Page 2 of Bronx
At some point later, Bronx drifted back into consciousness, the darkness of the clinic pressing down on him like a weighted blanket. The only noise that filled the room was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat. His body hummed with a dull, throbbing pain, but it was no longer unbearable—the painkillers Greg had given him coated everything in a white haze, though he could feel the agony lurking just outside his peripheral vision, waiting for its chance to invade again.
How long have I been unconscious?
As Bronx struggled to open his heavy eyelids, he caught the faint scent of jasmine and vanilla wafting through the air, making him feel as if he was floating in a tranquil oasis. A figure moved gracefully around his bed, her steps light and nearly silent. She was a vision, her long, silky dark hair cascading down past her shoulders as she busied herself with something near his bedside table. The dim glow from the hallway outlined her body, casting a halo around her ethereal form.
“Amazing,” Bronx whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, even though she was little more than a shadow in the darkness. Regardless, there was something about her that inflamed his senses.
The woman paused, seemingly noticing his gaze for the first time. She turned to look at him, her eyes shimmering in the dim light. “You’re awake,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Bronx admitted gruffly, attempting a weak smile. “But you… You make it better.”
She hesitated for a moment, then moved closer to his bed, her presence soothing some of the lingering pain in his battered body. “I’m glad I can help, even if it’s just a little.”
“Who are you?” Bronx asked, his curiosity piqued by this mysterious figure who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“Someone who cares about you,” she said, her voice gentle. “Now try to get some more rest. You need it.”
Bronx wanted to ask more questions, to learn everything he could about this beautiful woman. But as he lay there, staring into her captivating eyes, the all-encompassing darkness began to claim him once again, pulling him down into its depths.
“Stay with me?” Bronx murmured, his words quiet as sleep threatened to overtake him.
“Of course,” she whispered.
A thought danced through his mind: if it had taken this horrible pain to bring this incredible woman into his life, he would suffer it gladly.
As sleep claimed him again, the last coherent thought that crossed Bronx’s mind was that perhaps this beautiful woman was an angel sent to guide him through the darkness of his pain. With that comforting notion, he surrendered to the gentle current of unconsciousness, embracing the hope that she would still be there when he awoke.
Bronx stirred, his consciousness slowly returning to him like a boat drifting back to shore.
“Where is she?” he mumbled under his breath as he scanned the room. The memory of her soft touch, her warm presence, and her soothing voice filled his mind, but there was no sign of her now.
“Must’ve been a dream,” he whispered, his heart sinking at the realization. He could almost see her in the shadows, her ethereal beauty haunting the corners of his mind. “No woman could be that perfect.”
As he lay there, Bronx allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, letting the sadness wash over him like a wave breaking against the shore. He had wanted her to be real so badly.
“Damn my weakness,” he muttered, balling his uninjured hand into a fist. He couldn’t afford to let himself get caught up in fantasies.
Who needs angels, anyway?he thought bitterly. They’re just figments of our imagination, created to give us hope when we’re lost.
I don’t need hope—I need strength.
Closing his eyes, Bronx attempted to banish the image of the mysterious woman from his thoughts. But just as he succeeded in locking away the memories behind an iron door, the faintest hint of her scent drifted through the room, teasing him with the possibility that she might have been real after all.
No. I can’t afford to be distracted by dreams or ghosts of my own mind.
Determined to regain control, Bronx forced his attention to the task ahead—healing and returning to his duties.
“Strength,” he repeated aloud, clenching his jaw. “That’s what I need.”
And so, with a renewed sense of purpose, Bronx turned his attention inward, focusing on his body’s natural ability to heal and recover.
He would prove to himself that he didn’t need an angel—real or imagined—to guide him through the darkness.
He was strong enough to do it on his own.
Chapter 1
TWO MONTHS LATER—ALMOSTsix weeks after he’d been released from the hospital after battling and defeating the nearby Idaho Pack—a storm of anticipation roiled through Bronx’s chest as he stood at the edge of Yellowstone Park, inhaling deeply. The scent of pine needles and damp earth filled his nostrils, awakening a primal urge in him to shift, giving in to his inner wolf’s desire to run wild.