Page 113 of Wade’s Wrath

“Don't,” she breathed.

“Didn't say shit,” he said.

“You're thinking it,” she said.

“What am I thinking?” he asked.

“That I need help,” she guessed.

“You do need help,” he said. She glared at him, and Ripper shrugged. “You want me to lie?”

Sarah sighed. “No.”

“Can I help?” he asked. She hated needing to answer him. She hated needing help. She hated all of this. But then, she remembered what he'd said upstairs about her having a choice.

“Yes, I could use some help,” she admitted. Ripper slowly moved closer.

“Waist okay?” he asked. Her stomach flipped. Not from fear. Jesus.

She swallowed. “Yes.” His hands settled carefully at her waist—large and warm as he easily lifted her into the truck, like she weighed nothing. Sarah grabbed his shoulders, and for one second, they were too close. His face was inches from hers, and all she could do was focus on his dark eyes and beard. The faint smell of leather and smoke hung in the air between them, with something warmer beneath it. Her heart skipped, and Ripper noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. His hands immediately released her once she was seated.

“You good?” he asked.

Sarah looked away. “Yes.” Liar.

“Seat belt,” he said.

“I know how cars work,” she drawled.

“Wasn't sure,” he teased.

“Asshole.” He shut the door, smiling. Sarah watched him walk around the truck with his broad shoulders, dark hair, and confident stride. He looked like trouble—absolute fucking trouble.

He climbed behind the wheel. “Ready?” Sarah looked through the windshield. The hospital stood behind them. The clubhouse was somewhere ahead, but to her it was just another place she'd never seen, with another room, another bed, and another set of men. Her fingers curled against her thigh. Ripper didn't start the truck, and Sarah looked at him.

“Why aren’t we going?” she asked.

“We don't have to go yet,” he insisted.

“You said we’re going to the clubhouse,” she reminded.

“It will still be there in ten minutes,” he assured. “We can just sit here.”

Sarah stared at him. “You'd just sit here?”

“Yep,” he breathed.

“For how long?” she asked.

“As long as you need,” he assured.

Her throat tightened as she looked through the windshield again. “No.” Ripper waited as Sarah took a deep breath in and released it. “Let's go.”

“You sure?” he asked.

She almost smiled. “Yes.” He started the truck, and she took another deep breath. This time, she didn’t let it out. Sarah had a feeling that she was going to be doing that a lot now—holding her breath, waiting for the next bad thing to happen to her. But somehow, having Ripper by her side made her feel a little more at ease, which was crazy, because how could the big, bad biker help ease any of her pain?

The Savage Bastards clubhouse looked exactly like Sarah had expected it to, which was not reassuring. There were motorcycles, big metal buildings, men in leather cuts, and a high fence around the property. Her stomach twisted the second Ripper turned into the drive. A prospect opened the gate, and Sarah's pulse jumped.