Chapter Three
NOTHING BEATS A long road trip on the back of his motorcycle.
Extended days of sun on his skin, wind in his face, and gorgeous scenery as far as the eye could see.
Sure, it meant a sore back, exhaustion, and the occasional wicked sunburn, but the time to clear his head and enjoy the rumble of his bike for endless stretches of road couldn’t be topped.
Out on the highway, shit made sense. Throttle, clutch, brake. Move or die.
This trip, he got lucky, barely hitting any traffic and only encountering picture-perfect weather the entire ride, so when he rolled across the town lines into Terrell, Texas, near six in the evening of his second day traveling, he was in a damn good mood.
He was also hungry as hell.
Beth would be surprised to see him for sure, and maybe a little suspicious of his motives, but it wasn’t uncommon for his brothers to pop into town and pay her a visit.
The club had a close personal and working relationship with an MC out in Arizona, and someone was always making the cross-country trip to visit or conduct business.
GPS guided him straight to Beth’s small apartment complex, which consisted of two three-level buildings and a packed parking lot.
He pulled his bike into a spot marked Prospective Tenants Only, right outside the leasing office.
Since it was a Sunday evening, the office was closed.
No one should fuck with his bike after hours, and if they did, well, he’d happily send them to the emergency room without a twinge of remorse.
No one touched his motorcycle without an engraved invitation, and he rarely issued those.
Before he dismounted, he did a quick recheck of the address Copper had texted him. Beth lived in apartment 2C. Simple enough.
His stomach growled loud enough to alert the entire complex to his arrival. Maybe he could convince Beth to go out for Tex-Mex once she got over the shock of his unannounced and uninvited visit.
Sorry, not sorry.
Especially if his trip helped clear the worry from Copper and Shell’s eyes.
As he climbed the outdoor staircase leading to the second floor, a loud thud had his well-honed danger senses prickling.
Most people would assume a tenant was rearranging furniture, but Saint had kicked enough asses to recognize the sound of a body being slammed against a wall.
A sharp, feminine cry, followed by a shouted, “No!” came floating down the stairwell, clear as day.
Shit.
His gut tensed for one second before his reflexes kicked in. He sprinted up the stairs two at a time, arriving on the second floor in time to hear a terrified sob coming from the apartment to his right.
Apartment 2C.
Protective instincts he worked hard to keep from spiraling out of control thundered to life inside him, shredding through his earlier good mood like paper.
He didn’t think twice. The part of him that belonged to the Hell’s Handlers—the enforcer-in-training, the patched brother, the ruthless bastard when necessary—took over.
He charged through the door like a raging bull.
The wood banged against the wall, then rebounded, slamming into his shoulder, but he barely felt the impact.
His entire attention narrowed to the large man with one hand around Beth’s throat and the other fisted in her hair, craning her neck up at an unnatural angle.
The soon-to-be-dead man.
Beth’s face was mottled red, eyes wide with panic, and lips parted as she fought for air. Bruises darkened the soft skin of her neck. Her bare feet scrabbled uselessly against the floor.
A roar ripped from Saint’s chest, raw and primal. He lunged, latching onto the asshole’s T-shirt and ripping him off Beth with one brutal yank.
The choked, strangled sound Beth made when the pressure vanished would haunt him for a long damn time.
Without a thought for what he might damage in the guy or Beth’s apartment, Saint flung him across the room, where he crashed into a coffee table and crumbled to the floor with a satisfying cry.
Wood splintered, and something glass shattered, but all Saint could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Fury boiled his blood, scorching hot and uncontrollable.
How fucking dare you touch one of ours?
He pounced before the prick had the chance to rise, planting his knee on the guy’s chest to keep him on the ground. “Who the fuck do you think you are? What the hell gives you the right to put your hands on her?” he shouted at the stunned and furious man.
“Who am I?” the piece of shit spat, wheezing beneath the pressure on his diaphragm. “I’m her fucking man. Who the fuck are you?”
Fuck that.
Saint spent enough time busting kneecaps with Zach over the years to learn how to put the fear of God in men with just one look, and this guy didn’t disappoint, paling beneath Saint’s deadly glare.
His lips curled in a sinister smirk as he leaned down and whispered, “I’m the man who’s gonna make you wish you’d learned the right way to treat your woman.”
The guy’s face contorted in anger. “Fuck y—”
Saint plowed his fist into the asshole’s face with a rewarding crunch.
White-hot satisfaction exploded across his knuckles.
The man howled and thrashed beneath his weight but was no match for the firestorm of fury coursing through Saint’s veins.
Over and over, he rammed his fist into that smug face until the eyes swelled and a red river ran from the nose.
His other hand fisted in the guy’s shirt, anchoring him as Saint turned his features into unrecognizable meat.
Time and space disappeared until nothing remained but the desire to inflict pain on this motherfucker who dared touch their club’s princess with anything but care.
Every scream from his childhood, every bruise he’d suffered, every protective instinct he had for his loved ones poured into each punch.
In the back of his mind, he heard the faintest shout, but couldn’t pull himself out of his rage haze. His heart pounded, his breath came in harsh grunts, and his world shrank to bloody knuckles and the satisfying give of bone.
After a few moments, Beth’s boyfriend went limp beneath him, but the lack of struggle wasn’t enough. Saint wanted to bathe in his blood for what he’d done to her.
This was nothing compared to what Copper would demand he do to the piece of shit.
He tensed with his fist cocked back for another blow.
There it was again, the low cry that penetrated deeper into his brain this time.
Beth.
Jesus Christ. Beth.
His body froze, hovering over her boyfriend’s still form. He hadn’t even checked on her. What kind of asshole was he?
Breathe.
His inner voice, the part of his brain that kept him sane and taught him to compartmentalize years of childhood trauma, whispered in his ear.
So he listened. Who was he to ignore the instinct that had helped him survive brutal beatings, psychological warfare, and working twelve-hour days as a small child?
He inhaled, drawing in the pine-laden scent of Beth’s apartment, tinged with her fear and the coppery tang of blood. His hand throbbed, knuckles already swelling, but the pain helped. After holding his breath for a brief second, he blew out slowly, then repeated the action.
Whether the deep breathing had a calming effect or the sound of Beth’s quiet sobs overrode his anger didn’t matter. The result was the same.
Still crouched over his prey, he turned his head and met the green-eyed gaze of his president’s beloved daughter.
The utter despair in her eyes punched him in the gut ten times harder than he’d hit the piece of shit on the floor.
Her dress, a short, flowy purple number, had a torn strap dangling.
Her gorgeous strawberry hair, which she’d clearly spent time curling, was mussed and tangled from her boyfriend’s rough grip.
Makeup she’d applied at some point ran from her eyes, streaking across her flushed cheeks and emphasizing the trauma she’d just endured.
Individually, each of those was enough to earn the boyfriend a solid beating, but when he added the bruises on her throat and the swelling on her cheek, the bastard would be lucky to survive the night.
Even traumatized and tear-streaked, she was stunning. The observation felt wrong, but his brain noted it anyway.
Shit, he’d made a mistake volunteering to be the one to check on her.
But none of that mattered now.
He rose with slow, sure movements, designed to keep from scaring her.
She’d just been assaulted, then witnessed him perform a spectacular act of violence.
Most likely, she wouldn’t be too keen to have another large man in her space.
As softly as he could manage in size twelve boots, he crossed the distance between them and kneeled before her.
Now that he was close, she averted her gaze, staring at her updrawn knees. Her shoulders shook with silent tremors.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered.
She shook her head immediately, a jerky, automatic denial.
Yeah, he didn’t buy that. She might not be hurt enough to need medical attention, but her throat had to be raw and her face throbbing. As soon as he got her out of there, he’d make damn sure to get some ice on her cheek.
“May I touch you?”
She tensed, muscles going tight as guitar strings.
“Just to check your neck and your face,” he added, keeping his voice low.
This time, he got a nod and a raspy, “Yes.”
As he lifted his hand, both their gazes locked on his torn and bloody knuckles. “Shit,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” she croaked.
He grunted. “Don’t even feel it. Too much adrenaline. My fingers are clean. Promise I won’t get that bastard’s blood on you.”
Gently as he could, he lifted her chin with one fingertip. There it was again, that punch to his solar plexus when their gazes collided. Those eyes had always been bright, sassy, full of mischief. Seeing them washed out with fear made something vicious curl in his chest.