Page 33 of Heart of Stone
Her touch is gentle, but her mouth is set in that stubborn line I'm coming to know well. This isn't a battle I'll win.
I hide a smile. “Yes, ma'am."
She works saline across the cuts, gently cleaning out the dirt and grit before applying ointment and bandages. I eat quietly while she attends to one hand, then swap over my fork to my left, allowing her to tend to the other.
"You're good at this," I say, watching her methodical care of my hands.
"Lots of practice." She dabs antiseptic on my knuckles with a gentleness that belies her usual tough exterior. "Though my usual patients are accident-prone twins."
Her gaze meets mine. “I guess I better add bikers who can't seem to avoid trouble to that list."
"Wasn't looking for trouble. But it’s my job to finish it when it arrives.”
“What do you mean?”
"It’s part of my role in the club.” At her raised eyebrow, I tap my patch. "As sergeant-at-arms, I’m in charge of keeping order and making sure we’re safe."
“So you’re essentially security? Or like a police officer?" she asks.
"Something like that. Basically what it means is sometimes I need to yell at people, and sometimes I come home with bloody knuckles."
"And tonight?" She secures the bandage with tape. "The yelling didn’t work?"
"Not so much." I flex my fingers, testing her handiwork.
She's quiet for a moment, her thumb absently brushing over my knuckles. "Does it bother you? The violence?"
The question catches me off guard. There’s no judgment in her voice, just genuine curiosity.
"No," I say honestly. "Not when it's necessary. Not when it protects what matters."
Her eyes lift to mine. "And what matters?"
"The club. Family." I catch her hand before she can pull away. "People worth protecting."
Something flickers in her expression—understanding maybe, or recognition. She knows what it means to protect what's yours. I've seen her with the kids, fierce and protective as any mama bear.
She brushes her thumb over the corner of the bandage. "This one might scar."
"I’ll add it to the collection."
Her thumb traces an old scar on my forearm. "Got stories for all of these?"
"Some better than others." I turn my arm, letting her fingers trail over the marked skin. "Though most aren't suitable for polite company."
"Good thing I'm not polite company then."
The teasing note in her voice does things to me. "No," I agree. "You're something else entirely."
Our gazes hold for a beat too long before she glances away, clearing her throat. "Well, you’re all done."
I tighten my grip on her fingers before she can pull away completely. "Thank you."
She shrugs. "It's just some bandages."
"Not to me." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Been a long time since anyone's cared enough to patch me up."
Something soft flickers in her expression before she ducks her head. "Well, don’t get used to it. The next time you come limping in after midnight, I’ll hopefully be fast asleep."
