Page 134 of Snared Rider

No goodbye either. Seriously, when this is over I need to give these boys a lesson in manners!

Wade drops the call and tucks his phone back into his pocket. Then, he asks Logan, “How’re you doing, pal?”

Logan is sitting but tipped forward a little, his left hand pressed to the floor. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” I snap. “You’re… you’re shot!”

He sits straight, so he’s no longer leaning on his hand and grabs mine in his large palm. “Love, I’m fine.”

My expression is somewhere between sceptical and incredulous. He’s so full of shit. He’s not okay; he’s bleeding all over the dining room floor. And I’m not even in the same vicinity as okay.

We’re being targeted by a complete lunatic, with access to guns—something that should be next to impossible in this country. What in the hell are my taxes paying for? It’s sure as shit not good policing.

My thoughts scatter as I’m suddenly pulled towards Logan and his lips come down on mine. This does precisely what he intends; it calms and refocuses my attention.

“Keep it together, baby,” he whispers and I nod as my hands move to either side of his face.

“Sorry. It’s just… if anything happens to you—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

I shake my head. “You can’t promise that, Logan.”

“Yeah, darlin’, I can.”

He sounds so sure, so sincere I believe him—despite the evidence to the contrary. This belief shatters when Logan suddenly groans, his back arching. His head whips around to glance over his shoulder at Wade, who is pressing his T-shirt against Logan’s wound.

“Go easy,” Logan snaps, but there is pain threading through his words.

“You’re leaking like a tap,” Wade tells him. “I’ve got to stop it.”

I peer over Logan’s shoulder to look and realise my mistake a beat too late when my stomach twists and bile climbs up my throat.

His T-shirt is already saturated with blood.

It’s so bright.

And wet.

And really red.

“Babe?” Logan snaps his fingers in front of my face and my eyes slide towards him. I feel weird, like I’m floating.

I may have grown up in a motorcycle club but I’ve only seen the occasional injury, most of which were caused by brothers fighting each other. This isn’t a scrape or a cut. There is a lot of blood.

Logan’s left-hand cups my cheek. “I’m okay.”

He is okay. He’s talking, he’s sitting, he’s breathing. All things considered, I’d say that is more than okay.

The doors to the dining room fling open and I jolt. My body twists to see what new threat is here.

It’s Clara—Clara who knows trauma medicine, who is qualified to help Logan.

Thank Christ.

She moves through the debris, glass crunching underfoot. Dean is on her heels. His bruised face (caused by the man on his knees in front of me) is the only sign of damage to him, which is a relief. He didn’t get hit in the attack.

His expression is another matter. It is positively murderous as he takes in the debris of shot-up furniture littering the dining room.

---