Page 10 of Wade’s Wrath

“You can't just decide that,” she said.

“Sure I can,” he countered.

“No, you can't,” she insisted.

“Just did,” he said with a shrug.

“You are unbelievably irritating,” Harlow spat.

“I've been told,” he said.

“Frequently, I imagine,” she added. His lips twitched—damn him. Why did he keep almost smiling at her like that? And why did she keep noticing? “I don't know you,” she reminded him.

“Nope, you don’t,” he agreed.

“You could be a serial killer,” she said.

“That’s possible,” he breathed. Her mouth fell open, and Wade chuckled—actually chuckled. The sound was low and rough and did something strange to her stomach.

“That isn't funny,” she insisted.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s a little funny.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted. She wanted to stomp her foot for good measure, but decided against it.

“So am I. You don't know me, and you shouldn't blindly trust me.” That answer surprised her. Most dangerous men spent a lot of time convincing people they weren't dangerous. Wade seemed perfectly comfortable admitting that he was.

“Then why would I go home with you?” she asked.

“Because you already know what happens if Frank finds you,” he reminded. The little bit of humor she'd been feeling disappeared. Wade seemed to regret the words immediately. His expression softened. “I'm not trying to scare you, Harlow.”

“You don't have to. Frank already took care of that,” she grumbled under her breath.

His gaze dropped to her wrist, and she instinctively covered it. “I won't hurt you.” Her heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze. She'd heard those words before. Frank had said them, her father had said them, and she learned quickly that men had a funny way of defining hurt when they were the ones causing it.

“You can't promise that,” she insisted.

“Yes, I can.” His certainty made her look at him.

“You don't even know me,” she reminded.

“Don't need to know you to know I don't hit women,” Wade said.

“That's not the only way someone can hurt you,” she said.

Something dark moved through his eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “It's not.” For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Wade pushed away from the bar. “Finish eating. We'll leave when the rain lets up.”

Harlow planted her hands on her hips. “There you go, ordering me around again.”

“Get used to it,” he said.

“I'd rather not,” she countered.

“Then we're gonna have fun.” She glared at his back as he walked away and noticed that the infuriating bastard was smiling.

An hour later, the rain hadn't stopped. If anything, it had gotten worse. Butcher had sent most of the club home, leaving two prospects behind to help Wade close. Another couple of Savage Bastards were apparently going to stay outside and keep an eye on the place in case Frank returned. Harlow didn't know how she felt about that. These men didn't know her, and they owed her nothing. Yet they'd drawn guns and stood between her and Frank without hesitation. Her own father hadn't done that for her, and that realization hurt more than she wanted to admit.

She sat at the bar now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants she'd had to roll several times at the waist, and an oversized Savage Bastards T-shirt one of the men had found in a storage room. Her wedding dress was stuffed inside a black trash bag. She'd stared at it for a long time before Wade tied the bag shut. Twenty thousand dollars worth of satin and lace. Her father had insisted on paying for it because, according to him, a Kane didn't walk down the aisle in something cheap. Now it was covered in mud and blood and sitting beside a bar dumpster. Harlow couldn't remember ever hating anything more than she did that dress.