Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I’m still processing the facts when I grab her.
She wrecked the car and was stumbling around like a drunk and there’s a very real chance she’s got serious injuries.
There’s barely a fucking stitch of clothing on her, and pasties count for more than fifty percent of that.
And…
She’s the daughter of the Prez of the Daggers MC.
Jesus fuck.
Not only that, we’re gonna have a war on our hands the minute her father’s men come down that road. Because I’m not giving her back.
“Let me go!” She screams. Scratches my arms with her claws, and kicks the shit out of my shin with that goddamned ice-pick on her shoe.
I flip her over my shoulder. Gripping her thigh with my hand hard enough to leave marks. So sue me.
Her fists pound at my back, then she goes still.
“Wait,” she shouts, stiffening. “You’re not wearing a cut.”
“Guess you didn’t totally fuck your brain up by driving that piece-of-shit like a goddamned race car.”
She’s still rigid as a board as I jog back to my bike.
“Who the hell are you?” she yells. “Put me down.”
A frustrated growl rumbles in my chest. “You want to live?”
“Of course I want to live, you idiot!”
“Then you’ll do exactly what I say.”
When I set her on the ground, her chin is up, dark green eyes flashing in the darkness as she snaps, “You’re not with the Daggers, are you?”
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Up close, the woman is dangerous.
“Get on the bike.”
She looks at my Harley like it’s a burning barrel of gasoline.
“No.”
I grab her chin, forcing the spitfire to look up at me and words that make zero fucking sense inside my head roll off my tongue. “You don’t have a say.”
“Fu—”
Her word stops abruptly when I close my hand around her throat, with a dark, possessive energy surging through me.
Feeling her pulse gallop below my fingers, I lean in next to her ear, my own heart rate surging to match hers.
“Don’t push me,” I rasp, “I’m saving your ass from whatever the hell made you run like the fucking devil was on your tail. So shut that smoking hot mouth and get on my bike.”
When I let go, her expression is shell-shocked.
With my moral compass pin-wheeling, I point to the bike.
She hobbles over with that one goddamned shoe, blood running down her legs.
I swore I’d never kidnap an innocent woman again. That was before Gigi Harlow climbed out of that wreck and tried to run from me.
“Give me your leg.”
She freezes, when I drop to a knee next to her. In a hoarse voice, she asks, “What are you doing?”
“Getting rid of this ankle-breaker.” She flinches when I flick open my switchblade.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” I look up at her, with hunger that’s not welcome smoldering inside of me. “Unless you want me to.”
She gasps softly, a tremor running through her entire body as I take her slender ankle in my hand.
God above. I’ve never seen legs so toned or so smooth. My mouth fills with sawdust, my dick growing with every thud of my heart.
I hold her ankle for a second too long after slicing the strap and when I stand up, those fuckable lips are open, her pupils dilated.
She watches me with confusion creasing her forehead, still breathing erratically, as I shed my coat and slip it around her shoulders.
“You’re a fucking mess. We need to get these cuts cleaned up.”
I zip her up to the neck and put my helmet on her head. She stands statue still—probably contemplating my murder.
Because if any woman knows how to slice your throat, it’s Gigi Harlow, Daggers MC princess.
“Get on the bike,” I growl as adjust my now fully erect cock.
She doesn’t argue this time, but I see the tornado on the horizon.