Page 3 of Property of Saint

How the fuck did she manage to reach the car, let alone set fire to it?

It’s beyond comprehension, but I’ve done my part for now. I’d told whoever was after her that she’d died in the initial crash. The explosion she’d orchestrated had confirmed it. It’s time for me to hit the road.

I stare at her for a moment. It’s hard to tell what she looks like other than something out of a horror movie, with the blood running down her face, bloodshot eyes, and soot-covered features. I offer the only help that I can.

“I’ll call for an ambulance. Give your location…”

“No,” she says sharply, as if addressing a subordinate. “I can’t go to a hospital.” At my head shake, she offers an explanation. “They’ll find me immediately and finish the job.” The hand on her good arm indicates her body. “I need somewhere off the radar to recuperate. And…” she chuckles, but in her state, it comes out more like a death rattle, “a biker clubhouse is the last place anyone will look for me.”

I suck in air, my brain taking a moment to compute what she’s asking. “You want me to take you back to my club?” I ask, incredulously. Immediately, my brain starts racing, bringing up all the reasons why that is a very bad idea. I settle on the obvious problem. “You can’t climb back up there.” I wave at the steepslope behind me. “And with that arm, you’ll never be able to hold on to me to ride my bike.” More importantly, I don’t want any woman riding behind me. Or anyone, for that matter. Never have, never will. I’m no one’s white knight.

Her good arm supports the one with the shoulder that’s clearly dislocated and ignores my other objections. “You know how to sort a dislocated arm?”

I nod quickly. I hadn’t lied about being a medic in the Army. Then I bark a laugh. “Hurts like fuck. You don’t want to do it here without medication.”

“Just put my fucking arm back into the socket,” she demands.

And hell, there’s something about her voice that annoys me, and I want to punish her. There’d be no way to do it without causing her agony, but something makes me feel the need to punish her. Fuck knows for what. I take hold of her roughly, push, twist, and prepare my ears for the screaming, but all I hear is a harsh grunt, followed moments later by a sigh of relief.

She says softly, “Thank you.”

Chagrined because of my loss of control, even though my action had the desired result, I remove my cut, take off my T-shirt, and fashion a sling for her. Again, she gently expresses her gratitude. Then, her eyes narrow as she takes in the slope she’s intending to scale.

I see her chest expand as she draws in a deep breath, then she lets her body slide down the tree. I’m not fucking kidding when I say she starts crawling, using only her one good leg and one working arm.

Not one sound of protest or pain comes from her as she slowly gains a few feet.

I’m no saint. I’m no fucking gentleman. But even I can’t ignore her brave efforts, and though I’d originally had no such intention, I’m now pushed to help.

Finding a branch, I fashion a walking stick for her and lift her to her feet. With my arm around her, and her use of the aid I’d provided, we make slow progress. On the steeper bits, we’re both on our bellies, but still, she continues onward with no complaint.

Finally, we reach the roadway. Her laboured breathing is the only sign of the toll the climb has taken on her as she places the tip of the stick down, swinging her bad leg, then repeating the motion as she somehow progresses toward my bike.

“No fuckin’ way,” I exhale.

At this point, she looks like a corpse that’s been animated. Even if I wanted to take a passenger, there’s no way she could ride. She’ll pass out, lose her grip, and fall off before I’ve gone more than a few yards.

“Help me on.” She uses that dominant tone once again, then looks at the bike and back at me. “You got something to tie my hands around you?”

I can’t help but admire not only her determination but also her brain for coming up with solutions. At this point, I’m intrigued by where this particular journey might take me.

“Get on,” I growl, gesturing in front of me.

She tries to balance on the makeshift crutch to throw her good leg over the saddle, but totters and would have fallen except for my ready arms. Grunting in annoyance, I lift her, noticing again her slim, lithe body, and dump her on the saddle. Pushing her back so there’s room for me, I climb on, then pull her arms forward, and following her suggestion, zip tie her wrists, so her hands are tight around my waist.

What the fuck am I doing?

I have no clue. But this is something I started when curiosity got a hold of me, and I followed that car that was chasing hers. And when I begin something, I normally finish it. But am I really taking her back to our clubhouse?

Fuck knows why, but it seems that I am.

CHAPTER TWO

SAINT

How the hell I don’t lose her during the ride back to the compound, I’ll never know, but as the prospect opens the gates, I exhale a long sigh of relief. She’d slumped against me miles ago. If she hadn’t been tied on, she’d have dropped on the pavement like roadkill.

Intrigued by the manner of my arrival, the prospect jogs after the bike. When I pull up, I see his eyes widen. “What the fuck, VP? You into kidnapping women? We taking her hostage or something?”

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