Chapter 9
Jordan
Natalie is in the bedroom getting dressed for breakfast when my phone rings. One look at the screen kills whatever softness the morning left in me.
Ghost.
I answer and move to the windows. “Richmond.”
“Need rooms.”
That is Ghost on a chatty day.
He is the enforcer for the Damned Saints MC, a man I crossed paths with in the military and never once mistook for harmless. The Saints have blood on their hands, rules of their own, and a reputation that makes smart men step aside. But when women need pulling out of hell before the rest of the world finishes paperwork, they are usually the ones kicking in the door.
“How many?” I ask.
“Six young girls, rescued from a trafficking house.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “Medical?”
“Handled. Need safe and quiet.”
“You’ll have the north lodge cabins.”
A pause follows. “Locks on the inside? They asked.”
Something cold moves through my chest. “In every room.”
“Good.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and stare out at the mountains for one second longer than I need to, because six young girls asking about locks is the kind of thing that stays under a man’s skin.
Natalie steps out of the bedroom in a soft blue dress from the wardrobe delivery, her hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks still pink from the shower. The sight of her hits hard after a call like that. Warm skin, soft mouth, and eyes that have not learned every ugly thing men can do when they decide women are things.
I want her untouched by all of it.
Her smile fades. “Everything okay?”
“No.”
She comes closer. “Jordan?”
“Something I need to handle.” I touch her chin, tilting her face up because I cannot help myself. “Go down to breakfast. I’ll be there soon.”
“I can wait.”
“I don’t want you waiting hungry.”
Her mouth softens. “Bossy before breakfast. Brave choice.”
I brush my thumb along her lower lip. “Careful.”
There is the blush I wanted.
“Go,” I say.
