Shadow would find out. Monk would tell him. And when he did, there would be hell to pay.
But as Hope’s arms tightened around me and her body pressed against my back, I realized something else. I didn’t care.
Let Shadow find out. Let the whole damn world find out.
Because Hope was mine. And I wasn’t letting her go.
Not for Shadow. Not for the club. Not for anyone.
I opened up the throttle, and we disappeared into the Oklahoma heat, leaving Joey’s Burger Shack and the wreckage behind us. But I knew we couldn’t outrun the truth forever.
Sooner or later, it would catch up to us.
Chapter Nineteen
Slaughter
The motel room door clicked shut behind us, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the roar of the engine we had just left behind. I stood there for a moment, my hand still on the doorknob, my chest heaving with each breath. Pain radiated through my ribs with every inhale, sharp and insistent. Blood dripped from my nose onto the worn carpet, dark spots blooming against the faded beige.
The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made my hands shake. I could still feel the impact of my fists against flesh, could still hear the wet crack of breaking bone. The violence was still alive in my veins, making my pulse race and my skin feel too tight.
Hope moved past me without a word, her hand brushing my arm as she headed toward the small bathroom. The brief contact sent electricity through me despite the pain, despite everything. I heard the faucet turn on, the sound of water running, and then she reappeared with a clean white towel and a washcloth dampened with warm water.
The sight of her, so calm, focused, and moving with quiet purpose made something in my chest tighten. She wasn’t running. Wasn’t afraid. After everything she just witnessed, after the violence I’d unleashed, she was still here.
Still choosing me.
“Sit,” she said quietly, nodding toward the bed.
Why?I wanted to ask.Why aren’t you running? Why aren’t you looking at me like I’m a monster?Because that was whatI was. A killer. An executioner. A man who had just beaten two men bloody with his bare hands while she watched. And yet here she was, looking at me with those green eyes full of concern and something else. Something that looked dangerously like tenderness.
I didn’t argue. Just walked over and sank down onto the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight. My hands were still shaking. Adrenaline still coursed through my veins, mixing with the pain and exhaustion and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Hope kneeled in front of me, setting the towel and washcloth on the bed beside her. Her eyes swept over me, assessing the damage with a calm, clinical focus that reminded me she had grown up around this world. She had seen violence before. Knew what it looked like in the aftermath. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things. And as I watched her face, I waited for the moment she realized what I really was. What I would always be. A killer. A man who dealt in death and darkness. A man who would destroy everything he touched.
“Take off your cut,” she breathed.
I shrugged out of the leather, wincing as the movement pulled at my ribs. She took it from me and draped it carefully over the chair by the window, handling it with a reverence that made my throat tight. Not disgust. Not fear. Reverence. Like she understood what it meant to me, what it represented. Then she returned and stood in front of me, waiting. I pulled my T-shirt over my head, gritting my teeth against the pain. The fabric was stained with blood—mine and theirs—and I tossed it onto the floor without a second thought.
Hope’s breath hitched slightly as she took in the full extent of the damage. My ribs were already bruising, dark purple spreading across my side like spilled ink. My knuckles were split and bleeding, the skin torn from repeated impacts. And my nose.God, my nose was a mess. Swollen, crooked, blood still trickling down over my lips and chin.
But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She just picked up the damp washcloth and moved closer, settling onto the bed beside me. Her thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I felt some of the tension in my chest ease. The simple contact grounded me, reminded me I was here, I was real. I was still capable of feeling something other than rage and grief.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned, her voice gentle.
“I know.”
She started with my face, dabbing carefully at the blood around my nose. The cloth came away red, and she folded it, clean side up, then returned to her work. Each touch was deliberate, careful, and I found myself holding my breath, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had settled over us.
I watched her as she cleaned me. Watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her lips pressed together when she encountered a particularly nasty cut. Her hands were steady, sure, and impossibly gentle. She moved to my knuckles next, wiping away the blood and dirt, revealing the torn skin beneath. I hissed when she pressed the cloth against a particularly deep gash, and her eyes flicked up to mine.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be.”
She continued, her touch feather-light now, and I found myself mesmerized by the care she was taking. By the way she handled me like I was something precious, something worth saving.
No one has done this for me since Julie.
