Date Published: June 19, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
I’m losing the fight to protect my daughter from invisible monsters. Cash may be our only hope.
Eliza – My daughter Lily’s plagued with mysterious injuries. We’ve spent far too much time in the ER. Doctors push me away when I ask for answers. Insurance denies our claims. Then Child Services decides I’m the monster. I’m out of options -- until Cash steps between us and the people trying to tear us apart. He’s dangerous – a biker and an ex-con. He’s also the first person who believes me. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Cash -- Prison taught me to keep my head down, not get attached. Then court-ordered community service puts me in a pediatric ward, where a terrified little girl with a pink cast asks me to sing her to sleep. Lily isn’t mine. Her mother, Eliza, isn’t my problem. Except the second I see the system closing in on them, I know better. Eliza isn’t hurting her daughter. She’s fighting for Lily with everything she has. But when no one else listens, I bring in Kiss of Death, Haven, and every weapon we have that doesn’t require blood on the floor. Yet the more I try to protect them, the harder it is to pretend I don’t want them both.
Cash
I returned to the pediatric ward two nights later, my mind still lingering on the small girl with the pink cast. The mop bucket rattled ahead of me as I pushed it down the corridor, the wheels squeaking against the polished floor. I had finished my assigned section early, giving me a few minutes to check on Lily. I told myself it was just curiosity, nothing more, but the memory of her tears had stuck with me through my shift at the bar last night and the following restless sleep. As I approached her room, I heard raised voices from inside, the sharp tone of an adult argument cutting through the usual hospital quiet.
I slowed my steps, not wanting to intrude on whatever was happening. The hospital had strict rules about patient privacy, and I was already walking a thin line by visiting a patient outside my cleaning duties. But when I recognized Lily’s small voice rising between the adult voices, I found myself moving forward again.
The door to room 416 stood partially open. I paused just outside, my hand resting on the door frame. Inside, two women faced off across Lily’s bed. One was clearly Lily’s mother, small and slight with the same delicate features as her daughter, though hers were drawn tight with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her brown hair was pulled back in a messy knot looking like it had been hastily arranged. Despite her obvious fatigue, her stance was defiant, her chin raised as she glared at the other woman.
The second woman wore a crisp pantsuit and carried a tablet she occasionally tapped. Her hair was styled in a severe bob, framing her face. She wore a lanyard with an ID badge reading “Department of Child Services” and “Mrs. Janet Winters.” My stomach dropped at the sight. I had seen enough of them at Haven to know the conversation couldn’t be good.
“I have told Dr. Samson repeatedly. Lily bruises easily,” the mother was saying, her voice tight with controlled frustration. “I’ve been begging for more tests for over a year. But insurance keeps denying the claims, and Dr. Samson says the symptoms aren’t severe enough to warrant specialist referrals.”
“Ms. Jans,” the social worker replied, her voice clinical and detached, “this is Lily’s fourth hospital visit in eight months. The pattern of injuries is concerning. These bruises” -- she gestured toward Lily with her pen --”are consistent with grab marks.”
“Because I have to grab her when she falls,” Lily’s mother -- Ms. Jans -- said, her voice cracking slightly. “She falls constantly. She trips over nothing. Her legs just give out sometimes. If I don’t grab her and she hits something, she could get hurt worse.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “I work two jobs. I can’t afford the tests Dr. Samson won’t order. I’ve researched online, I think she might have --”
“Self-diagnosis from Internet searches is hardly reliable,” the social worker cut in, writing something on her clipboard. “The fact remains Lily presents with multiple unexplained injuries.”
“They’re not unexplained,” Ms. Jans insisted, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’ve explained them every single time.”
I shifted my weight, drawing the attention of both women. My gaze moved past them to Lily, who lay quietly watching the adults argue over her. Her thin arm was still encased in the bright pink cast, but now I could see more clearly the pattern of bruises dotting her pale skin. They did look like fingerprints in places, but something about the way they clustered didn’t feel right to me. I’d seen plenty of abuse in my time, both as a kid and later when women showed up at Haven. This felt different.
When Lily spotted me, her whole face transformed. The wariness vanished, replaced by a smile that lit up her tired features. “Cash,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “You came back. Will you sing to me again?”
The social worker’s head snapped toward me, her eyes narrowing as she took in my appearance. Her gaze lingered on my MC cut, the Kiss of Death patch prominently displayed on the leather. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked me up and down, taking in the tattoos visible on my neck and hands.
“Sing?” Ms. Jans asked, looking between her daughter and me with confusion.
“He has pictures all over his skin,” Lily informed her mother. “And he sang me to sleep when you had to go talk to the doctors. He has a pretty voice.”
The social worker’s stylus moved rapidly across her tablet, and I didn’t need to see what she was writing to know it wasn’t good.
“Ma’am,” I said, addressing the social worker and keeping my voice respectfully low, “I’m just the janitor. Part of the community service program.” I gestured to my volunteer badge. “The kid was crying alone in her room a couple nights back, so I sang her a lullaby until a nurse could come.”
Ms. Jans looked at me with a mix of gratitude and new wariness. The circles under her eyes looked even darker up close, and I noticed her hands were rough and reddened, the nails clipped short.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I had to speak with the doctor about her new medications. The nurses said they’d check on her, but --”
“Budget cuts mean they’re always short-staffed,” I finished for her, understanding all too well how systems failed the people who needed them most. “Probably thought she’d sleep through you being gone.” I glanced at the social worker. “Sounds like you got set up to fail. They make you leave your child to go talk to the doc then fail to stay with her.” I had no idea if I was right, but judging by the way the social worker flushed, I was pretty close.
“And you are?” she asked, her gaze flicking meaningfully to my cut again.
“Johnny Kingston,” I answered, deciding against offering my hand. “Everyone calls me Cash.”
“Mr. Kingston,” she said, emphasizing each syllable as she wrote my name down, “are you regularly alone with pediatric patients as part of your community service?”
The implication in her tone made my jaw clench, but I kept my expression neutral. Getting angry would only make things worse for Lily and her mother.
“No, ma’am,” I replied evenly. “I mop floors and restock supplies. The door was open, and hospital security monitors the entrance to all the pediatric rooms.” I pointed to where the camera angled across the hall to be able to see the entry of this room and the room next to it. “I stayed where the camera could see me at all times. Besides, I just couldn’t leave a crying kid alone. Not without making sure she hadn’t fallen or hurt herself in some way.”
Ms. Winters made another note, then turned back to Ms. Jans. “I’ll be submitting my report to the department today. Given the circumstances, we’ll be opening a full investigation. In the meantime, Lily will remain here under hospital supervision until we determine the next steps.”
The color drained from Ms. Jans’ face. “You can’t keep me away. She needs me here. She gets scared in hospitals.”
“Whether or when you can stay with the child will depend on the findings of our investigation,” Ms. Winters replied coolly. “If you have nothing to hide, you should welcome a thorough examination of the situation.”
I watched as Ms. Jans seemed to shrink before my eyes, the fight visibly draining from her small frame. I recognized the look too well. She knew her guilt had already been decided. Likely because investigating deeper took effort from an overworked system.
“Mommy?” Lily’s voice trembled slightly. “Are we going home soon?”
“Yes, baby,” Ms. Jans said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “As soon as the doctors say it’s OK.”
Ms. Winters tucked her tablet under her arm and moved toward the door where I still stood. As she passed, she paused and lowered her voice.
“Mr. Kingston, I suggest you stick to your assigned duties. Your association” -- her eyes flicked to my cut again --”could complicate matters for everyone involved.”
With her parting shot, Ms. Winters brushed past me into the corridor, leaving the room several degrees colder in her wake.
Ms. Winters left the door open. The tension in the room thickened as Ms. Jans turned toward me with the wariness of a cornered animal. She shifted to place herself more firmly between me and her daughter. Her eyes, the same shade of blue as Lily’s but hardened by worry, assessed me from head to toe. The woman at Haven often gave men in the club they met for the first time the same look.
“I should go,” I said, taking a step back toward the door. The last thing this woman needed was another perceived threat in her life.
“No, stay,” Lily called out, her small voice surprisingly authoritative for someone so tiny. “I want to show Mommy how you sing.”
Ms. Jans’ gaze flickered between her daughter and me, her posture rigid, hands still clenched at her sides. The protective instinct radiating from her was almost tangible, a force field surrounding her child.
“Lily, Mr. Kingston probably needs to get back to work,” she said carefully, her tone gentle with her daughter but her eyes still fixed warily on me.
“Cash,” I corrected automatically. “Everyone calls me Cash.”
“He made me feel better when you were gone, Mommy,” Lily continued, ignoring her mother’s attempt to dismiss me. “I was crying because I missed you, and he sang to me like you do. He has a pretty voice, like the radio. He’s my new friend.”
Ms. Jans looked at her daughter, then back at me, reassessing. She nodded slowly, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being kind to Lily.”
I shuffled my feet, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No,” she said with surprising firmness. “They wouldn’t have. Most people don’t want to get involved.” She ducked her head. “Or just don’t care.”
Before I could respond, Ms. Winters stepped back into the room, her tablet still clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes darted between Ms. Jans and me, clearly surprised to find me still there.
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland
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