Page 16 of Grim’s Angel

Motorcycles fill the bays of a converted brick warehouse, and men wearing the same black leather cuts watch us roll across the yard. No one rushes toward Grim. His arrival registers across the entire property, conversations pausing and bodies turning before the engine goes quiet.

A tall man waits beside the clubhouse steps with tattooed arms folded across his chest. His hair is the color of dirty sand, and his rugged face carries the weathered edges of someone who has survived several lives already. Sharp green eyes track Grim, the yard, and me in a single sweep.

Several brothers work nearby, but each glances toward him before continuing.

When Grim kills the engine, the man pushes away from the steps.

“That scarf is doing more work than your definition of a minor graze, Prez.”

Grim removes his helmet. “Razor ready?”

“Medical room’s open, watch is doubled, and Hound has men searching for the sedan.”

Grim gives him a single nod.

The exchange lasts seconds, but I understand something important. Grim trusts this man to carry out an order before he finishes giving it.

The man’s gaze drops to the bruises around my wrist. Every trace of humor leaves his face.

“You must be McKenna.”

“I recognize your voice. You’re the one who laughed when Grim said I shot him.”

His mouth threatens a smile. “Briefly.”

“Striker.”

Grim says his name quietly.

Striker’s expression sharpens. “She’s secure. Every brother on the property has his orders.”

The laughter from the phone concealed something harder. The man standing in front of me misses nothing, and Grim requires only one word to bring his full attention to the surface.

Striker waits until we are closer before lowering his voice.

“We don’t get many visitors who shoot the president before introductions.”

I close my eyes. “I didn’t know he was the president when I shot him.”

Grim dismounts and turns toward me. “Would knowing have improved your aim?”

“It might have improved my decision to accept a loaded weapon from you.”

“There she is,” Striker says. “I like her.”

Grim gives him a look that could strip paint.

“In a respectful way,” Striker adds.

Despite myself, I laugh.

Grim’s attention returns to me, and the hard line of his mouth eases as though the sound belongs to him. He raises his hands but waits until I nod before placing them around my waist.

My body slides down the front of his.

The contact lasts only a second. It is still long enough for heat to sweep from my throat to places that have no business reacting while his blood dries on my scarf.

His hands remain at my waist after my boots reach the ground.