Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(35)

As carefully as he could, he slipped his arm underneath his brother’s thighs, and as Deuce lifted the top half of Hawk’s body, Ripper lifted his legs.

“Is he breathin’?” Ripper asked, panting.

“Shallow,” Mick said, “but he’s breathin’.”





Chapter Eleven


They say what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Well, he didn’t know about all that. But it sure as shit changes everything.

— James “Hawk” Young Pain was a relative thing.

There were good types of pain: The burning strain on your muscles when you piled on another set of weights and lifted those bad boys into the air; the feel of a tattoo machine, those tiny needles dipping into your skin over and over again, soaking it through with beautiful ink; or that crushing ache in your chest when you thought you’d never have a family again, but then a little redheaded baby boy was placed in your arms and he looked up at you with those big, wondering eyes and he was all yours, your family.

That was the kind of pain Hawk could get down with.

Then there was the other sort. The pain caused by some backroom doctor picking bone shards out of his leg, and then stitching him back up without medicating him first. The pain from an angry fist hitting his face, or a pair of booted feet sent repeatedly into his rib cage. Or the worst pain of all, seeing the laughing face of a man you once called brother, as he inflicted all that damage.

Hawk didn’t remember much after ZZ had beat him senseless, no doubt retribution for Hawk having gotten him shot. Although the man had been cradling his left arm, he’d seemed just fine in comparison to how Hawk had felt.

What he did remember was the needles. Someone would come every few hours to inject something into his arm that dulled the pain, but also rendered him useless to do little more than lie there and stare at the dark, dank surroundings of whatever basement room he was being kept in. He fluttered in and out of consciousness, and each time he began to recover from the drugs, he was shot up with more.

Throughout it all there were times that he could distinguish voices, most of them speaking in Russian, sounding fuzzy and far away. But through it all, he’d frequently heard Deuce’s name and he’d clung to that. While he shivered and shook, both hungry and thirsty, and repeatedly pissing and shitting himself, he’d clung to the thought of Deuce, of his club, and of the lone sliver of pride he still had left: the fact that it wasn’t only him who’d dragged the Horsemen into this mess, but ZZ as well.

And then self-pity had begun to set in and he found himself going over and over again all the things he’d done wrong, all the damn mistakes he’d made. Once upon a time, he hadn’t believed in mistakes; it either was or it just wasn’t. He knew that wasn’t true now, that one lone decision could change everything, and he’d made a lot of bad choices over the years. Too many to count. He’d been lonely and greedy and therefore selfish, he’d been desperate and therefore vengeful, and he’d been rejected and therefore indifferent. And worst of all, he’d been out of his mind with regret and therefore complacent.

All. Fucking. Wrong.

You didn’t fix one mistake with another; he knew that now.

But the one person who needed to know that, to know how sorry he was for the many mistakes he’d made, was miles away, and he was beginning to think there was little chance of him ever having the opportunity to tell her.

And just when Hawk started to think he was going to die, starve to death, or overdose on whatever drug they weren’t allowing to leave his system, he heard Deuce. Not his name, but the man himself.

He heard Ripper.

He heard Dirty.

He heard Mick.

At first he couldn’t make out what was being said, but he recognized every one of their distinctive voices. And that was when he realized he wasn’t in that room any longer, freezing his ass off and covered in his own shit.

Beyond the familiar voices surrounding him, he could both hear and feel the rumble of an engine, the faraway grainy sound of music, all blessedly beautiful sounds telling him he was inside a vehicle surrounded by men who weren’t going to hurt him.

And for the first time in his life, he understood the meaning of home again. It wasn’t where you grew up; it wasn’t who you’d once been.

It was the people you surrounded yourself with.

“He’s been beaten and drugged,” he heard Deuce say. “Fuckin’ needle marks in his arm.”

“Leg’s broken too,” Mick said. “Shot straight through the tibia.”

“Speak English, motherf*cker, not Swahili!”

Hearing Ripper so agitated, Hawk smiled. Or at least, he tried to smile. He couldn’t do much of anything at the moment aside from lie there like a f*cking useless lump.

“I am speakin’ English, you dumbass shit. Ain’t my fault you never finished high school.”

“Both of you idiots, shut up. Ripper, call the club, tell Cage we’re gonna need a doctor.”

“On it, Prez,” Ripper muttered.

“And,” Deuce added, “we’re not takin’ him to the club. Tell Cage his guest room is about to be occupied.”

“Tegen will love that.”

“Tegen knows her f*ckin’ place.”

“That bitch knows her place ’bout as well as Ripper knows what the f*ck a tibia is.”