The Devil's Ride

Is He Dead?

Rachel’s POV

I stared at him from across the booth. He looked back at me with no emotion on his face, nothing readable in his eyes. He had been pressing me about my father all morning, and I refused to open that door.

“I’m not talking about my father’s car,” I said. “Why the f**k do you need to know anyway? It has nothing to do with what’s going on now.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a split second, I thought he was about to explode. Instead, he lifted a hand to his head and bent forward, his face tightening in pain. The sight of it hit me harder than I expected. Every time I tried to help him, he shoved me away, yet I could not stop worrying. Even with everything between us, I hated seeing him like this. The headaches were constant, and a part of me kept wondering how bad they really were.

Then, without warning, his body went slack.

He collapsed forward against the table.

I froze, unable to move, as Ace rushed over and grabbed him.

“Is he all right?” I asked, my voice barely steady.

“He’ll be okay,” Ace said quickly. “I’m betting he didn’t take his meds.”

He tried to prop Scar up in the booth, calling his name, then splashed cold water on his face. When Scar did not respond after a few attempts, worry crossed Ace’s face. My heart dropped, and my hands started to shake.

Ace lowered Scar to the floor and laid him flat on his back. He tossed me a set of keys.

“Rachel,” he said, focused and urgent. “Go get my car and meet me at the door. You know how to drive, right?”

Everything after that blurred together. By the time we reached the hospital, I was left sitting alone in the waiting room while Ace spoke with the doctors. No one was watching me. I could have walked out and never looked back.

I did not.

The smell of antiseptic and the constant noise of the hospital dragged me back years. I remembered my father lying here after someone broke into our house and shot him. I remembered him dying in this place. I remembered how the police did nothing. How my mother had called Paul almost immediately, laughing and twirling her hair like nothing had happened.

If it had really been a home invasion, why hadn’t anything been stolen?

“Rachel,” Ace said softly. “You okay?”

I rubbed at my eyes and wiped the tears away as he sat down beside me and placed a comforting hand on my back.

“You’re really worried about Scar, aren’t you?” he said. “He’s awake. And he’s asking for you.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said, even though my voice wavered. “But I still want to see him.”

Ace smiled and stood, pulling me gently to my feet. We walked down the hall together, my nerves tightening with every step toward Scar’s room.

“You know,” Ace said casually, “you kind of glow every time we talk about Scar. He really likes you, even if he won’t come right out and say it yet.”

He glanced at me. “Just admit it. You like him too, don’t you?”

I kept my face neutral, but inside my thoughts spun. I kept telling myself I hated him. I repeated it over and over like a shield.

But was I really that obvious?

“No. I don’t like him,” I said.

Ace scoffed softly. “Ah, come on. You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I do,” I said. “He forced me to stay with him, and he wants me to marry him.”

“If that were true,” Ace said, “you wouldn’t be here. You would have found a way to escape from this hospital.”

I hesitated. “All right. I guess I don’t want him to die. I’ve been worried about him since I saw him slam his head against the table at the bar.”

Ace glanced at me. “He’s been asking about you since he woke up, you know. He cares about you a lot. And that motherfucker doesn’t give a s**t about anybody, Rachel, except for you.”

Our pace slowed as we approached Scar’s room. Ace smiled, shoved one hand into his pocket, and nodded toward the door. He leaned back against the wall and pushed it open for me.

“Your man is waiting for you, Spitfire,” he said. “Go in and see him.”

Scar’s POV

I had not been in a hospital since the day I found out about the tumor on my brain. I avoided places like this because I did not want to know how bad my condition really was. White walls, bright lights, the constant beeping of machines. Everything here smelled like disinfectant and quiet fear.

Now I knew anyway.

The news was not good.

It meant I had to move my plans up sooner, before I f*****g croaked. I needed to act fast. I needed control.

I knew Rachel was going to have questions. I could already picture the look in her eyes when she realized something was wrong. But I could not give her answers yet. I was not ready for that. The last thing I saw before I passed out was her face, pale and terrified, hovering over me. That image stayed with me, burned into my mind.

I lay back against the stiff hospital bed, the thin sheets scratching against my skin. The morphine drip worked its way through my body, dulling the ache in my skull and making my limbs feel heavy. The steady beep of the monitor beside me echoed through the room, slow and relentless.

I closed my eyes again.

She filled my thoughts instantly. Rachel. Moving through my mind like she owned the space. Every sharp word. Every defiant look. Every soft sound she made when she thought no one was listening. My chest tightened as I thought about her.

The door to my hospital room opened.

I assumed it was a nurse, so I did not open my eyes. I stayed still, listening to the soft sound of footsteps on the tile floor.

Then I smelled her.

Her perfume cut through the sterile hospital air, warm and familiar. My heart rate spiked instantly. The machine beside me reacted, the beeping growing louder and faster.

My eyes snapped open.

She stood at the foot of my bed, framed by white walls and blinking machines. Her shoulders were tense, her face drawn tight with emotion. Her eyes looked glassy, like she had been crying.

“Rachel,” I said. “Come here.”

She did not hesitate. She walked straight to me, stopping beside the bed. She kept her eyes down, like she was afraid of what she might see if she looked at me too long.

“Show me that beautiful smile, Spitfire,” I said. “Cheer me up.”

She tried. Her lips trembled, but the smile never really formed.

I reached out and took her hand, my grip firm as I pulled her closer. She sat on the edge of the bed, and I wrapped my arm around her, drawing her against my chest. She broke immediately, quiet sobs shaking her body as she pressed her face into me.

The feeling hit me hard. Guilt. Something dangerously close to regret. Emotions I did not allow myself to sit with.

“Talk to me, Rachel,” I said softly, running my hand slowly over her back. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

She lifted her face slightly. “What’s wrong with you, Scar? What happened back at the bar?”

“I fainted,” I said. “That’s all. They’re just keeping me here to monitor me while they run their tests and s**t.

The lie settled heavy in my chest, but I pushed it down. I was not ready to tell her about the tumor. Especially not now.

I shifted carefully and sat up more, pulling her fully into my arms. She relaxed almost instantly, like she had been holding herself together until she felt safe.

“Rachel,” I said. “Look at me.”

She hesitated, probably wiping at her eyes. Then she turned toward me. The look on her face made my stomach twist. Fear. Worry. Heartbreak.

“When can you come home?” she asked.

Home.

The word hit harder than I expected. I tightened my grip on her without thinking.

“They said I should be good to go tomorrow,” I said. “Why? You miss me, Spitfire?”

“Don’t f*****g push it,” she said.

“Kiss me,” I said.

She tilted her head slightly. “How about you kiss me, Scar?”

I did not wait.

I grabbed her jaw and crashed my lips against hers, hunger taking over. Her mouth was warm and soft, familiar in a way that made my chest ache. My tongue slid against hers as I kissed her deeply, needing the connection. Her hand moved up my abdomen, her nails dragging lightly over my skin as she clung to me.

When we finally broke apart, we stayed close, foreheads almost touching, just staring at each other in silence. The hospital room felt distant, like it no longer existed.

I could not wait any longer.

I took her hand in mine, running my thumb slowly over her skin. “We’re getting married tomorrow, Spitfire,” I said. “The second I get released from this f*****g place.”

I expected resistance. Fire. That sharp mouth of hers.

Instead, she said, “Okay.”

My brows pulled together. “Okay what?”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll marry you tomorrow.”

Relief hit me hard. “Good,” I said. “Then I can’t wait.”

She smiled softly and closed her eyes, resting her head against my chest. Her breathing evened out as she settled there, like she belonged.