“Yes, of course I can do that for you. What’s her name?”
“Seychelle Dubois.”
She stood up. “Give me a minute.”
“If they’ve kept her, can you get her room number?” Shit. He hated to ask that. “Should probably thank her.”
Blythe studied him again and then slowly nodded. “I agree. She’s definitely owed at least that much. I’m extremely grateful that you’re still with us.”
Savage wasn’t certain why. He had the opposite point of view to Blythe’s every time. She never seemed to take offense, and she didn’t start yelling to make her point. He appreciated that trait in her. She’d gotten under his skin. It was the children. She genuinely loved them. The club had rescued Darby and Zoe from human traffickers. They’d had no family other than Emily. Blythe had lied her ass off, bringing forged papers with her to claim the children. Darby had backed up her claim, and Czar and Blythe eventually adopted the three girls.
The club had found Kenny in the basement of a mansion in Occidental. Needless to say, the teen had nowhere to go. No one knew what to do with him, so they’d brought him home to Blythe. She had taken him in, and the adoption was in process. They’d be signing the papers to make the boy theirs in a couple of weeks. Kenny was pretending it didn’t matter, but everyone knew he was happy.
The latest family member, a six-year-old boy named Jimmy, they’d stumbled across on the internet. There was an auction for him, and they’d ended up in Vegas to free him. He had no family, so naturally, Blythe and Czar took him in. He hadn’t been with the couple long, but Savage knew it was only a matter of time before he came around. He seemed to like the survival classes Torpedo Ink gave to the children every other week. That was Blythe, taking the children in and then allowing them to do whatever it took to find their way to sanity.
Even Savage could see that Blythe was special. Every single member of the club would give their life for her. She was that kind of woman—the kind for pedestals. He hadn’t believed a woman like her existed, although Czar had told them she was the best. Now they all knew it and guarded her like the treasure she was.
He stayed close to the door, looking the way he always did: calm, expressionless, menacing. He didn’t move a muscle, going still so that he seemed to fade into whatever background he stood in front of. Shadows were what he was most familiar and comfortable with. He didn’t feel calm inside, and that was something he wasn’t familiar with.
He didn’t like anything that he couldn’t explain. Whatever the weird reaction he had to Seychelle—and God help him if he was that big of a monster that his body reacted because she was hurt or crying—he had to see her. He shut down that way of thinking.
He knew he needed violence. The rage would begin to build in his gut first, churning there like some terrible storm he couldn’t control. It would spread through his body like a cancer, and when it finally hit his brain, he would go to San Francisco and participate in the underground fight clubs there. His brothers went with him to pull him off his opponents before he killed them. He needed violence. He needed to feel his fists hitting flesh. He needed the blood . . .
“Savage, she’s got a concussion and there’s some damage to her leg. She didn’t call anyone, nor did she put down anyone as an emergency number. She was just admitted. This is her room number.” Blythe pushed a folded piece of paper into his hand.
He closed his fist around it. “Thanks, Blythe. I appreciate it.”
“Please tell her thank you from me as well. If you think she needs anything, let me know. I don’t like to think she’s alone in the world and needs help after saving one of ours.”
He hesitated, but he wasn’t the type of man to hug or kiss. He didn’t like to be touched. Reaper, his birth brother, was the same way.
Savage stuffed the paper into his jeans pocket and gave a casual shrug. “Not certain when I’ll have the chance to follow up, but I’m going to try.”
That performance should win him a fuckin’ Oscar. Not because Blythe believed him, but because he was trying to believe it. He told himself it was the truth and he wasn’t going anywhere near Seychelle Dubois—that if he did go, it would be to thank her. Or just check on her like any decent man would. He knew he was lying to himself and Blythe.
He turned abruptly and stalked out, heading for his bike, the only real thing in his world. His club. The bike. They were wrapped up together, and ever since Reaper had found Anya, and Savage knew he was happy, he had been slowly separating himself from his brothers. He took more and more trips alone. He spent time away from the others. He talked less and less. There wasn’t a place for a man like him in the new world Czar was creating for the club. There wasn’t a place in the world for him, period.
He wasn’t a man to pretend. His brothers were fucked up. Hell. Alena and Lana, his sisters, were fucked up. Reaper was a mess. But not one of them was a monster. They might think they were. They were dangerous, and they didn’t hesitate to kill, but they weren’t like he was.
There was no cure for a man like him. He knew because he’d looked that shit up. A person could find that information on the internet, and he’d logged over a hundred hours looking. He wasn’t the only one. Absinthe, the brainiac of their club, and his wife, Scarlet, put in even more hours referencing journals in order to try to find a way to make him different. That hadn’t happened, and he’d finally accepted the fact that he was what he was. He had a code he lived by, and he kept to it. That had to be good enough.
He took his time heading to Caspar. He even looked at the sign as he went on past. Shit. There was no hope for him whatsoever. He kept going though. Even knowing he was acting like a moron, he kept going. He drove straight to the hospital and parked his bike, sliding off to stand in front of the doors for a few minutes, pretending to himself that he was debating about whether or not to go in.
He wished he smoked so he could stand outside longer, but he hunted men, and it was easy enough to find them if they smoked. The scent carried, and sooner or later, anyone addicted to cigarettes or weed had to light up. The moment they did, he had them. Easy enough to slide up behind them and slit their throat—or arrange an accident—and he was stalling. He knew he was going in, so he just had to get it over with.
He stalked inside, putting on his most intimidating face. It wasn’t hard to do. He pretty much just had to look at anyone and they pissed their pants. He went straight up to the desk, pulled out the paper Blythe had given him and told the woman sitting at the desk the room number.
The woman was older, and it said right on her little power badge that she was a volunteer. She didn’t like him. She pursed her lips. “I can’t just let you into the hospital.”
“Actually, you can. Seychelle is my fiancée.” He was pretty damn certain, since Seychelle hadn’t given anyone’s name as an emergency contact, he was safe. “I want to see her now. Visiting hours aren’t over, so point me in the right fuckin’ direction.”