Page 7 of Property of Saint

“She’s had a knock on the head,” the gruff man replies. “Probably lucky she can remember that.”

Another voice full of impatience chimes in. “Just get on with it, Doc. Fix her fuckin’ leg.”

“Okay, okay. Just let me see what I’m dealing with.”

I feel the sheet being pulled up over my leg. The rhythm of the blood being wiped from my face pauses for a second, allowing me to open my eyes.What the fuck?In one smooth move that causes pain to explode, I pull my arms from under thecovers and shoot them down, taking the edge of the sheet that had just risen up, exposing my lady parts.

Screeching is probably the best way to describe what comes out of my mouth. “It’s my fucking leg that’s broken, not my pussy.”

My words were unnecessary. One of the men standing around me wrenches the apparent doctor away so roughly that he stumbles and falls against the opposite wall.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he roars.

It’s then something tells me that I can recall hearing that voice before. And not just earlier when he’d said a few words. The woman has moved and covered me decently, then has returned to her task. Decent again, I try to remember where I heard that voice and when. Surreptitiously, I blink hard, trying to bring the room and occupants into better focus, noticing for the first time all, except for the voyeur and possibly would-be assailant, are wearing vests denoting them as members of a motorcycle gang. The patches they wear are familiar. I’ve seen them before. They’re members of the Kings of Anarchy MC.

Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck.I’ve not just jumped out of the pan and into the fire, I’ve landed myself in the burning depths of hell.

My heart rate increases, and I try not to let any emotion show on my face as my thoughts tear through my head.If they knew who I was, they wouldn’t be treating me. They’d have left me to die from my injuries or killed me instead. That I’m still breathing means they haven’t a clue. There’s a chance I could get out alive as long as they never discover who I am.

The man they called Doc is snivelling on the floor, with the biker who pulled him off me standing over him glowering. As I focus on him, I suck in a breath.

He’s got dark brown hair which is long enough to be tied back in a man bun, and full sleeves of tats on both arms. He’s slim, but not skinny, and the way his tee hugs his body does nothingto hide his muscles. He’s tall, too. Taller than me, though that doesn’t take much. I must have hit my head pretty hard, as I can’t think of when I’ve seen a more beautiful, sexy man. But looks aren’t everything, as I know only too well. They betray nothing of what’s hiding inside. The cut he wears shows me he’s dangerous and probably injurious to my health. Rather than focusing on his good looks and striking features, it’s far better to concentrate on the way he’s towering over the prone man, his body visibly vibrating with rage.

I watch as he reaches down his hand, grabs the doc’s shirt, and wrenches him up while pulling his other arm back.

“Stop!” the authoritative voice barks. “Saint, let him go.”

“What the fuck, Prez?” The man who I now know is, for some reason, called Saint, growls. “He was taking advantage.”

“Should cut off his hands.”

“Cut out his fuckin’ eyes, you mean.”

I’m slightly taken aback as all the bikers in the room say their part. Knowing what I do about such gangs and how they treat women, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d encouraged him, watched him rape me, and then taken their turns. As to their suggestions, is it wrong that I agree with them? What kind of person takes advantage of a vulnerable woman?

Saint growls deep in his throat, then pushes Doc toward me, so roughly that he stumbles. “Do your fuckin’ job and then get out of here.” He truly doesn’t sound at all happy, having let go of him as fast as he can as if wiping a turd off his shoe.

I suppose no self-respecting medical man would work with gang members like them.

“Wait,” I say, as strongly as I can, holding up one hand to stop his progress toward me. “Are you even qualified?”

Snorting, it’s Saint who answers me. “Yeah, he’s got all his medical qualifications. The reason he can’t practice has nothing to do with his skill, but his other perversions.”

Now that I can believe.

What choice do I have? I can’t go to a hospital, and I need medical help. I feel weak as a kitten and believe he’s right to say I probably have a concussion. And that’s all without adding in an obviously broken leg.

“Just fix me,” I growl. “But no funny business.”

“He’ll behave,” their prez promises, his tone such as to fill me with confidence.

I tense when Doc lays his hands on me again, mine moving down to anchor the sheet around me, when I belatedly realise the question I haven’t asked. “Why the hell am I naked anyway? Who removed my clothes?”

Strangely, the bikers look at each other, then all eyes fall on the long-haired man. Saint pauses for a moment before answering me. “We didn’t know how badly or where you were injured, so we took off what you were wearing. Your clothes were torn and covered with blood anyway, so we disposed of them.”

They what?I suppose undressing me made sense, but to get rid of everything? My underwear? Come to think of it, the meagre jewellery I was wearing is missing. Well, the joke’s on them. It wasn’t very valuable, and it made no sense to steal it.

Saint clears his throat and adds, as if to reassure me, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t him.” He inclines his head toward the supposed doctor. “We undressed you before he got here.”

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