Page 169 of Snared Rider

That he did means bad things. Really bad things. It means Wilson must have had help, and the only help would have come from someone within the Club—and that is a terrifying thought. What keeps the Club strong is the brotherhood between the men and the women. If there’s a weak link somewhere along the chain, we’re in trouble.

“So, you know how Wilson got inside the compound?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His expression tells me everything I need to know—I’m pulling on a thread I should not be pulling.

After a moment of tense silence, he says, “That’s not for you to worry about.”

“If someone is working against the Club, that is definitely for me to worry about.”

I know I’m pushing my luck, that I should stop, but nearly dying (twice) has a way of changing your priorities. I don’t care about Club rules and whatever the hell else. If the people in my life are in danger, I want to know. I want to prepare.

“It’s Club—”

“You say business,” I break in, “and I’ll hit you.”

“You’ll hit me?”

“Yeah, right in the nose.”

His lips curve into a grin. “I love it when you’re fierce, B.”

“Don’t poke the bear, Dean.” My pointed response elicits a laugh, which results in Dean gasping and holding his side.

“Fuck, don’t make me laugh.”

Considering I was serious about hitting him, I don’t know why he’s laughing. I do know he is trying to steer the conversation away from talk of traitors and inside jobs, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let go.

“Just tell me one thing,” I demand.

“What?”

“Are we safe?”

His tongue dips out to moisten his bottom lip as he shrugs.

Shit.

Bands tighten around my chest, constricting my breathing. I draw in air and nod.

“All righty, then.”

He studies me through still bruised eyes.

“Nothing will touch you or the other old ladies again, B. I promise.”

I want to believe him, I do, but history suggests this will not be the case. Still, I force a smile.

“I know,” I lie.

He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press the point either. He lets out a low breath and runs a hand over his beard.

“Are you heading back to London?”

This question would have annoyed the hell out of me a few days ago. Now, not so much.

“Nope. I’m staying right here.”

My second medical emergency got me another sick note for a few more weeks. However, Jan didn’t think a near-death experience at the hands of a wife-beating madman was a good reason to be absent from work. She hit the roof. I was subjected to a ten minute rant about client workloads, about how unreliable I am and about how untrustworthy she finds me. I lost it. I told her (using some very colourful language) it was probably best I didn’t come back to work, and she agreed.

---