Page 19 of Property of Saint

War rages behind her eyes, but at last common sense wins out. A reluctant nod, then she reaches out her hand. I place the tablets in her palm, then pass her a glass of water. She swallows them down.

Having been on the receiving end of Doc’s brand of medicine in the past after I’d accidentally gotten in the way of a bullet, I know how this is going to play out. It will take maybe ten, fifteen minutes for the powerful tablets to dissolve, then she’ll be out, completely dead to the world, while her body gets the chance to heal.

I wait until her breathing evens, the tension leaving her features. Then, having had a shit day myself, I take off my boots, pants and shirt, and in my boxers, lay down beside her.

No judgment, please. It’s my fucking bed after all.

She might be sleeping, but my mind’s working a mile a minute. Images flit through my head as though I’m watching a video. She, a safe distance away from the car she’d just set on fire, clutching my cut in her hands. Then her, with only one working arm and dragging a broken leg behind her, making her way up the steep slope without complaint.

She earned my respect for her bravery. But, I suppose, with her being Secret Service, she must have been trained. Though, I’d served with some men who had all the knowledge but used to moan like bitches if they got so much as a scratch to their hand.

Willpower. That’s the word for what she’s got in abundance. The thing that drives a heroic man to ignore his injuries and rescue his teammates.

Fuck it! I admire her. If it comes down to protecting her or my club, then there’s no question I’d end her. But I certainly wouldn’t enjoy doing it.

I wouldn’t like the other option better. There’s no way I’d take her as my old lady. Sure, she looks the part, has the balls to stand up to me, and is intelligent, so I wouldn’t get bored of conversation. I’m certain that she’d be a spitfire in bed, or, if she wasn’t already, I could teach her to be. There’s one inherent problem. I like being single, having no one but my club to answer to, and a variety of bunnies and hangarounds who come to our parties to sink my cock into.

I turn onto my side, my brain still whirling.I could end this right now. She’s in a deep sleep due to the painkillers. She might not even notice if I put a pillow over her face…Reaching my hand behind me, grabbing said item, and twisting back around, I hold it above her, testing myself.

I can’t do it. Hell, I’ve taken lives and never thought twice about it. But her? Something tells me I’d live with more guilt on my mind than I wanted to.

So how can I sort this situation out? The answer hits me. I need to buy time. I need to test her story, find the truth of the matter, and see if I can trust her.

What then?I ask myself, breathing in and blowing air out, keeping my mumbledfucklow enough not to be audible. Chances are I’ll never be able to prove she’s no risk to the club, and in the end, she’ll gain hours, days, possibly a week, but little longer.

She’s already technically dead. No one knows she’s alive.

I still. Maybe that’s the way to approach it. See if I can sell her on starting a new life. Her old one would always put her indanger. She’d risk having a fanatic pop their head up every once in a while, to take a potshot at her. It’s not her fault she’s been used as a scapegoat for why Adams died. Perhaps there’s a way to draw a picture of a future, to paint it as a new chance she’s been given.

Yeah. Concentrate on the positives and put killing her on the back burner. At least for now. As long as she learns nothing about the club, what could she tell anyone about us? And if she’s reaping the benefits of having a new identity, that’s all the more reason not to tell anyone it was us who destroyed her original.It could work. Couldn’t it?

Having a plan helps relax me. Facing away from her, I rest my head on the pillow, feeling easier than I have for hours.

I barely recall falling asleep before I’m woken by a muffled shriek that has me reaching for the gun I’d placed on the bedside table, before realising it came from the woman next to me. She’s no longer still and breathing easily. She’s panting hard, and her hands flail as if to ward off some attacker.

The noises coming from her gradually form comprehensible words.

“No,” she cries. “No. Leave me alone.”

She’s in the thralls of a nightmare, and if I’m not mistaken, remembering actual scenes from her past. The strength of the ire that heats up my veins surprises me, hating that at one time, she was defenceless and weak.

I smack my hand to my head, forcing myself to remember who I am, why she’s here, and the options Bullseye has given me. I’m no saint. I’m no protector, no hero, and not even a good man. Why the fuck should I care what’s happened to her?

She starts thrashing now. Wiping away the idea I might be concerned she could cause herself greater injury, I focus on my worry that she could kick or punch me, or at the least, keep me from getting any more sleep.

I decide to wake her, but mindful of how my brothers suffering from PTSD react, I’m careful how I do it. Placing my hand gently on her shoulder, I speak softly.

“Pippa, you’re dreaming.”

Using a little force, I still the movement of her arm, and start to stroke her gently from elbow to shoulder, my touch soft and rhythmic. I keep whispering to her in a calming tone, telling her she’s safe and that whoever she’s fighting has gone. It takes a few moments and as much patience as I possess before she stills, relaxes, then stiffens. Turning her face toward me, she opens her eyes.

Seeing the clarity there, I lay it on her straight while fixing my features into a glare. “Fuckin’ woke me up with that nightmare you were having.”

Blinking rapidly, she takes a moment to shift completely from dream world to real life. “So sorry to have disturbed you,” she starts in a sarcastic tone. “But want to explain why you’re lying next to me in my bed?”

“My bed,” I correct. “And, woman, you ain’t got anything to fear from me.”

“Says my executioner,” she retorts, showing her memories are intact.

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