The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 445

Chapter 219-1

Chapter 219-1

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wake up slowly, my head resting on Locke’s bare shoulder, the warm, steady rise and fall of his chest acting as my personal space-heater against the chill air of the room.

For a long moment, I simply lie there in the quiet, letting my fingers rest flat against my lower stomach. As my mind wakes up, the lingering thoughts of the middle of the night return with a heavy, uncompromising weight:

Cain Morgan tied to a steel frame in an oil-stained bay, his body broken by the men he trusted, and Becca fleeing alone into the dark with a baby who bears Knox’s blood.

Locke’s arm tightens slightly around my waist, his heavy forearm warm against my side. His fingers gently brush against my hip, his voice a morning rasp.

“You’re thinking again, baby,” he says softly, his eyes opening slowly, heavy with sleep but entirely focused on me. “Where’s your mind at now?”

I turn my head slightly, looking up into his face, tracing the faint scar running along his jawline with the pad of my finger. I can see the faint shadows under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well either, carrying the weight of the club and my safety on his shoulders every second of the day.

“I need to see Cain,” I say. “And I need to talk to Rook and Byte about Becca.”

Locke searches my face for a long, quiet second. He knows me well enough by now to realize

when my mind is made up.

He doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t tell me it’s too risky or that the hospital isn’t safe. He knows that if I don’t close these open loops, they’ll sit in the back of my head like sharp glass while we try to

navigate the storm ahead.

Instead, he gives me a brief, hard kiss and slides out of bed, his feet hitting the floor without a

sound.

“Give me ten minutes to pull the detail together,” he says, pulling a heavy thermal shirt over his

broad shoulders and grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “We go in, we see Cain, and then we

head straight to the clubhouse.”

“Locke. Thank you.”

“You got it, baby. Now up and at ’em.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re at the hospital.

The intensive care unit on the fourth floor of St. Jude’s smells of harsh antiseptic, bleach, and cold,

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Chapter 219-1

recycled air.

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It’s a world far removed from the leather, exhaust, and heavy noise of the club, yet the violence of

the streets follows us right through the double glass doors. The quiet hushed atmosphere of the

medical wing feels paper-thin, easily shattered by the reality of why we’re here.

Hammer and Bear stand guard at the far end of the quiet hallway, their heavy leather vests clashing starkly against the sterile white walls and framed floral prints.

They give Locke a firm nod, and me a quick smile as we approach, their hands resting loosely near their belts, their eyes scanning every nurse, orderly, and visitor moving down the corridor before

stepping aside to let us pass.

I look over at them, then glance up at Locke, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry down the

quiet hallway.

“Do you really think we need full-patch guards stationed right outside an ICU ward, Locke? It feels like we’re drawing more eyes to this floor than if we just kept it low profile.”

Locke doesn’t even pause his stride, his gray eyes scanning the fire exit door at the end of the hall

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