Page 119

Delaney pushed forward, ignoring the gravel cutting into her bare feet. Her torn shirt offered little protection from the cold October wind. Blood had dried along her cheek and beneath her nose. One eye was swollen enough to distort her vision, and every time she swallowed, she tasted copper. She needed to find a house, a gas station, or anyone willing to help her.

An engine growled in the distance, and Delaney froze. It wasn’t the rumbling SUV that had brought her to the isolated farmhouse. This sound was deeper and louder, reverberating through the night until it seemed to vibrate inside her battered body. It was a motorcycle.

She looked from the approaching light to the dense tree line. She didn’t know who was coming, but she couldn’t take the risk. Delaney limped into the weeds. Thorny branches snagged her clothes and scratched her arms as she fought her way toward the trees as the motorcycle drew closer. She made it several yards into the woods before her injured ankle twisted beneath her. Delaney hit the ground hard, knocking the air from her lungs as pain exploded through her ribs. A strangled cry escaped before she could stop it. The motorcycle passed her hiding place, and then the engine slowed. Delaney held her breath, praying that it kept going. The rider continued another twenty yards before turning around. The beam from the headlight swept across the woods as the motorcycle rolled back toward her.

“No,” she whispered. The bike came to a stop at the side of the road, and the engine fell silent. A kickstand scraped against the pavement before heavy boots touched the ground. Delaney wrapped her fingers around a fallen branch. One end had broken into a sharp point. It wouldn’t do much against a gun, but she wasn’t letting another man drag her anywhere without a fight.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel. “Hello?” a deep voice called. Delaney pressed herself closer to the ground. “I saw you leave the road.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and she held her breath so he wouldn’t hear her. “Are you hurt?” She didn’t answer.

The footsteps entered the weeds. Delaney raised the branch. “Stay back.”

The man immediately stopped. “All right.” His calm response surprised her. Most men didn’t listen when women told them to stop. “I’m staying right here,” he said. “Are you alone?”

“Go away,” she ordered.

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“Yes, you can. Just turn around and leave,” she said as though explaining to him how walking away worked would actually make him do it.

“I could.” There was a slight edge of humor in his voice. “But then I’d spend the rest of the night wondering why a barefoot woman covered in blood was wandering along an empty road.” Delaney tightened her grip on the branch. “Were you in an accident?” he asked.

“No,” she spat.

“Did someone hurt you?” he continued. She remained silent, and the beam from his flashlight shifted away from her face, illuminating the ground instead. In the softer glow, Delaney could finally see him. He was big. Not merely tall, but broad through his shoulders and chest. A black leather vest covered a dark thermal shirt, and faded jeans hugged powerful thighs. His hair was nearly black and cut short on the sides, with the longer strands on top pushed away from his face.

Ink covered the back of one hand and disappeared beneath his sleeve. His leather vest was covered in patches. One read TOXIC MONSTERS MC. Another identified him as the club’s Sergeant at Arms. The name stitched over his heart made her stomach twist. MAYHEM.

“Of course,” she muttered.

His eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“Your name is Mayhem,” she assessed.

“That’s what people call me,” he admitted.

“You’re a biker named Mayhem, and I’m supposed to believe you want to help me?” she asked.

“Fair point,” he conceded. He crouched several yards away from her, keeping his hands visible.

“What’s your real name?” she asked.

“Not relevant,” he insisted.

“That means it’s embarrassing,” she challenged.

“It means I haven’t heard it in long enough that I might not answer to it,” he explained. Despite the fear clawing through her, a broken laugh escaped. It hurt her ribs badly enough to make her gasp. Mayhem’s expression changed. The faint humor disappeared, replaced by a cold intensity that made him look far more dangerous than the leather vest or tattoos ever could.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Everything fucking hurt, but she wasn’t about to tell a total stranger that.

“Bullshit,” he countered. Delaney flinched, and Mayhem seemed to notice. His jaw tightened, but he lowered his voice. “I’m not angry with you.”

“You should go,” she insisted.

“And leave you here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, giving a slight nod of her head.