Page 11 of Striker’s Rebel

They’re bright even beneath the shitty parking-lot lights, and whatever punch I’ve taken to the chest over the years has nothing on the way those eyes land.

My body reacts immediately.

Hard.

Possessive.

Completely fucking unreasonable.

I don’t know her name.

Doesn’t matter.

Some primitive part of me has already decided I want to hear it coming from those lips.

Then I see her rubbing her upper arm.

Any thought involving her mouth disappears.

I cross the space between us. “You hurt?”

She glances down at herself as though she hasn’t considered it yet. “I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Her eyes snap back to mine.

There’s fire in them now.

Good.

I prefer that to fear.

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said you hurt?”

Her lips press together.

For a second, she looks like she might tell me to go fuck myself.

God help me, I want her to.

Instead, she mutters, “My shoulder hurts a little.”

I look at it.

Her sleeve has shifted enough to expose the skin beneath. Red marks are already rising where fingers dug into her upper arm.

Everything inside me goes cold.

I glance at the bastard who had her pinned.

“Him?”

Her gaze follows mine. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah.”