Page 19 of Grim’s Angel

“Hound will have the first report in ten minutes,” he says. “The road team hasn’t found the sedan yet.”

Grim nods.

Striker’s gaze moves to my gloved hands. “You put the hole in him. There’s a pleasing symmetry to you helping repair it.”

“Leave,” Grim tells him.

Striker turns without hesitation. “Report in ten, Prez.”

Razor numbs the wound while I hold gauze beneath Grim’s shoulder. Grim does not flinch when the needle enters his skin, but his eyes remain fixed on my hands.

“Your medical room is better equipped than the clinic where I trained,” I say.

“It serves more than the club,” Razor answers. “The Sinners fund a shelter on the south side for women and children who need somewhere secure. Some arrive without medical records, insurance, or a safe explanation for their injuries.”

My fingers still against Grim’s skin.

“A motorcycle club runs a women’s shelter?”

“We own the building, pay the staff, and provide security,” Razor says. “People with more patience than us handle the daily operation.”

“And you provide medical care.”

“When they need it.”

Razor places the first stitch.

“We contain multitudes,” he adds.

I look at Grim. “You never mentioned the shelter.”

“Helping those women isn’t a story I use to make you trust me.”

The answer settles beneath my ribs.

“The Wolves made women disappear,” I say. “Your club protects them.”

“The Wolves taught you what a club can destroy. We built ours to protect what men like them leave behind.”

Shame warms my face. “I judged you by the cut.”

“You used the information you had.”

“You aren’t going to make me apologize?”

“I want you to judge what I do next.” His gaze holds mine. “Trust earned through guilt isn’t trust.”

There it is again, that unnerving way he takes the ground beneath my defenses without pushing.

Razor finishes the fourth stitch, covers the wound with a fresh dressing, and hands Grim a clean charcoal shirt from one of the cabinets.

“You keep shirts in here?” I ask.

“We keep everything in here,” Razor says. “Bikers are destructive creatures.”

Grim pulls the shirt over his head and settles his cut across his shoulders.

Razor’s attention drops to my wrist.