Page 46 of Peak’s Code

“No, it’s delusion,” she teased.

His mouth twitched. “You seem to like to insult me every time things get too serious.”

Maeve looked away. “I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do.”

She wrapped her arms around her body, but Peak gently reached for her right hand before she could hide it. “Your palm is bleeding.” She looked down and saw that four small crescents marked her skin where her fingernails had cut into it. She hadn’t felt it happen.

Peak guided her toward the bed. “Sit,” he ordered.

“Now who’s being bossy?” she asked.

“I learned from you.” She sat on the edge of the mattress while he retrieved the tiny first-aid kit from the bathroom. He knelt in front of her, taking her hand again. The position felt strangely intimate. Peak’s head was bent over her palm, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he cleaned the cuts. His fingers were rough from years of working on motorcycles, but his touch was careful.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“I know, but you did it for me,” he said. “Besides, I want to.”

She watched him apply a thin strip of gauze. “You really believe Wren left that message?”

Peak looked up at her. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you do,” he whispered. He fastened the bandage around her palm. “Sometimes instinct recognizes a pattern before the brain catches up.” Maeve understood exactly what he meant. She’d spent years trusting code because code followed rules. People were harder. Hell, Peak was harder. Nothing about him fit into the categories she’d built for survival. He was a mechanic who could out-hack government contractors. A biker who carried a gun but bandaged her hand as if she might break, and he was a man who joked about everything except her pain.

“Tell me about your grandfather,” she said.

Peak’s hands stilled around hers. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

He sat beside her on the bed, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “My grandfather hated motorcycles.”

Maeve smiled. “That must have made your career choice interesting.”

“He called Dixon Customs an expensive rebellion,” Peak said.

“Was he right?” she asked.

“At first, yes.” Peak leaned back slightly. “Then I realized I was good at it.”

“At fixing bikes?” she asked.

“At fixing anything.” The words held more weight than they should have. Maeve looked down at their joined hands. “You couldn’t fix him, though.” She was guessing that was the case, but the look on his handsome face confirmed her suspicions.

“No, I couldn’t,” he admitted. His thumb moved once across the back of her hand. “I tried.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“Cancer.” The answer came quietly.

Maeve’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he whispered.

“How long?” she asked.