With no effort at all, I punched the three men in a connecting roundhouse, and tore at the IV in the back of my hand.
Yanking it out, blood spurted over the white sheets and linoleum floor. The stark crimson spread macabre patterns, whispering of murder and revenge as I launched out of bed, battling sickness and vertigo. “Someone better start talking.” I breathed hard. “Now. Right fucking now.”
Mo and Hopper stared transfixed at my bleeding vein. “We should patch you up, dude.”
Waving my hand, splattering the bed with more red droplets, I snarled, “Leave it. It’s not important. I don’t even feel it.” Strangely, that was the truth. There was nothing that could overpower the pain of knowing they’d taken Cleo. That agony was enough to drown me. Over and fucking over again.
I groaned under my breath as scenarios and horror-filled daydreams tormented me.
Please, please, let her be okay!
My eyes flickered to the door. All I wanted to do was leave. To chase after my rotten enemies and give them what they deserved.
Suddenly, nausea raced up my gullet. I stumbled to the side. Crashing against the bed, I gritted my teeth against the swirling room.
The doctor sidestepped, avoiding me as best he could. “If you could sit down, Mr. Killian.”
“Do what he says, Kill. Just behave for once in your damn life,” Grasshopper growled. “Let us explain before you kill yourself, you bloody asshole!”
A wave of brutal heat tackled me to the bed. The nausea turned to sickness. My teeth chattered as the agony in my blood came back full force. Having no choice but to lean against the bed like a fucking invalid, I muttered, “Why the hell aren’t you out there looking for her? She’s your responsibility, too!” The light stabbed my eyeballs as I stared at my trusted friend and vice president.
Grasshopper’s black mohawk hung limp, floppy without gel. His blue eyes ringed with stress lines and bruises. He swallowed hard, refusing to answer my question.
“Well?” I prompted, holding my pounding skull. “What the fuck have you been doing to get her back?”
“Kill, back up.” Mo inched forward, wiping at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand.
Hopper never took his eyes off me. “We had to make sure you would survive. Been for a ride in an ambulance, helped dress your naked ass into a hospital gown, and stood by you while you were given scans and all that other medical bullshit to make sure you didn’t croak.”
Pointing at my bandaged head, he added, “You were out of it. Talking nonsense; wouldn’t wake up. The doctors thought the swelling might affect your speech. What were we supposed to do? Strap you to your bike and drag you with us to kill your own flesh and blood?”
My fists clenched. Blood dripped from my torn vein, splashing faster to the floor.
I couldn’t contemplate that the two brothers I trusted above anyone had let my woman get taken. And then not gone after her the second she was stolen.
It’s not their fault.
She’s yours and you failed her, asshole.
This is all on you.
“Fuck!” I groaned, tearing at the bandage around my head, trying to reach inside and turn off the incessant throbbing. Why was I so weak? I’d failed her again!
The room swam; my eyes worked like a faulty camera lens unable to focus. “You know what she means to me. You know how damn important she is.” Glaring at Grasshopper, I couldn’t bring myself to be grateful for his loyalty or attempts at keeping me alive. I didn’t want to be alive if Cleo was hurt.
I deserved to rot in hell for letting her be taken again.
“We did what—”
I slashed my hand, cutting off his sentence. “No, you did what you wanted to do. Not what I would’ve done. You know damn well I would’ve gone after your woman—regardless if you lived or fucking died.” Punching myself in the chest, I growled, “That’s what I wanted.”
“Kill, what were we supposed to do?” Hopper snapped. “We’d go to war for a girl who would hate us if she knew we did nothing while you bled to death. No point in that fight. No one wins.”
I couldn’t see his logic. It was flawed. Ridiculous. Cleo would understand if I died while my men rescued her. She would expect such a gallant act.
At least she would be safe.
I didn’t want to listen to fucking reason.
I want blood!
I didn’t care that my ass was hanging out the back of this paisley printed apron. I didn’t care that blood dripped from my hand, staining my bare feet and floor. And I definitely didn’t care about the viselike agony in my skull.
All I cared about was Cleo.
The nausea faded and I charged at Hopper. In a jumble of leather and hospital gown, I pinned him against the door, threading my fingers around his throat.
“Mr. Killian, unhand him!” the doctor shouted, swatting the back of my shoulders with the clipboard.
I ignored him like a lion would ignore a flea. He was nothing.