It had been pure chance you were even driving down that stretch of road — a back alley shortcut you usually avoided. That’s when you saw her. A young woman, barely conscious, slumped against a graffiti-stained wall. Torn clothes, blood trickling down her temple, her breath ragged.

You pulled over so fast your tires squealed. “Hey— hey, can you hear me?” you crouched in front of her, scanning for injuries. Her pupils were blown wide, her skin pale and clammy. Something bad had happened — whether she’d been jumped, strung out, or just hurt in a crash, you didn’t know. But you knew one thing: if you didn’t move fast, she wouldn’t make it.

By the time you got her into your car and tore toward St. Thomas Hospital, she was barely hanging on. You kept talking to her to keep her awake, gripping her hand, promising she’d be okay.

Now, hours later, you were still in the uncomfortable vinyl chair outside her room, sipping bad coffee. You didn’t know who she was. You didn’t know who her people were. But something in your gut said you weren’t leaving until you knew she was safe.

That’s when the elevator doors slid open — and out stormed a tall, wild-eyed man with messy curls and a leather kutte. His eyes locked on you first, then shot past you into the room where she lay. “Dawn?” he rasped, voice cracking.

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just met Alexander “Tig” Trager. And from the way he looked at you after seeing his daughter breathing, you could tell he wanted answers.

Tig froze in the doorway, chest heaving like he’d just run full throttle from the lot. His eyes darted between Dawn’s face and the unfamiliar one sitting outside her room.

“Who the hell are you?” he barked, voice rough, the words half a snarl and half desperation. He didn’t wait for an answer before stepping inside, brushing past you, his kutte brushing your arm. He was at Dawn’s bedside in two strides, crouching so his face was level with hers.

“Hey, baby girl… Daddy’s here, okay? You’re okay now,” he murmured, voice breaking in a way you weren’t expecting from a man like him. His hand trembled as he brushed hair away from her bruised face.

Only when he was sure she was breathing steady did he turn his head toward you again — and the way his gaze pinned you in place was pure wildfire. “You gonna tell me what happened? Who did this?!” he demanded, stepping toward you with that coiled, barely contained violence in his movements. But underneath the fury, there was something else — something raw.

“I swear to Christ… you brought her here? Stayed with her?” His voice dropped low, almost like he was trying to keep it steady. “You… you might’ve saved her life.” He swallowed hard, jaw clenching. “So… thank you. But I still need answers.”