Page 42 of Raiden

It’s a good thing he’s not out here now. Bullet probably has him stashed somewhere inside, getting cleaned the fuck up before someone spots him looking like the murder scene he just orchestrated. With one careless, eager flick of his knife, out went our chance of ever figuring out who and why. I’m pissed we don’t have the fucker for questioning, but more than that I’m so angry that Widow had to go through all that alone and I wasn’t there to protect her.

I want to pick Widow up, slam her against my chest, hold her possessively. I want to have her cling to me, to be the one to reassure her, to take her out of this nightmare, but my own head is still a mess. I’m not Gray and she’s not Lark. She’s not the kind of woman who would run to me and wrap herself around me. She’s not going to ask for the comfort she so desperately needs. She’d never allow another person to see her crack. To anyone else, she’s upright and that means she’s getting herself together. It means she’ll be fine.

I see straight through her because I’ve shown the world the same shell and I know that it’s anything butright.

Even though I want to hold her, to have my hands on her skin, to be touching her and tasting her and filling myself up on the realness of her, her bravery, her spirit, the fact that she’s still alive, I walk over slowly, using my body like a shield.

I dip my face so that my breath paints her cheek. “Ella,” I whisper near her ear, sweeping a stand of blonde hair away from her face.

She doesn’t turn to me, doesn’t look at me. She’s more a ghost than the trauma of our past and the way it splashes gore and night all over our futures. It’s like the breath has been robbed of her and instead, she’s filled up with nothing more than the breeze blowing softly around us.

“Let me take you back to the clubhouse. We’ll get your bike back. Everything will be taken care of here.” She doesn’t react. Still doesn’t even look at me. Her eyes are glassy and unblinking, focused out there in the parking lot. Is she replaying what happened, over and over? I lean down further, enough to brush my cheek against hers. She’s warm. Thank fuck. “Let me take care of you.”

She doesn’t break or acknowledge me, but she also doesn’t fight when I slide one arm around her back and bend to pick her up. Her arms stay limp and loose, hanging around mine, but she tucks her face into my shoulder and her breaths pump puff warm against my skin.

She’s a vacant shell through the parking lot.

Despite the seatbelts in the old truck, her head lolls forward like the weight of it is just more than she can bear to hold it up.

She doesn’t pick it back up until we pull through the gates of the compound attached to the clubhouse.

She raises her eyes, and a flicker of life comes back to the green orbs at the sight of the massive angel machined out of metal and stuck to the side of the building. There is no other signage, and we don’t have the club’s name on the place, but that epic bowed angel that both Gray and I have tattooed on our skin feels like coming home.

Maybe Widow thinks so too.

I park the truck and open her door for her. “Let me.”

I offer her my hand, but she unbuckles herself and swings her legs out. She ignores me, winces at the bang of the old beast’s door shutting, takes two steps, and nearly falls on her face as her legs give out.

“Holy fuck!” I was watching, so I get my arms under her before she falls.

She clutches at my shirt. “Don’t.” She shoves against my chest before I can pick her up again.

“Hey. No one’s going to think any less of you for being carried in there. My club brothers-”

“Fucking don’t!” Her breath pounds out of her in a hiss like steam escaping.

I know that sound. I’ve been through enough panic attacks myself.

My hand shifts to her lower back. “Alright.” I don’t take it away and she doesn’t shake it off. She doesn’t want me carrying her or supporting her? Fair enough.

Watching her struggle to walk into the clubhouse with her head held high like nothing’s wrong when she’s going through a battlefield on the inside makes my stomach spin sickeningly.

This is what I do.

This is how I act.

It’s painful watching someone else go through it. Worse than it is being the one with all that shit built up in the head violent enough to crack the skull wide open.

There’s no one in the hall. No ne she has to put on a show for.

I guide her right past her room and take her straight to mine. She doesn’t notice or protest. She’s back to staring through things, vacant on the outside and worse on the inside. I have to dosomething.

I punch in the code and unlock the door, then shut it behind us. It locks automatically.

“There’s no one here now. You’re safe.” I lock my arms around her waist and take her directly to the bathroom. She leans heavily against me like she’s ready to collapse again.

I shut the door behind us to give that extra sense of security. That vacant stare sears down to the heart of me. I want Widow back. Sassy, annoying, challenging, breathtaking Widow. She keeps looking at me, not seeing me, until I let her go and tug my t-shirt over my head. I undo my jeans, toe my boots off, andstep out of everything. I leave my boxers on to make sure she feels comfortable.

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