"Can I come in for a second?" he asks. "Need to talk to you about a couple things."
My heart jumps into my throat, but I step aside and let him in. He sets the bag on the dresser and turns to face me, keeping a respectful distance.
"Ghost is getting your clothes," he says. "Might take an hour or two. Midnight shopping for women's shit isn't exactly easy. He'll knock three times as I do, so you'll know it's him."
"Ghost?"
"One of my brothers. You can trust him."
I nod, though I'm not sure I trust anyone right now except maybe the man standing in front of me, and even that's a leap.
"Second thing," Knuckles continues. "I need to tell my president about you. Pope. He runs the club, and he needs to know when we're offering protection to someone."
"Protection?"
"Yeah. That's what this is. You're under the club's protection now. Which means rules."
"What kind of rules?"
"You don't leave without one of us with you. You don't talk to anyone outside the club about where you're staying or who you're with. And if trouble comes looking for you, you tell us immediately. Don't try to handle it yourself."
"Why?" I whisper. "Why are you doing all this?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
"Because I know what it's like to have nowhere to go. And because the man who gave me a chance when I needed it taught me that sometimes you help people just because you can."
"You don't know me."
"Don't need to. You needed help. I'm giving it. That's it."
"Nothing is ever just 'that's it,'" I say. "People don't help for no reason."
"Some people do." He moves toward the door. "Eat your food. Get some rest. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"Wait." He stops. "I can't... I can't get out of the dress by myself. The zipper. I can't reach it."
Chapter 4 - Knuckles
I'm not sure I heard her right.
For a second, my brain just... stops. Like someone pulled the plug on every coherent thought I've ever had.
She wants me to help her out of the dress.
Which means seeing her in whatever she's wearing underneath it. Which means putting my hands on her again, on bare skin this time, close enough to feel the heat of her body and smell whatever perfume she's wearing under the odor of fear and exhaustion.
Which means I'm about to be completely fucked.
Because I'm just a man. A man who hasn't been with anyone in three months because casual hookups have started feeling more empty than satisfying. A man who's been half-hard since I picked her up and felt how perfectly she fit against my chest. A man who's already having thoughts he has absolutely no business having about a woman who ran here to escape being hurt.
Thoughts like how she'd look spread out on that bed. How she'd sound if I put my mouth on her. How tight she'd be if I pushed inside her. Whether she'd let me bend her over the dresser and fuck her until she forgot every bad thing that's ever happened to her.
Jesus Christ. I need to get my head straight.
She's scared. She's hurt. She's running from an abusive piece of shit who probably did things to her that make my violent thoughts look tame. The absolute last thing she needs is me looking at her like I'm thinking about fucking her.
Even if that's exactly what I'm thinking about.
