Page 18 of Wade’s Wrath

“Wouldn't be the first asshole to try,” he drawled.

“Frank could come after the guys in your club,” she warned.

“That'd be a mistake,” he mumbled.

“You don't understand how powerful these people are,” Harlow almost whispered.

Wade squeezed her hand gently. “And you don't understand how little I give a fuck.” Her eyes lifted to his, and she could see that he meant it. That should have scared her. Instead, something inside her settled.

“You barely know me. Why would you do all of this for me?” she asked.

Wade looked down at their hands, and when his eyes returned to hers, something had changed in them. “I don't know yet.” Yet. That single word sent warmth through her chest. Wade released her hand and stood. “Try to get some sleep.”

She nodded as he reached the doorway. “Wade?” He looked back. “Could you—” She stopped as embarrassment burned through her.

“Could I what?” he asked.

Harlow hated herself for needing to ask. “Could you leave the door open?”

His expression softened. “Yeah, honey.”

“And maybe—” She swallowed.

“What?” he asked.

“Don't go downstairs yet.” Wade stared at her for a second, then walked back to the chair and sat down.

“Get some sleep,” he said.

“You don't have to stay all night,” she assured.

“I know.” Harlow settled beneath the blankets. The exhaustion returned almost immediately. She watched Wade through heavy eyelids. “You're really going to sit there?”

“Looks that way,” he said.

“The chair can't be much better than the couch,” she countered.

“It's not,” he admitted.

“Good night, Wade,” she said around a yawn.

“Night, runaway bride.”

Her eyes opened. “I told you not to call me that.”

His grin appeared. “Go to sleep, Harlow.” She wanted to argue, but her eyes were already closing. The last thing Harlow saw was Wade sitting in the chair beside the door, with arms crossed over his bare chest, watching over her. And when sleep finally pulled her under again, she wasn't dreaming about Frank. She wasn't dreaming about her father. For the first time in years, Harlow dreamed about running. Only this time, nobody caught up with her.

WADE

Wade hadn’t slept, not that he was complaining—much. The chair was a medieval fucking torture device, his neck hurt like hell, and at some point during the night, his left foot had gone numb. Still, he hadn’t moved. Harlow had asked him to stay, so he fucking stayed. It was as simple as that. Or at least, that was what Wade told himself as he sat in the predawn darkness watching a woman he’d known less than twelve hours sleep in his bed. There was nothing simple about this situation and nothing smart about it either. Butcher had been right—Wade was fucked.

Harlow shifted beneath the blankets and made a quiet sound in her sleep. Wade immediately straightened, watching for signs that another nightmare was coming, but she settled again, and he released a breath. Christ. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't this guy. Wade didn't bring women home. Technically, that wasn't true. He occasionally brought women home, but they didn't stay. They sure as hell didn't sleep in his bed while he sat guard in a chair because they were afraid of having another nightmare. The women he brought home knew the deal—they could stay for a few hours, have some fun, and then they went home happy. There were no expectations and no bullshit, which was exactly how Wade liked it.

Harlow Kane was nothing but expectations and bullshit wrapped in one tiny, gorgeous package. She came with an abusive asshole of a former fiancé, a powerful father, possible human trafficking, and enough trouble to put the entire Savage Bastards MC on alert, and Wade still couldn't make himself regret opening that fucking door for her. He looked at her wrist. The bruises seemed darker this morning. He could see Frank's finger marks, and that made his jaw clench. He should've pulled the trigger last night. It would've saved everybody a lot of trouble, but shooting a man in the face on the front porch of his bar would've created paperwork, and Wade fucking hated paperwork.

Harlow rolled onto her side, and the blanket slipped down her body, revealing her perfect ass in just her panties. Wade immediately looked toward the ceiling. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. The oversized Savage Bastards shirt had ridden halfway up her thigh, and he was a man, not a goddamn saint.

Christ, Harlow was beautiful. Even with mascara still smudged beneath her eyes and her blonde hair tangled across his pillow, she was the kind of beautiful that made a man stupid, and Wade had never considered himself stupid—until now.