Page 11 of October's Ride with Atlas

Without even thinking, I pick her up and set her on the counter before pulling out the massive first aid kit I keep at the cabin. Being in the middle of nowhere, I like to be prepared because it’s not easy to get down the mountain to get help.

“What about your arm?” she asks gently.

When I look at it for the first time, I see there is blood dripping from my arm and a nasty cut down the side.

“I barely feel it. Let’s get you cleaned up, and then I’ll worry about it,” I tell her.

Grabbing a washcloth, I run some warm water over it before wiping away the dirt and gravel stuck to her legs. I try to be as gentle as possible, but she still flinches, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek. I hate that she is hurt, but it is of her own doing.

She remains silent as I clean her scrapes, apply ointment to them, and bandage them up. When I’m done, I start to step away to give her room to get off the counter, but she takes my hand to stop me.

When I look up at her, she is looking at my arm. Then she reaches for the washcloth I used to clean off her legs and holds my hand with one hand while she runs the washcloth under the water before bringing it to my arm and wiping away the blood that has started to dry there.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but at the same time, I don’t want her to stop touching me.

“Yet, I still am,” she says as she cleans the wounds, and begins to dress them.

She appears to be an expert at wound care, which leads me to think she’s done this more than a few times for her dad and the Savage Bones guys.

When I meet Malice again, I swear I’m going to make him suffer for all the things he’s done to her.

CHAPTER 6

BEX

As soon asI am done fixing his arm, I hurry into the kitchen to get some space to think. I’m still trying to understand how he took care of me before he even thought of his arm.

My dad and the rest of the Savage Bones would have demanded that I take care of them first and then deal with myself afterward. At least that’s what they have done in the past.

Could Atlas really be that much different? Are the Mustang Mountain Riders truly the good guys? I am beginning to think so, and I feel bad that I’m starting to doubt my dad.

Atlas was so unwilling to put his guys in danger that he moved us out here. Dad would have brought in more men to protect him, even though he’s lost so many already. Have the Mustang Mountain Riders really not lost anyone?

There were women and children at the clubhouse, and that wasn’t allowed anywhere we set up camp—at least not since I was around. I don’t know what was done before my dad and I showed up.

To distract myself from my thoughts, I start opening cabinets to get a look at where everything is so I can make a plan for dinner. But my mind keeps going to the present situation.

When I tried to escape the last time, Atlas didn’t even get mad. Even though he got hurt in the process, he never once raised his voice, threatened me, or tried to punish me for it.

I’m interrupted with my musings when Atlas says gently, “It gets pretty cold here at night this time of year. I’m going to get some wood brought in for the fire tonight. Can you make the bed? The sheets are in the closet. Use the flannel ones.”

We lock eyes, and neither of us moves for a moment. I like having his eyes on me, and it’s a new feeling for me because I hated having any of my dad’s guys looking at me the way Atlas does.

Breaking the spell, I nod.

Then Atlas turns, heading out the back door, while I go to the bedroom and find the sheets right where he said they would be. As I make the bed, I hear him chopping wood out back. Pausing, I look out the window only to find a shirtless Atlas chopping wood like he’s been doing it his whole life. Maybe he has. I don’t know because I haven’t taken the time to find out.

His body is a work of art. He’s definitely in shape. I can see the muscles in his arms bulging as he works. His chest is ripped, with not an ounce of fat on his body. There are tattoos on his arms, chest, and back, and I want to know about each one. Even more, I want to touch and run my tongue over every one of them.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

I’m wet between my thighs and turned on all from some tattoos on a man chopping wood in the backyard? This isn’t me. I’ve seen my dad’s guys with tattoos and watched them chop wood, and I never felt like this.

Once I finish making the bed, I go to the kitchen and pull some things out to make meatloaf. Just then, Atlas walks in the door, sets the wood down by the fireplace, and looks over at me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Starting dinner. Is meatloaf okay?” I ask, not knowing what kind of food he expects, but I do know it will be my job to prepare it.

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