Page 133 of Snared Rider

Chapter Thirty-Two

I don’t knowwhere he comes from but Wade is suddenly at our side. His face is pale and his lips are pulled into a tight line. I’m so relieved to see another person, someone who might help, that I cling to his arm.

“Logan’s shot.” My voice sounds ravaged. This is not surprising because I feel ravaged.

Gently, he pries my fingers from him and moves to Logan’s back. “It’ll be fine, girl. Just take a breath.”

Translation: stop freaking out and let me get on with this.

Somehow, I regain control and do as he orders. Mainly because breathing sounds like a really good idea, albeit an impossible task right now. I’m panicking, I’m terrified, in fact, but I manage to draw in a deep lungful of air. This makes the bands around my chest loosen enough that I can take another breath and inflate my lungs fully.

Giving me a sidelong glance to check I’m not going to pass out or freak out, Wade focuses on Logan’s back. Whatever he sees there makes him curse under his breath, and this does nothing to alleviate my fear.

Sensing this, he mutters an apology before adding, “I need to get your kutte off.”

Logan nods, then lets out a breath that sounds shaky.

Wade helps him shrug out of his leather vest.

“Did you see that fucker?” Logan demands.

Wade doesn’t answer, but a look passes between them that silently communicates something—something neither of them want to say in front of me. I wish I could translate it, but I can’t and this annoys me. I was the one just getting shot at, after all.

“Was it Wilson?” I ask.

Wade hands me Logan’s kutte without replying to my question. The leather is soft and worn, and I clutch it to my chest like a safety blanket as I watch him help Logan slide his T-shirt over his head. Both men continue to ignore me.

This pisses me off until the blood working down Logan’s bulky bicep distracts me. I swallow the queasiness working up my throat and pull my gaze away, focusing instead on Logan’s face.

“Was it Wilson?” I repeat.

Logan lets out a low breath and glances at the other brother before refocusing on me.

“I think so.”

Shit.

That’s not good. Attacking us in the open is one thing, but coming to the clubhouse is something else. Wilson is escalating. His desperation is growing, and that is terrifying.

“Some of the lads went after him,” Wade mutters.

“How the fuck did he get inside the perimeter fence?”

Wade doesn’t answer Logan’s question, but I don’t miss the twitch of his jaw. This is because the clubhouse is locked down, which means extra security. Not even Houdini could bypass that.

So, how did Wilson?

A horrible thought occurs to me: did someone help Wilson gain entry to the compound?

I dismiss it immediately. The only people here are me, Logan, Dean, Clara, Wade and the three prospects: Rabbit, King and Charlie. While I’ve only met Rabbit, I can’t imagine the other men betraying the Club. It’s not easy to earn those prospect patches; the brothers must trust them.

Wade’s thoughts are clearly as murky as my own because he says, “I’m hoping the boys will shed some light on that.”

By ‘the boys’ I assume he means the prospects. Did the new guys screw up? I hope Rabbit wasn’t involved in whatever happened. He seems like a nice kid—albeit a randy bugger.

Wade gives Logan a mirthless smile as he digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out his mobile phone. He taps the screen and then puts it to his ear.

After a moment he barks into the phone, “You hit?” He doesn’t bother with hello. What is with these boys? Dean doesn’t use greetings either. “Logan’s hurt. Can you get Clara down to the dining room?” A pause then, “Great.”

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