Page 7 of Slash
"You don't have to do anything right now except rest," he told her. "Let me do whatever worrying is necessary."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her breath hitched at the contact, but she didn't flinch. "When's the last time you slept through the night without listening for footsteps?"
Her laugh was brittle. "I honestly can't remember."
"Then that's where we start." He gestured toward the clubhouse. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
"Slash?" Nicole asked, her voice soft, uncertain.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," she said simply. "For coming to get us. For... all of this."
The words hit him harder than they should have. When was the last time someone had thanked him for doing his job? Whenwas the last time someone had looked at him with something other than fear or calculation?
"Don't thank me yet," he said gruffly. "We've got a way to go before you're truly safe."
As they walked inside, Kayleigh's excited chatter echoing off the walls as Savannah gave her the grand tour, Slash found himself making mental notes. Security measures to implement, they hadn’t had a biological child in the clubhouse before. Routines to establish. Rules that would keep Nicole and her daughter safe while they figured out how to neutralize the threat permanently.
He was good at this. At protection, planning, taking charge when civilians were in over their heads. It's what had made him an effective operator in the military and a trusted enforcer for the club. It’s why the government kept calling him for off the books operations and paying him handsomely for it.
But as Nicole walked beside him, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, Slash suspected this assignment was going to test him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Because protecting Nicole Hartman was one thing.
Keeping his hands off her was going to be something else entirely.
CHAPTER 3
NICOLE
The room Slash showed her to was sparsely furnished but clean. There was a giant king bed, a dresser, and a small desk by the window. It could have been any other hotel room except for the heavy curtains and the fact that the window had been reinforced with security film.
Nicole ran her fingers along the window frame, noting the subtle security measures with a mixture of relief and unease. How many women had needed this level of protection? How many had stood exactly where she was standing, running from men who claimed to love them?
"Kayleigh's room is right through the connecting door," Slash explained, setting her duffle bag on the bed. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he was trying not to spook her. She appreciated that more than she could say. "Bathroom's shared, between you two. She might want to sleep in here with you, but we figured she could use her own room too. I’m sorry that there’s not much in here. The girlfriends are going to go shopping later to fill it. You let me know what you need and what you might want for Kayleigh."
"This is more than enough," Nicole said, running her hand over the simple blue comforter. The fabric was soft, well-wornbut clean. It reminded her of the quilts her grandmother used to make, before everything went wrong. Before Brock. Before the running. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for keeping you safe." There was something in his voice that made her look up sharply. "It's what you do for people who matter."
People who matter.The casual way he said it, as if she and Kayleigh had automatically fallen into that category simply by existing, made her throat tight. When was the last time she'd mattered to someone without conditions? Without having to earn it through compliance or silence or pretending everything was fine?
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Shoot."
"The scar." She gestured vaguely toward his face, then immediately felt heat creep up her neck. "I'm sorry, that's probably rude?—"
"Afghanistan," he said simply. "IED took out half my squad. I got off easy."
The matter-of-fact way he said it, as if losing friends and carrying shrapnel scars was just part of life, made her chest ache. She recognized that tone. It was the same one she used when people asked about the faint marks on her arms, the ones Brock had left. You learned to talk about trauma like it was weather, something that happened to you rather than something that changed you forever. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Made me who I am." His storm-gray eyes met hers. "Sometimes the worst things that happen to us end up being exactly what we needed."
There was weight behind those words, meaning that she didn't quite understand but felt in her bones anyway. Maybe he was right. Maybe without Brock's cruelty, she never would have found the strength to run. Never would have discoveredshe could survive on her own, even if barely. Never would have ended up here, in this strange sanctuary with this scarred guardian who looked at her like she was worth protecting.
