Her Broken Wings

Chapter 8

So sorry for the update delays!! Three chapters up now :) 

I've been super busy with work lately, and then my state got hit with a heat wave that made writing impossible. I tried to make the next two chapters after this a little longer to compensate. Thanks for your patience.

-Author

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(Updated 06/2026)

Siren's POV

I woke up to a violent pounding behind my eyes, the night sky peaking through my window screens instead of the harsh sun I had expected.

​Riverside. We were finally back.

​Confused and disoriented, I sat up too quickly. The room immediately tilted, and my stomach felt off. I groaned, dropping my head into my hands as the reality of the situation caught up to me. The entire journey had been a grueling, exhausting blur of asphalt, wind, and regret. We had pulled into the driveway by mid-afternoon after a brutal four hour ride from the Baja motel at the crack of dawn this morning, and Tank had shown absolutely no mercy for the fact that my head felt like it was splitting clean in two.

​Hangovers and motorcycle engines do not mix.

​Closing my eyes, I could still feel the agonizingly loud roar of his bike rattling through my skull, a vibration that had settled deep into my bones over those four hours. I remembered the freezing morning wind whipping violently around us as the sun barely peeked over the horizon, and the utterly humiliating way I had been forced to cling tightly to his thick waist just to keep from being thrown off the back.

​By the time we finally made it back to Riverside, I hadn't said a word. I had crawled straight up the stairs to my room, thrown myself onto the mattress fully dressed, and crashed hard.

​Now, waking up after sleeping the afternoon away, and seeing it was nearly 10pm on my alarm clock, the house was swallowed in dark shadows. Everyone was likely at the club or sleeping with the late hour. I didn't mind as I was still trying to piece together the hazy jigsaw puzzle of Baja. Company honestly sounded like the last thing I was trying to deal with while recovering from the trip.

My memories came in jagged, disconnected shards: the neon lights of the open mic stage, the burning, smoky sting of tequila, and a girl named Maeve. But most of all, burning brighter than any of the other memories, I remembered the suffocating heat of Tank's body pressing me against a rough brick wall before he practically carried me away.

​I groaned out loud, dragging both hands over my face in utter disbelief. This is exactly why drinking wasn't the move. I wasn't blacked out by any means, I knew exactly what had happened, which made the entire thing ten times worse. The tequila hadn't wiped my memory; it had just stripped away the cautious, defensive walls I spent every waking hour building. 

It had made me brave. Too brave.

​Dragging myself out of the safety of my sheets, I threw on an oversized sweater and a pair of black leggings. I needed coffee, or water, or an entirely new brain. I padded down the hallway barefoot, keeping my steps completely silent. I was hoping to slip into the kitchen unnoticed, grab a glass of water, and retreat to my dark room like a ghost.

​But luck wasn't on my side tonight. It never was.

​Tank was already there, despite the late hour. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the amber glow of the stove light, casting long, dramatic shadows across his broad shoulders. He was leaning casually against the marble counter, a mug held loosely in his hand, looking completely unaffected by the four hour ride, the border crossing, or the lack of sleep. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric straining against his chest, showcasing the dark, intricate tattoos that crawled up his arms like living shadows.