Page 10 of Grim’s Angel

“I’m newly licensed. Suturing isn’t something I’m going to improvise in a bus station because an overgrown biker refuses to admit he needs medical care.”

“Overgrown?”

She looks from one shoulder to the other. “The evidence supports the diagnosis.”

“The clubhouse is ten minutes away. We have a medical room.”

She looks up at me. “Your motorcycle club has a medical room?”

“My club has whatever I say it needs.”

Those hazel eyes narrow. “Do you always answer questions like a dictator?”

“You’ll get used to that.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

So do I.

Women usually agree with me because of the cut, the club, or what they want from my bed. McKenna argues while holding gauze against a gunshot wound she put in me.

I should find her exhausting.

My cock finds her fascinating.

Her gaze drops to my shoulder again, and she presses folded gauze over the wound.

White heat tears down my arm.

The rain changes.

The station disappears beneath rotor wash and sand. Blood runs between my fingers, too hot and too fast. Diaz lies ten feet away with half his chest gone while Mercer screams for someone to help him.

Command keeps telling us to move.

Nobody is coming back for the bodies.

My lungs lock.

“Grim.”

McKenna’s voice reaches me through the gunfire.

A hand covers mine.

“Look at me.”

I find hazel eyes instead of desert brown. Freckles replace blood. Rain replaces sand, but my body has not received the message.

“Breathe with me,” she says.

I do not take orders during an episode. Striker served with me, and he learned that years ago. The rest of the club knows to give me space until I drag myself out.

McKenna gives me a route through the noise, and I take it.

I follow the rise of her chest and the cadence of her breath. Four counts in, a pause, and six counts out. My pulse quits trying to tear through my throat.

The station returns around us.