Eliza had never been at the hospital this often in her life. Sure, she saw the doctor the normal amount over the years, usually for an annual physical and the occasional uncomfortable gynecological exam that she felt she didn’t need, but as she rushed through the hospital doors that morning, knowing Nash was somewhere in the building, wounded, she wished she didn’t have a reason to be there.

 

After Nash had left her with his friend Micky at the bar sometime last night, Eliza was situated up in the office away from the clamor of the rowdy bikers. While Micky wasn’t exactly a frightening figure, he had the good sense to assume she’d be uncomfortable with fifty burly strangers all in various states of drunkenness. While she’d been grateful for the buffer between her and the chaos downstairs, she had wished she could be involved in the decision-making. Not that she had much to contribute or anything, but it felt wrong not having a say in what happened to Nash while he was out there trying to take down a man who’d been framing—and ordered an attack on—her father.

 

When things returned to a dull roar, Micky came up and explained everything that had happened. Almost two hours after Nash left her, his kiss still lingering on her lips, she learned that he’d been pulled over by the cops and loaded with a wire. Apparently the police had their own suspicions about all the murderous activity taking place in Blackwoods over the last few months, and they figured the Steel Phoenixes were their way in to finding a solution.

 

Micky had explained that they had a guy in the club who could hack into the microphone feed so that the Phoenixes could listen to everything that went down between Nash and Phillip Crest before the police did, and if she wanted, she could sit in the room and listen to the proceedings.

 

Eliza had never agreed to anything so fast in her life.

 

And so, she had listened. She’d listened to his heartbeat, his heavy breathing. She’d listened to Nash being taken hostage and being taunted by the man whose birthday and Christmas cards were tucked away in Eliza’s keepsakes box under her bed. She’d listened to Phillip taking the cocaine laced with sedatives, the scuffle that followed, and the intensive gunfire that happened after. Nash’s plea for backup. The ensuing battle. She’d listened to it all with tears in her eyes and her heart pounding in her chest.

 

It went on for hours. Sometimes she had wanted to leave, especially when it all sounded most dire for Nash, but she stayed through it all. Even when her head was heavy with weariness, Eliza sat in the same chair all night and well into the early morning, praying that each minute spent listening to Nash wouldn’t be the final moment.

 

And then it had happened. The shot. The groan of pain. The heavy fall to what she assumed was pavement. The wire lost its feed then, and Micky had to physically hold her back from rushing out the door of the bar to find him.

 

“The boys’ll look after him,” he had assured her. “He was breathing after the hit. I’m sure he’s fine.”

 

And so she waited. She’d fallen asleep for fifteen minutes around dawn, only to awake with a startled inhale, eyes fluttering wildly as if those fifteen minutes had made her forget where she was. Once again Micky made her wait, forcing her to eat some take-out breakfast bagel and slurp down some tea before she went anywhere. The fighting was over, apparently, and by seven in the morning she hailed a cab and went straight to the hospital.

 

It was the same hospital where her father was still recovering. Nash had apparently been dropped off about two hours prior to her arrival, but only now had anyone let Micky know that he was awake and able to see any visitors.

 

She’d rushed through the hospital’s main entryway in a flurry of sleep-deprived panic, totally bypassing the information desk in the process. It wasn’t until she had reached the elevators that she realized she had no idea where she was going, and Eliza turned away when the metal doors hissed open, off to find out exactly which room Nash was staying in. When pressed, Eliza said she was family, though she refused to get any more specific than that.

 

After a bit of searching, the information nurse sent her up to the third floor where Nash was set in a private room with a police officer in front of it. They made eyes as she approached, Eliza a little wary and him a little tense, but when she explained she was his girlfriend, the officer let her pass. With the door open, she forced herself to stop and ask, “Is he under arrest?”

 

The officer’s lips set in a thin line before he said, “Not technically. We’ll just need to ask him a few questions.”

 

She nodded and slipped inside, grateful that he closed the door without her asking. When Eliza spotted Nash on the bed, his arm wrapped in bandages and his face pale as death, tears filled her eyes again. It was a déjà vu moment like none she’d ever experienced before—like finding her father in his office all over again. This wasn’t the Nash she knew. This was a shell of him, even a shell of the man who had vowed to protect her at all costs.

 

Nash inhaled sleepily at the sound of her whimper, and he cracked one eye open.

 

“You look like you could use some sleep,” he croaked, and Eliza flew across the room and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. Nash wrapped one arm around her and patted her back, murmuring soothing sounds. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m… Ow, Christ Eliza, don’t touch my shoulder.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, pulling back and folding her arms across her chest. She probably looked disastrous, but she didn’t care. All the fear, the panic, faded from her body, taking with it the tension in her shoulders and the clench of her jaw, leaving her slack and weak, needing to lean against his hospital bed for support.

 

She suddenly felt quite tired, and the thought of sleep was more and more appealing with each passing moment. But she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even begin to think about herself when Nash was lying there before her, a victim of a gunshot wound. Instead, she reached out and brushed his hair back. The hospital had cleaned him up somewhat, but he needed a very thorough shower to get all the grime off his handsome features.

 

“What happened?” she asked gently. “I… Micky let me listen to the feed of your wire.”

 

“He what?” Nash snapped, sitting up fast enough to make him wince. She gave him a soft admonishment by clearing her throat and readjusting his pillows and blankets. Nash watched her for a moment, the heat of his stare dancing across her face, then muttered, “He shouldn’t have let you. I wouldn’t have… It was carnage over there.”

 

“That wasn’t because of you,” she insisted. Eliza refused to let Nash take any of the blame for what happened. From what she understood, Phillip Crest had started this war by killing members of Nash’s motorcycle club. The vice-dean had framed her father, ordered hits on innocent men, and threatened to kill Eliza if Nash didn’t deliver him an obscene amount of drugs. Then, when Crest was rooted out, he had his men try to kill Nash. No. None of this was Nash’s fault. “All of the fault here is on Phillip Crest. You didn’t ask to be blackmailed. You didn’t ask to get shot at.”

 

“I killed some men last night, Eliza,” Nash said, unable to meet her eye. “They’re dead because of me.”

 

“And… And I bet you’d be dead if you hadn’t done what you did,” Eliza told him, taking him by the chin and turning his head so that he would look at her. He didn’t, of course, his eyes looking through her rather than at her, but maybe that was all she could hope for in a time like this. “Nash… Don’t let this eat you up. I’m just so happy you’re here.”

 

Her gaze shifted to his shoulder, which must have been where he was shot.

 

“Eliza…”

 

“I know I don’t know anything about this,” she insisted with all the strength she could muster. “This is your world, not mine, but from an outsider’s perspective, aside from the, you know, drugs, you aren’t at fault here. Don’t let them warp you into thinking you should carry the responsibility of what happened with you. If you didn’t stop those men, they might have killed you. I understand.”

 

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then seemed to soften just a touch. Reaching out, Nash stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles, then, in a voice softer than any she’d ever heard coming out of his mouth, he murmured, “Thank you.”

 

Eliza nodded and swallowed hard, clasping his hand and pressing it to her cheek. She then looked pointedly at his shoulder and asked once more what had actually happened.

 

“I could only gauge so much from the recording on our end,” she told him. Her stomach knotted at the memory. “And it was pretty easy to assume the worst.”

 

“Through and through,” Nash said with a sigh, then rolled his eyes. “Bastards shot me when my back was turned. Probably aiming for my head. I went down like a lead pipe though.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, her eyes welling with tears again. Eliza did her best to fight them, but it felt very much like fighting a losing battle. “I mean, you’ve barely slept, a-and probably haven’t eaten much, so…”

 

“Oh, Eliza.” Nash pulled her close when she started to cry again, and she melted into his chest, trembling, and did her best not to touch his shoulder. “I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to worry about me this much.”

 

He stroked her back, her hair, her shoulders, and let her weep until there were no more tears to shed. When she was through, Eliza sat up and wiped under her eyes, then her nose, and fixed him with a pointed look.

 

“Of course I have to worry about you,” she said snippily. Nash’s eyebrows shot up, his lips quirking into a grin.

 

“And why’s that?”

 

“Because I’m in love with you, you idiot,” Eliza blurted, then resisted the very tempting urge to slap a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t embarrass herself any further. Nash stared at her, wide-eyed, as heat crawled up her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to say it, but it felt like the logical answer to his question. She loved him. She had loved him for a long time, even if her true feelings were buried beneath all the pain and stress and fear over everything that had happened.

 

Nash let out a heavy sigh, then put his hand on top of hers. “Eliza…”

 

“You don’t have to say it back or anything,” she said quickly, shooting him a brief look before looking back to their joined hands. “There’s no pressure to—”

 

She let out a surprised squeal when he dragged her into a tight hug, the sound muffled as their bodies pressed together. Eliza shook in his arms, pressed hard to his chest and her face buried in his neck. From there, she could hear both of their heartbeats, the steady pounding quickening the longer they held one another.

 

“Me too,” Nash whispered, his lips in her hair. Eliza gripped the front of his hospital gown, those two simple words enough to make her feel like she was flying.

 

“What was that?” she asked, although she already knew what he was trying to say.

 

“Me too,” Nash repeated, this time with more emphasis on each word.

 

“You have to actually say it.” She swallowed hard and fought back her laughter when he sighed again. “I take back what I said about feeling pressured. I hope you do.”

 

“I love you, too,” he said, lacking the humor she was trying to inject into the situation. They pulled back and looked in one another’s eyes, and Nash gave a little smirk. “Idiot.”