Chapter 21 Blood and Claiming
Chapter twenty-one
Blood and Claiming
Lena
Having him watch me work was foreplay I didn't expect.
Wednesday afternoon, and I'm in the back of my Mobile Mercy Unit treating a Viper—rival MC to everyone, equal opportunity assholes—who managed to get himself stabbed six times and still thinks hitting on me is a viable life choice.
Meanwhile, Zane's leaning against the van's door frame like he's posing for "Dangerous Men Monthly," watching me work with an intensity that makes my hands shake slightly as I prep the suture kit.
"This gonna hurt?" the Viper asks, blood bubbling from his mouth in a way that suggests punctured lung, which means he should be in an ER, not my van. But ERs mean cops, and cops mean questions, and here we are.
"Yes," I tell him, not bothering with bedside manner for someone whose vest proclaims him "Pussy Slayer" in unfortunate font choices.
"Maybe you could make it hurt less," he suggests, his hand moving toward my thigh.
Before I can react—before I can even process the audacity of bleeding out while sexually harassing your medical provider—Zane's there. Not touching, not threatening, just suddenly present in a way that makes the Viper's hand retreat like it's been burned.
"Touch her and I'll make sure you need more than stitches," Zane says conversationally, like he's discussing the weather, not threatening grievous bodily harm.
"Who the fuck are you?" The Viper tries to sit up, which is medically inadvisable given the whole punctured lung situation.
"The guy who's letting her save your worthless life instead of watching you bleed out. Now shut up and let her work."
My phone buzzes. I shouldn't check it—sterile field and all—but it's sitting face-up and I can see it's from Bad Decision.
Bad Decision: You look beautiful covered in blood.
I nearly drop my forceps. He's texting me while standing three feet away, while I'm elbow-deep in someone else's poor life choices.
“That's disturbing.” I mutter loud enough for him to hear
Bad Decision: That's us.
He's not wrong. We're disturbing on levels that would require therapeutic intervention if either of us believed in therapy instead of mutual destruction via sexual tension.
I focus on suturing, but I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging every movement. The way I bite my lip when I'm concentrating. The efficiency of my hands despite the shaking. The fact that I'm saving someone who five minutes ago tried to grope me.
Bad Decision: Good girl, saving even the unworthy.
Those two words hit like a defibrillator to my vagina. I fumble the suture, have to redo it, while the Viper groans and Zane watches and my body performs its own rebellion against medical professionalism.
"You're enjoying this," the Viper says, because apparently blood loss doesn't cure stupidity.
"The medical challenge? Always," I respond, tying off another suture with perhaps more force than necessary.
"I meant him watching." He tries to nod toward Zane but winces. "You two fucking?"
"Not yet," Zane answers before I can, and the 'yet' hangs in the air like a promise and a threat and a diagnosis of inevitable disaster.
Tommy appears in the doorway with a box—medical supplies, the good stuff, not the expired donations I usually work with.
"Where did these come from?" I ask, though I already know.
"Anonymous donation," Tommy says with a straight face that suggests he's about as good at lying as I am at making sensible romantic choices.
"I can't accept—"
"You can and you will," Zane interrupts. "Call it payment for saving Ranger last week."
"I don't charge for—"
"Then call it a gift."
"I don't accept gifts from—"
"From what? Enemies? Strangers? Men who've seen you naked?"
The Viper's eyes go wide. "You've seen her—"
"Medical emergency," I say quickly, possibly too quickly. "Hypothermia. It was professional."
Zane's laugh is low and dangerous. "Nothing about us is professional."
My phone buzzes again.
Bad Decision: You're blushing.
“I'm flushed from exertion,” I mutter under my breath.
Bad Decision: Liar. You're thinking about the van. About my hands. About what's going to happen when you're done saving this worthless life.
Nothing's going to happen.
Bad Decision: Everything's going to happen.
I finish the last suture, my hands somehow steady despite my internal organs staging what feels like a coup. The Viper will live, unfortunately. He'll heal, probably continue being terrible, definitely tell everyone that the Ghost Clinic nurse has some Iron Talons connection.
"You're done," I tell him. "Don't remove the sutures for two weeks. Keep it clean. Try not to get stabbed again."
"What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. I don't charge for stupidity. I'd be rich if I did."
He stumbles out, Tommy helping him with a grip that's more restraint than assistance. And then we're alone. Zane and me and the blood-stained exam table and enough sexual tension to require its own hazmat classification.
"You shouldn't be here," I say, peeling off nitrile gloves that are more red than purple.
"Neither should you."
"This is literally my van."
"Treating Vipers. Alone. No backup."
"I've been doing this for years."
"Not with me watching."
"No," I agree. "That's new."
He steps closer. I should step back. I don't.
"That turned you on," he says, not a question. "Having me watch."
"That's a completely inappropriate—"
"Your pupils are dilated. Pulse visible at your throat—probably 100 BPM. Slight tremor in your hands that has nothing to do with fatigue."
"Are you diagnosing my arousal?"
"I'm observing. You taught me that. Medical observation."
My phone explodes with Miguel's ringtone.
Miguel: Where are you? Need to talk.
"I have to go," I say.
"No, you don't."
"Miguel needs—"
"Miguel doesn't know what you need."
"And you do?"
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell that cedar cologne mixing with leather and danger. "I know you need to be touched by hands that don't heal. Kissed by someone who matches your damage. Claimed by—"
"I'm nobody's to claim."
"You're already mine. You just haven't admitted it yet."
My phone rings again. Miguel. Again.
"Answer it," Zane says. "Tell him you're working."
I do, because not answering would be worse. "Hey."
"Where are you?"
"Working. Mobile unit. Just finished with a patient."
"Viper?"
How does he—? Of course. Phoenix is smaller than it seems when you're in the MC world.
"I treat everyone, Miguel."
"I know. That's the problem. I'm ten minutes out. We need to talk about your safety."
He hangs up. I stare at Zane.
"You have to go. Now. Miguel's coming."
"Let him."
"He'll kill you."
"He'll try."
"This isn't a game—"
He kisses me. Quick, claiming, tasting like terrible coffee and worse decisions. Then he's gone, out the back of the van and on his bike before I can process what just happened.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Bad Decision: Next time, you won't be able to send me away.
There can't be a next time.
Bad Decision: There's always a next time with us.
I clean the blood from my van, pretending not to notice the shadow shifting behind the back doors.
Knowing he didn’t actually leave.
Knowing Miguel's about to arrive and interrogate me about my safety while I'm systematically destroying it.
While the danger I can’t resist is hiding three feet away.
Great. Just great.