

“Take Byte with you,” Locke says, nodding toward the kid. “Have him hack in and wipe the local camera logs from the port to Old County Road just in case the state police start pulling traffic footage.”

“On it,” Byte says, grabbing his tablet off the table. He looks noticeably better now, the color creeping back into his cheeks as the immediate danger fades into routine work.

With Dad, Hammer and Byte heading down the private elevator, the wide expanse of the penthouse grows noticeably quieter. Stitch pulls a blanket over Bishop, checking the drip rate on the saline bag one last time

1/3

Chapter

before lying down on the other end of the long sofa to rest his eyes.

Clains

Mayhem lifts Jade off the barstool, carrying her over to the far guest room down the hall without a word. She rests her head against his neck, exhausted, her eyes already half-closed as he shuts the door behind them to finally give them some real rest.

Left alone in the quiet, soft glow of the living room lamps, Locke shifts his weight in the chair, leaning back against the plush leather. His grip around my waist relaxes just enough for me to sit up and look down at his face.

The dark stubble along his jaw is dusted with fine drywall dust, and the dark shadow under his eyes speaks to forty-eight straight hours of running on pure adrenaline and grit.

I reach out, taking his large, calloused hand in mine. My fingers trace the dark, ink-stained knuckles, feeling the rough skin and small, fresh scratches from the night’s chaos.

“You did it,” I whisper softly, my voice carrying through the quiet room. “You got the shipment, you pulled everyone out alive, and Knox doesn’t even know who hit him.”

Locke looks up at me, his eyes holding mine with a heavy, quiet intensity that makes the rest of the world vanish.

“We did it,” Locke corrects gently, his thumb rubbing over the back of my hand. “You kept Jade grounded, you held the home front together, and you gave me something to come back to.”

A soft, genuine warmth blooms in my chest, chasing away the last bitter cold of the two-hour wait. I lean down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of his jaw, right over the dark bruise, feeling the sharp intake of his breath against my skin.

“Come on,” I murmur, tugging softly on his shirt collar. “Stitch has Bishop covered. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Locke stands without a word, pulling me against his ribs so tight I can barely breathe, carrying half his weight and all of his tension down the dark hall to his room.

The moment the door shuts, he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his heavy arms wrapping around me like a vise, his thumb tracing frantic, soothing circles through my sweater.

“Told you,” he rasps, his voice a broken rumble against my skin. “Precision brings me home to you.”

“You’re a man of your word,” I say, running my hands in his messy hair, holding onto him with everything I’ve got left. “Which means you owe me one more.”

“Name it, baby.”

“Don’t ever leave me in the dark like that again. Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

Locke shifts, his thumb catching my chin, tilting my face up until there’s nowhere left for either of us to hide.

“Never again,” he says. “And that’s not a deal, Zara. It’s a promise.”

“Yeah?”