Page 27 of Contracted to the Bikers

I catch his wrist and twist hard until I feel it break like a twig with a satisfying crack. He howls, dropping the knife and sending it skittering across the floor. I kick out behind his knees and drive him down into the floor. One sharp blow to the back of his head and his eyes roll back, showing only whites before he crumples to the floor and goes still.

The room falls quiet except for the labored sounds of mine and Sloane’s breath, mine from exertion and hers from shock, coming in short, sharp gusts.

I straighten slowly, one hand pressed to my side, a bloom of blood wells on my shirt, spreading slowly. I shouldn’t have worn gray, I think absentmindedly, the stain will never come out. I lift my shirt, wincing as the fabric that has stuck to the wound peels away painfully. A quick glance confirms what I already knew—it’s not deep. Hurts like hell, though.

“Are you okay?” I ask Sloane, more concerned about her than me right now.

“I’m fine,” she says, then her eyes go to my shirt. “But you’re not.”

I shrug, even though the movement causes me to wince in pain. “Been worse.”

She steps closer, eyes scanning the cut, jaw tightening slightly. “We need to go.”

She’d make a damn good military commander. “Yeah.”

I offer no argument. It’s obvious that this was a trap, which means that more will no doubt come soon if they don’t hear from their goons.

How did they even know she was coming? I need to ask her once we’re out. We move quickly and quietly, slipping out the way I came in, not caring if the cameras see us now. The wail of a siren rings out, piercing the still night air. I suspect that the guard won’t come after us himself, but I brace myself to duck and cover should shots follow. I breathe a sigh of relief when none come. If we’re quick, we’ll be back in the safety of the clubhouse before reinforcements arrive.

The darkness embraces us like an old friend, shielding us and allowing us to move through the streets unseen. The walk back is quiet and contemplative, both of us poised to run or fight at any moment, should Briggs’ men catch up to us before we reach our home territory, safety.

Sloane stays close, one hand hovering near my arm like she’s ready to steady me if I falter. I don’t. But I notice the concerned glances she steals my way when she thinks I’m not looking.

Back at the clubhouse, she doesn’t ask permission, she doesn’t hesitate, she pushes me into a chair in the main room and disappears, returning seconds later with a first aid kit. “Take your shirt off.”

If I were Cruz, I’d tell a flirtatious joke to ease the tension. But I’m not, so I silently do as she commands. I know by now there’s no point arguing with Sloane. Besides, my wound needs to be taken care of, and it will hurt like a bitch trying to do it myself.

She works quickly and efficiently, her hands steady as she cleans the cut, the sting sharp enough to pull a low breath from my chest. “You need stitches,” she says.

“I’ll live.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. “You should go to the hospital.” Her words lack conviction; we both know I can’t do that, not without raising too many questions and landing us in a whole heap of trouble.

I won’t patronize her by pointing that out. “It’s just a nick. There’s superglue in the garage,” I offer.

She grimaces at the thought but goes to fetch it anyway. Silence settles between us as she cleans up the wound. The bleeding has slowed down, but I squeeze some glue along the seam. We do have a medic we can call on, but for something like this I’m not gonna wake him up.

I watch the way her brows pull together slightly as she tapes the wound up.

“How long have you been following me?” she asks without looking up.

I could lie and tell her this was the first time. She would have no way of knowing otherwise. “Since the second day,” I admit. Before this, the only thing she’s left the compound for was her runs, which were far less eventful but too risky for me to want to let her go alone. “Only when you leave the clubhouse. And I’m not following you, more making sure no one else follows…”

She pauses, taking in my confession, considering the implications. She doesn’t hesitate for long, just for a second. “Good,” she says quietly. “Thank you,” she adds.

That was not what I expected. Just when I think I have Sloane figured out, she surprises me. I’ve never heard her thank anyone.

I shrug slightly. “Part of the job.”

“No,” she says. “That wasn’t the job.”

No, it wasn’t. I don’t answer, there’s no need to.

She finishes wrapping the bandage, smoothing it into place with careful pressure. “You took down those two men like you were swatting flies,” she says. “How?”

I hesitate; my past isn’t something I like to discuss. “I was a Marine.”

She stills, studying me with fresh eyes. Has the gentle giant she saw me as been replaced by a killing machine? “For how long?”