Ripper #2
“No.” Her eyes met his. “You didn't.” Something passed between them—something that Ripper didn't like. Actually, that was a lie because he liked it too fucking much. Sarah looked down at her cinnamon roll. “You waited until I came to you.”
“Wasn't my choice to make,” he said.
Her fingers stopped moving. “What?”
Ripper shrugged. “You didn't want me touching you. So I didn't.”
“You were trying to rescue me,” she said.
“Didn't mean I got to grab you and force you to do something that you didn’t want to do,” he said. Sarah stared at him like he'd said something profound, but he hadn't. It was basic fucking decency—at least it should've been.
“You really think that?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
She looked away. “Most men don't.” Rage hit so fast Ripper had to lock his jaw to keep from cursing.
He knew what she meant. He didn't need details.
Hell, he didn't fucking want details—not because he couldn't handle hearing them, because if he knew names, he'd go looking.
Some of those men were probably already dead, but not enough of them.
“Those weren't men,” he growled.
Sarah looked at him. “What?”
“The fuckers who hurt you,” he said. His voice came out rough. “They don't get to represent the rest of us.”
She studied him. “You're as violent as they were.” He guessed that seeing him kill a man was enough for her to make that assessment of him. She was right, too.
Ripper almost laughed. “Yeah.”
“You're in a motorcycle club,” she said.
He looked down at his cut and nodded back at her. “Also true,” he agreed.
“I saw you kill a man,” she reminded.
“Yep,” he said.
“You're not exactly the poster boy for safe choices.”
That one made him smile. “No, sweetheart. I'm probably the fucking warning label.”
Her cheeks tinted the cutest shade of pink, and Ripper noticed.
He wished he hadn't called her sweetheart.
Fuck. He needed to watch doing that kind of shit.
She already had enough shit to deal with without some biker flirting with her because his brain stopped functioning every time she looked at him.
“I should probably be afraid of you,” she assessed.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“But I'm not.” Ripper's smile disappeared. Sarah seemed surprised by her own admission. “So that's weird to admit aloud, right?”
“Yeah, it is,” he said.
“You agree?” she asked.
“I'm scary as fuck,” he admitted. That earned him another laugh, which worked better for him. He could deal with her laughter. Ripper sat back. “Don't force anything with me,” he warned.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“You should feel whatever is real, Sarah—fear, trust, whatever.”
Sarah's expression became guarded. “I'm not forcing anything with you, Ripper.”
“Good.” He nodded toward the cinnamon roll. “Eat.”
Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You've had three bites, and you’ve got to be hungry,” he said.
“You've been counting how many bites I’ve taken?” she asked.
Shit. “No,” he lied. He wasn’t about to tell her that he noticed her untouched breakfast tray as he walked into her room.
“You just said that I’ve only taken three bites of my cinnamon roll,” she reminded.
“Lucky guess,” he said.
“Liar,” she challenged.
Ripper grinned. “Eat the damn cinnamon roll.”
“You're bossy,” she whispered.
“It’s a club requirement,” he teased.
“Yeah, I’ve met Wade, and he’s worse than you are,” she assessed.
“Wade is way worse than me,” Ripper agreed.
“Harlow seems to like it,” she said.
“Harlow likes arguing with him,” Ripper corrected.
“She does,” Sarah agreed.
“Poor bastard,” Ripper grumbled, making her smile.
Ripper found himself staring at her. He shouldn't, and he knew that.
Sarah wasn't some woman at Wade's bar he could flirt with.
She'd been through hell. She was recovering and healing from scars that no one could see.
Sarah was trying to figure out what her life looked like after eight months of having every choice taken from her.
The last thing she needed was him complicating it.
So why the fuck couldn't he stay away from her?
A knock sounded against the open door, and Sarah flinched. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but Ripper noticed. A doctor stepped inside. “Ms. Mitchell?”
Sarah straightened. “Yes?”
The doctor glanced at Ripper. “Are you family?” the doctor asked.
“No,” Sarah said a bit too quickly.
Ripper stood. “I'll head out.”
The relief that should've followed didn't come. Instead, Sarah looked at him. “Wait.” Ripper stopped, and the doctor waited as Sarah's fingers tightened around the blanket. “You can stay.”
He stared at her. “You sure?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Sarah—” Ripper started. He wanted to tell her that he was fine with giving her privacy, but she quickly cut him off.
“I said yes.” There was a little bite in her voice, and Ripper smiled as he sat back down.
The doctor checked the chart. “Your bloodwork looks much better.
Your iron is still low, but that's not unexpected. If everything continues this way, I think we can discharge you tomorrow.” Sarah froze, and Ripper felt it immediately.
She should be happy to be going home tomorrow, except Sarah didn't have a home—not anymore.
Her apartment had been given up months ago after she'd disappeared.
Her parents lived in Ohio, and according to Harlow, Sarah hadn't told them everything yet.
The doctor kept talking about follow-up appointments, medication, counseling, and nutrition.
Sarah nodded at all the right places, but Ripper noticed that her breathing had changed.
Her fingers twisted the blanket, and by the time the doctor left, she was staring at the doorway.
Ripper waited her out, but she didn’t speak. “Sarah.”
“I'm fine,” she quickly lied.
“No, you're not,” he insisted.
She looked over at him. “You don't know me well enough to decide that.”
“That’s fair,” he agreed. That seemed to surprise her. Ripper leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So tell me.”
“Tell you what?” she spat.
“What's wrong?” he asked. “Being discharged from this place should make you happy.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she lied.
“Bullshit,” he breathed.
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe I don't want to tell you.”
“Then don't.” She blinked over at him like he had lost his mind, and Ripper shrugged. “You don't owe me shit.”
Something about that made her shoulders loosen—just barely, though. “I don't know where I'm supposed to go when they discharge me,” she admitted.
Ripper didn't answer immediately, because his first instinct was stupid.
He wanted to tell her to come home with him, but that was absolutely not fucking happening.
He lived alone, and Sarah barely knew him.
Inviting a traumatized woman he'd known for a week to move into his house was exactly the kind of fucked-up decision Butcher would beat him over the head for. So he went with the less insane option.
“The club will help,” he offered.
Sarah's expression closed. “I don't want charity.”
“Didn't say it was going to be charity,” he said.
“I don't want to owe anyone anything,” she insisted.
“You won't,” he breathed.
“People always say that, but it never ends up being the case,” she said.
Ripper's jaw tightened. “Then I'll say something different.” She waited for him to continue.
“You don't owe the Savage Bastards for pulling you out of that warehouse.” Her eyes filled.
Fuck. “You don't owe Harlow.” He kept going.
“You don't owe me.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and Ripper's hands curled into fists against his knees because every instinct screamed at him to wipe it away, but he didn't move.
“If the club gives you somewhere safe to stay, it's because we've got somewhere safe to give you. That's it.”
Sarah wiped the tear herself. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Why?” he asked.