Making the Cut (Sons of Templar MC #1)(3)

“Gwen, are you ok? I’m coming in!” I heard a voice yell through the door.

Ian burst in, looking worried. His eyes softened seeing me slumped against the sink. He gently pulled me into his arms.

“I was so stupid Ian, I was so stupid.” I repeated sobbing into his chest.

“This was not your fault Ace, this was some sick bastards who are f*cked in the head, none of this is your fault.” He framed my head with his hands, eyes glistening with moisture.

I had never seen my brother cry. Him and my Dad are the strong ones, Mum and I cried at anything. We sob at sad news stories and those television ads about animal cruelty. Dad and Ian had spent their whole lives surrounded by our ‘delicate female sensibilities’. Although that phrase was only uttered once, and thanks to the reaction it got, was never said again. That’s why I wasn’t letting them find out about this, it would destroy Mum, and if Ian reacted like this, I couldn’t handle my parents going through it too. My bad decisions that put me here, I somehow had to find the strength to get through this without them.

“Ian, I’m okay” I tried to reassure him.

“No sweetie, you aren’t, but you will be.” My brother stated, scooping me up and walking us to my bed.

“Ian you can’t tell Mum and Dad I’m serious, please.” I begged.

“Of course I have to tell them Ace.” He told me sternly. “It would kill them if you went through this without them”.

“No Ian it will kill them to see me like this, look at me.” I gestured at my face and Ian flinched, his face hard.

“I am looking at you Gwen, have been for the past week and a half. The image of you in this hospital bed, it’s burned into my brain. I won’t forget it, not until the day I die.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, I chided myself, I couldn’t be that emotional girl anymore, and I had to be strong.

“Don’t you get it?” I whispered brokenly. “I can never take that away from you, I wish so badly I could, but I can’t. I can at least save Mum and Dad from having this.” I gestured to myself again, albeit awkwardly with my bulky cast, “Imprinted into their memories as well.”

Ian’s face softened and he reached down and touched my cheek.

“Ace, how is it that you manage to worry so much about everyone else while you’re the one that’s been through hell?” He asked.

“Just lucky I guess.” I joked weakly.

“Gwen, this is not your fault. I can’t f*cking believe you are finding some twisted f*cking way to blame yourself!!” His voice vibrated with anger.

We were interrupted by the arrival of doctors and nurses, who do all my checkups, ask me lots of questions about where I live, what year it is, and who the president is. Luckily I got it all right, but I was more likely to remember who the president of Dior was.



A no nonsense doctor named Bruce informed me that I had a broken wrist (no shit Sherlock), a fractured skull, (the reason for my week and half long coma) four broken ribs, stitches on a cut on my cheek, and ‘superficial’ bruising covering most of my body. As well as suffering from internal bleeding which I almost died from. I had gingerly looked at my tender stomach, the bandage covering what would turn into a surgical scar. Ian was shaking with anger while the doctor told me this. Seeing my staunch brother so close to falling apart hurt more than the bruises on the outside. After the doctor left Ian sat on a chair with his head in his hands, silent for a long time before he looked at me, his face a mask.

“Gwen, the doctor said you weren’t, but I have to hear it from you. Did he…” He stopped, “Did he…” Ian choked on the words.

“Rape me?” I finished for him.

Ian flinched, then nodded sharply.

“No he didn’t, he came pretty close but the cops got there just in time.” I told him carefully eyes on my brothers clenched fists.

“Ian…” I started, trying to think of a way to calm him down.

He pushed out of the chair so hard it cluttered to the ground noisily, he turned the wall throwing his fist at it, stopping before his hand made contact. I’d never seen my brother so angry, after being in the army for almost 12 years he had iron clad control over his temper, no matter how much anyone tried to rattle him, and right now it seemed like he was going to turn green and burst out of his clothes.



My brother and I were really close, always have been. Being five years older than me, Ian was my protector and best friend since the moment I was born. He walked me to school on my very first day, taught me how to ride my bike and the day he left for the army when I was 13 was one of the saddest days of my life. We grew up in New Zealand, in a small town in nestled away from the realities of the real world, somewhere we felt safe and happy. Sure it was sheltered and the closest thing we had to couture was camouflage, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. We an amazing childhood, loving parents, never wanted for anything and grew up in a beautiful country where we rode our bikes everywhere. Even when Ian grew into a teenager, with multiple girlfriends and unnatural talent for all sport, he never forgot me, never acted to ‘cool for me’. For a ten-year-old girl who looks up to her brother, that’s pretty damn special. A couple of years after Ian left, I started to get a bit wild. Mum and Dad didn’t know what to do with me, I drank a lot, got bad marks at school. Threw some pretty wild (legendary) parties, and smoked a bit of weed. Nothing too out of the ordinary for kids my age but not what my parents expected of me. One night after a party, I stumbled drunk into my house with my boyfriend when my parents were away.