Page 5 of Her Outlaw Biker
She moans low in her throat, lashes fluttering like she’s fighting her way back.
“Don’t,” I mutter. “Stay down.”
I unscrew a bottle of water and press the rim to her mouth. She doesn’t stir, so I tilt it slowly, letting a trickle run between her lips. Some of it spills down her chin, but she swallows.
Good girl.
After that, I go to work.
I pull her boots and jacket off. There’s a shallow cut on her side, but not from the fight. It’s older, maybe scraped open again when she fell. I grab my kit, clean it with antiseptic, then patch her up as best I can.
I should be more clinical about it. More detached.
But I’m not.
I keep looking at her face, at the way her brows knit even in sleep. Like she’s still bracing for something bad to happen even while unconscious.
She doesn’t belong in this world. Not with those men from earlier.
Not with men like me.
And yet here she is. A pawn. Sent by whoever’s pulling strings now. Someone must either want me dead, or they want me to pull a trigger and they think she’s the best tool to draw me out.
Three years…it’s been three years since I left that goddamn life behind. I turned thirty out here in the desert, alone, but I’m still plagued by the fucking ghosts of my past. I glance at her again, a young, sunshine-haired girl, all armored up in leather.
She’s beautiful. No doubt.
I wonder who she’s working for. The Vultures? The military? Or one of the many other enemies I’ve made along the way.
Something doesn’t seem right, though…
There’s something about her that doesn’t fit the mold. She seems so pure. So damn naive. Like she needs to be…protected.
“You either have a death wish,” I murmur, “or no idea what the hell you’re doing.”
She stirs again. Whispers something I can’t catch.
I stand up, keeping my eyes on her. My hand brushes the rifle still leaning against the doorframe.
I don’t trust her. Not yet. But I can’t kill her either.
And that says more than I’m ready to admit.
I watch her closely as she slowly regains consciousness, a breath hitching in her throat. Her lids flutter open, pupils adjusting to the dim light. She turns her head slightly and our gazes clash. I’m standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her like a wolf watches its prey. I keep my expression hard, intimidating.
She jerks upright the falls back with a grunt, blinking hard. “What the hell? Where am I?”
“My trailer,” I say flatly. “You passed out.”
She takes that in, glancing around, then down at the bandage on her side where it peeks out from beneath her shirt. Her jaw tightens. “Did you touch me?”
“I kept you alive.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I lift a brow. She’s got guts. Weak and disoriented, and still mouthing off. Her voice is scratchy, rough like gravel, but there’sa heat in it that I can’t deny, a fire that my body instinctively responds to.
I don’t smile. But something in me sharpens.
