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He strolls out of my room with me thrashing about.
Everyone has a panic response, right? Fight or flight. Well, my brain chooses to fight.
“You son of a bitch! Put me down. I am not a sack of potatoes!” I shriek out in protest as I kick and punch all I can.
Next thing I know, my back is slammed up against the wall before Browning’s arm slams across my chest, pinning me to the wall.
“I will treat you however I damn well feel like it, little lady,” he sneers, but I still fight against his grasp.
“I’m not a little lady and I have a name, asshole,” I hiss in response, fighting against him even more, but then he pulls his arm back. His palm connects with my cheek with stunning accuracy and hatred, sending me to the floor in a heap. A moment later, his steel-toed boot slams into my stomach, leaving a similar sting as my cheek. All it took was two hits and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Fucking whore.”
I can barely breathe, let alone defend myself—verbally or physically. I’m helpless and hopeless. I can’t save myself and there’s no one here to save me.
Or so I thought.
There’s a small scuffle and I look up to see a shadowy figure standing in front of me, blocking me from Browning and his cruel blows.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?” Browning voice booms and I almost cower, but it hurts too much to move.
“We’re in Reaper territory. We need to leave before they hear about us trespassing.” My heart jumps into my throat when I recognize the voice.
Are you lost, darling? This is the last place a pretty thing like you should be.
It’s him, the handsome creeper from outside the bar. It suddenly makes so much sense. He wasn’t being an ass outside the bar. He was trying to warn me—trying to save me from this fate.
He doesn’t know me from Eve and yet he stands between me and the psychopath who wants to kidnap me like a protective shield.
“He’s right, boss. The last thing we need is a war with the Reapers.” One of the other guys backs up the creeper and Browning backs down.
“Fine. Get her to the clubhouse, Gunner. Can you get that right?” Browning charges out of my apartment along with five burly bikers behind him, slamming the door as they go.
I have a moment to calm my racing heart before my savior turns to me and squats down on his haunches. “Can you get up?” he asks, his voice deep and commanding, before it takes on a tender tone, his eyes soft with concern.
I try my best to sit up, but it hurts too much so I shake my head. He nods and lifts me up into his arms. My wrists loop around his neck and find myself staring straight into those pools of chocolate, gold, and emerald tones.
I’ve never seen such eyes—so focused and captivating.
He carries me over to the kitchen and sets me on the counter like a fragile artifact—easily broken, impossible to mend. My hand instinctively presses against my stomach, where my ribs ache, and I watch him walk right over to the fridge. He pulls open the freezer door and pulls out a bag of frozen vegetables like he’s been here a million times before.
“Let me take a look,” he demands and doesn’t wait for my consent. He just lifts my shirt up to the underwire of my nude, lace bra.
Subtlety is not his strong suit.
With a gentle touch, he runs his callous-covered fingers along the ridges of my ribs, his eyes concentrated on his journey. I flinch when his finger connects with the tender spot and his gaze snaps to mine.
“How bad does that hurt?” he asks.
“Hurts worse to move,” I admit.
He presses the frozen bag against the tender spot and takes my hand, bringing it to the bag. I take it from him and he takes a step back.
Is he uncomfortable touching me? He is one strange specimen.
He leans against the counter opposite of me, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes dash up and down my body. I can’t quite decipher his expression. Is he checking me out or just assessing me for more injuries?
The silence drags on until he takes the bag of frozen vegetables back and tosses it in the freezer.
