Chapter 1 Chapter 1

The smell of bleach never quite killed the scent of blood.

At 2:14am, the basement medical bay of the Devil’s Vipers clubhouse smells like both, mixed with the faint smell of gasoline.

“Hold still, Tommy, or I’m going to make this hurt on purpose,” I said, my voice deadpan as I pulled the needle through his split skin.

Tommy, a nineteen year old kid who thought joining a motorcycle club means easy women and cool leather, whimpered. His knuckles were raw, his eyes wide as he stared at the concrete wall. “It’s burning, Doc.”

"It’s iodine. Stop whining. You’re lucky the guy at the bar had bad aim with that broken bottle, or I’d be reattaching your tendon."

I didn’t look up as I worked. My hands were completely desensitized to the gore. Ten years will do that to you.

When I was fifteen, I was brought down to this exact basement, shivering, terrified and sobbing over my father’s corpse after he overdosed on debt he owed to the club. 

The President gave me a choice, starve on the streets, or make myself useful. I chose the needle and the thread. I taught myself how to patch up bullet wounds, set shattered bones and dig shrapnel out of thighs before I even learned how to drive a car.

Now, at twenty five, I am the Vipers’ dirty little secret, the prodigy medic who keeps their body count low and their hospital visits at zero.

I knotted the thread, snipped it with surgical scissors and wiped down Tommy’s arm with a gauze pad. I catch my reflection in the stainless steel instrument tray on the counter. The skinny terrified orphan girl is long gone. In her place is a woman with dark sharp eyes, raven hair pulled back into a tight braid and a mouth that knows better than to show fear.

The heavy metal door at the end of the hall bangs against the concrete frame with a loud thud.

I looked up, setting my scissors aside with a soft clink. 

Jax appeared in the doorway.

He’s 6’3 with broad muscles and a tattooed skull on the side of his neck. His black hair is slightly damp with what looks like sweat.

He’s twenty eight, heir to the Devil’s Vipers throne and the bane of my existence.

“Need you,” he said, his voice a low growl. His eyes on me. “Now.”

I don't ask questions. Not with Jax. Not ever. I just grab my medical bag from the counter, the leather worn smooth in all the right places after years of being gripped in blood soaked hands. "Tommy, you're done. Don't get into any more fights before your payment on that bike is due."

Jax doesn't move for the kid. His gaze pins hin where he was standing. "You couldn’t find anyone else to handle that?" He asked, glaring at the young lad.

"I—" Tommy started to stammer.

"Get out, prospect," Jax growled.

Tommy doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles off the exam table, grabbing his jacket and practically bolts past Jax into the dark corridor, closing the door behind him.

"You're scaring the children, Jax," I say coolly, snapping off my dirty rubber gloves and tossing them into the bin. I pull on a fresh pair. "What did you break this time?"

Jax staggered slightly as he approached the exam table, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Up close, I can see the soot smudged across his cheekbones and the rage burning in his storm gray eyes.

"Shut up, Elena," He muttered, wincing as he carefully lowered himself onto the edge of the metal table. "Just patch it."

"Such a gentleman. It's a wonder you haven't been elected President already." I step into his space, grabbing a pair of medical shears from the tray. "Shirt off."

Jax glares at me, but he reaches for the hem of his thermal. As he pulls it over his head, a sharp intake of breath escapes his teeth.

I sucked in a breath of my own. Asides the familiar warmth I usually felt standing this up close with him while he was shirtless, I was met with an image of the several scars I stitched myself over the last decade.

But right now, my focus lands on the angry puckered wound on his right side. The skin around it is red and swollen and the tear looked nasty surrounded by blistered skin.

Jax catches me assessing him. A familiar cruel smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remain icy.

"Still looking at me like you’re fifteen and pathetic, Elena?" he sneers softly, leaning forward just enough to invade my personal bubble. "Gazing at the big bad biker like he’s your hero?"

My face burned in embarrassment. When I was fifteen and high on fever and exhaustion, I had stupidly admitted to him that I had a crush on him. He has never let me forget it. He’s used it as a weapon, as a way to keep me beneath his boot for years now.

Of course, he’d bring it up now.

My gaze drops to the wound, avoiding his eyes. "If you want me to fix this without infection setting in, I suggest you shut your mouth and stop moving."

"Or maybe you’re the one who can't stop staring."

I didn’t back away. Instead I stepped closer, grabbing a bottle of medical grade alcohol and pouring a normal amount directly onto a gauze pad.

"I was fifteen and stupid back then, Jax," I whispered, leaning into his face until our noses were inches apart. "Now I just see another stubborn idiot bleeding on my clean floor."

Before he can react, I press the alcohol soaked pad directly into his open burned wound.

Jax stiffened, a harsh hiss tearing from his throat. The muscles in his abs clenched hard, his hands gripping the edges of the stainless steel table so violently.

"You little bitch," He ground out through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing with anger.

"It's called cleaning the wound," I say sweetly, dabbing away the excess blood. But as I looked closer at the burns around the puncture, my smile faded. The tissue isn't just torn, it’s burned in patches. "This isn't from a standard 9mm or a knife, Jax. These are incendiary marks. Military grade."

Jax’s jaw tightened further. "The warehouse run was a setup. The Iron Scorpions knew we were coming. Someone leaked the route."

My blood turned to ice. The Iron Scorpions don't play by MC rules; they're backed by cartel money and heavy artillery. "Jax, if they have incendiary rounds—"

BANG.

An explosion rocked the entire clubhouse. The lights flickered violently above us before plunging the basement into absolute darkness. Shouts erupted from upstairs, followed by the sound of gunshots.

Jax swore, ignoring the gaping hole in his side as he ripped the gun from the holster at the small of his back with his good hand. 

The handle of the basement door begins to rattle violently. Someone is trying to force it open from the outside.

I reach for the scalpel on my tray, my heart hammering against my ribs but before I can even raise it, Jax’s arm hooked around my waist.

With terrifying strength, he yanked me backward, slamming my back against his bare bloodied chest. He pinned me securely behind him in the corner of the bay, pulling his gun up and leveling it at the rattling door.

Jax leaned his head down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath was scorching hot against my skin as his thumb flicked the safety off his weapon.

"You stay behind me, little doctor," He growled into my ear, his tone dropping into something dark and possessive. "You're not dying in my basement tonight."