Page 107 of Wade’s Wrath

“See you at church,” Butcher ordered. The call ended, and Ripper shoved the phone into his pocket. Nothing was happening. Sarah was a woman the club had rescued, and he was checking on her and making sure she ate. He was making sure she had somewhere safe to go, and that was it. Except he knew what coffee she liked, and now he knew cinnamon rolls made her smile. He knew exactly how many bites she'd taken without meaning to count. He knew she wasn't afraid of him. And he knew he'd already decided he was coming back tomorrow before she'd asked.

The elevator doors opened, and Ripper walked toward the hospital exit. Butcher was wrong. Nothing was happening. Nothing fucking could happen because Sarah needed time, safety, and choices. She needed a chance to figure out who she was after everything those bastards had taken from her. What she absolutely did not need was a violent biker with blood on his hands looking at her like she was already becoming something important.

Ripper pushed through the hospital doors, lit a cigarette, and took one drag. Then looked back at the fourth-floor windows. “Fuck.” Because for the first time in a long fucking time, Ripper had found something that scared him. It wasn’t a gun, a fight, and it wasn’t dying. A twenty-three-year-old blonde with bruises on her face and enough fire left inside her to call him an asshole. And the terrifying part was he was already looking forward to hearing her say it again.

SARAH

Sarah had been waiting eight months for freedom. Eight months of locked doors. Eight months of strange rooms. Eight months of being told when she could eat, sleep, shower, speak, breathe. So why did the idea of walking out of the hospital make her want to throw up?

She stared at the small pile of belongings on the bed—one gray sweatshirt, two pairs of leggings, underwear, socks, a toothbrush, a paperback Harlow had brought her, and the ridiculous pink duffel bag Princess had dropped off yesterday because, according to her, every woman deserved luggage that didn’t look depressing. That was it. Her entire life fit into one duffel bag.

Sarah swallowed. The hospital room suddenly felt too small, which was stupid. She’d spent days wishing she could leave, and now the nurse had removed the last IV; she signed the paperwork, went over the medications, and told her she was free to go—free. The word should have felt good. Instead, her chest tightened.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, reminding herself to breathe. She knew how to—in, out, in, out, but it didn’t feel natural. A knock sounded against the open door, and her entire body jerked.

“Sorry.” Ripper stood in the doorway as he had every single day she had been in the hospital. He was carrying a paper cup in one hand and her discharge paperwork in the other. His dark hair looked like he'd dragged his fingers through it on the drive over. He wore his typical black T-shirt, jeans, boots, and Savage Bastards kutte. He was big, tattooed, rough, and exactly the kind of man she should have been terrified of. Instead, something in her chest loosened as soon as she saw him, which was starting to seriously piss her off.

“You’re early,” she whispered.

Ripper looked at the clock. “I’m ten minutes late.”

“I expected you to be later,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“You seem like the kind of man who doesn't believe in schedules,” she assessed.

“I believe in schedules,” he grumbled. Sarah raised an eyebrow. “When people are getting shot at, I usually get there right on time.” She stared at him while she tried to decide if he was joking or not. Ripper’s mouth twitched. “Too soon?”

“Probably,” she admitted.

“Sorry,” he breathed.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don't look sorry.”

“I'm terrible at looking remorseful,” he admitted.

“That I believe,” he said.

His gaze moved over her face, then to the bed and the pink bag sitting on it. “What the fuck is that?”

Sarah looked at the duffel bag. “Princess gave it to me.”

“Of course she did,” he said.

“You don't like pink?” she asked.

“I don't have strong feelings about pink,” he admitted.

“You're staring at it like it personally offended you,” she pointed out.

“It has glitter on it,” he said. Sarah looked at the bag and noticed that there was, in fact, glitter.

She smiled. “Apparently every woman deserves cheerful luggage.”

“Princess say that?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed.