Sarah
She stared at the small pile of belongings on the bed—one gray sweatshirt, two pairs of leggings, underwear, socks, a toothbrush, a paperback Harlow had brought her, and the ridiculous pink duffel bag Princess had dropped off yesterday because, according to her, every woman deserved luggage that didn’t look depressing.
That was it. Her entire life fit into one duffel bag.
“Sorry.” Ripper stood in the doorway as he had every single day she had been in the hospital.
He was carrying a paper cup in one hand and her discharge paperwork in the other.
His dark hair looked like he'd dragged his fingers through it on the drive over.
He wore his typical black T-shirt, jeans, boots, and Savage Bastards kutte.
He was big, tattooed, rough, and exactly the kind of man she should have been terrified of.
Instead, something in her chest loosened as soon as she saw him, which was starting to seriously piss her off.
“You’re early,” she whispered.
Ripper looked at the clock. “I’m ten minutes late.”
“I expected you to be later,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“You seem like the kind of man who doesn't believe in schedules,” she assessed.
“I believe in schedules,” he grumbled. Sarah raised an eyebrow. “When people are getting shot at, I usually get there right on time.” She stared at him while she tried to decide if he was joking or not. Ripper’s mouth twitched. “Too soon?”
“Probably,” she admitted.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don't look sorry.”
“I'm terrible at looking remorseful,” he admitted.
“That I believe,” he said.
His gaze moved over her face, then to the bed and the pink bag sitting on it. “What the fuck is that?”
Sarah looked at the duffel bag. “Princess gave it to me.”
“Of course she did,” he said.
“You don't like pink?” she asked.
“I don't have strong feelings about pink,” he admitted.
“You're staring at it like it personally offended you,” she pointed out.
“It has glitter on it,” he said. Sarah looked at the bag and noticed that there was, in fact, glitter.
She smiled. “Apparently every woman deserves cheerful luggage.”
“Princess say that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Sounds like her.” Ripper stepped into the room and then stopped. He always did that. He never came closer until she acknowledged him. He never shut the door, and never reached for anything without warning. Sarah had noticed on the first day. By the fourth, she'd started expecting it.
“Coffee?” He lifted the cup.
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you have cinnamon rolls in there?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you failed,” she teased. “What flavor is the coffee?” He had brought her different flavors of coffee each day, as though trying to figure out which one was her favorite.
“The coffee is caramel flavored,” he said.
She considered screwing with him and telling him that she didn’t like caramel, but it was actually her favorite. “I'll accept it.”
“Generous of you,” he mumbled as he crossed the room and set it on the table. Sarah wrapped both hands around the cup. It was warm and sweet. Familiar enough to calm something inside her.
Ripper leaned against the wall. “You ready?”
No. “Sure.” He watched her. Sarah hated how observant he was. Most people heard words and accepted them. Ripper seemed to hear the parts she didn't say out loud.
“No, you're not,” he said.
“I said I was,” she countered.
“Yeah, I heard you. I just don’t believe you,” he said.
“Then why ask?” she questioned.
“Wanted to see if you'd lie to me,” he admitted.
Sarah frowned. “You do that a lot?”
“Ask questions I already know the answer to?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Yep,” he said.
“That’s annoying,” she whispered under her breath. She wasn’t sure that he heard her until he responded.
“So I've been told,” he said.
“By everyone?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” he admitted. Sarah smiled despite herself, and then she looked at the bag again. The smile disappeared. Ripper followed her gaze. “You don't have to go to the clubhouse.”
She looked at him. “Where else would I go?” she asked.
“Butcher offered a room at the clubhouse. It's an option, but you can turn him down,” Ripper said.
“I know,” she breathed.
“Do you?” His tone wasn't challenging, just direct.
Sarah picked at the edge of the cardboard coffee sleeve. “I don't have anywhere else to go.”
“That's not the same as having no choice,” he insisted. She looked up at him, and Ripper pushed away from the wall. “You could go to a hotel.”
“I can't afford one,” she said.
“The club could pay for it,” he offered.
“I don't want the club paying for me,” she said.
“Then Harlow could,” he offered.
“I don't want Harlow paying for me either,” she insisted.
“Fine.” He shrugged. “You could stay here another night if the doctors allow it.”
“They won't, and I’d be in this same situation tomorrow when they finally shove me out of here,” she said.
“You could stay with Princess and Butcher,” he said.
“Isn't that basically like staying at the clubhouse?” she asked. “Plus, I don’t want to bother them or Harlow and Wade. I hate feeling like a third wheel,” she said.
Ripper laughed. “No. Butcher's house has less yelling than the clubhouse.”
“Just less?” she asked. “Do they fight a lot?” she asked.
“Well, no, but I’m sure that they have disagreements, and Princess puts him in his place. I’ve already told you that my Prez is an asshole sometimes,” he reminded.
Sarah took another sip of her coffee. “Where would you choose to stay?” she asked. The words came out before she could stop them. Ripper went still, and she almost took them back.
Then he said, “You mean, where would I stay if I were you?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Clubhouse,” he said.
Sarah frowned. “Why?”
“It’s got security, and there are always people around, so you won’t be alone,” he said.
He shrugged. “You know the place has cameras, and brothers coming and going. Prospects at the gate.” The words should have reassured her.
Instead, something cold slid down her back when she thought of all the men coming and going.
The place where she was kept for eight months had all of that too, a gate, cameras, and men coming and going, and she wasn’t safe there.
Ripper must have picked up on her hesitation because he immediately corrected himself. “Bad sell, sorry,” he said. “I guess that guys coming and going and being watched isn’t as comforting to you as I made it sound.
Sarah let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. “Yeah, sorry. It sounds a lot like the place I just came from.”
“Okay.” He moved farther from the bed. “Forget about the gate.”
“Hard to do after you’ve mentioned it,” she said.
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “The clubhouse isn't locked from the inside.”
Sarah looked at him. “What?”
“The room Butcher's giving you has a lock on the door,” he said. Her stomach twisted, and Ripper shook his head. “You would control the lock.”
She stared at him. “Nobody else has a key?”
“Butcher probably does because it's his clubhouse, but I'll tell him to give it to you,” Ripper offered.
“Ripper—” she started.
“And I'll change the damn lock if you want,” he insisted.
She blinked up at him. “You'd do that?”
“Yep,” he breathed.
“Why?” she asked.
His expression hardened slightly. “Because you should be able to close a door without wondering who gets to open it.”
Sarah looked down. Her eyes burned, and she hated that. She hated crying, and especially hated how easily it happened now. She'd cried enough—more than enough. “You can't fix everything.”
“I know,” he said.
“Then stop acting as if you can,” she whispered. The words came out sharper than she intended.
Ripper didn't flinch. “Okay.” Sarah looked up. That was it. There was no argument, no anger, and no wounded pride. Just okay.
“I didn't mean—” she said.
“Don't,” he breathed.
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t apologize,” he said.
“I snapped at you,” she said.
“You’re allowed to snap at me, Sarah,” he said.
“You can't just keep saying everything I do is allowed,” she insisted.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because that's not how people work,” she said.
Ripper crossed his arms. “Maybe you've been around shitty people.” The breath left her. He looked like he regretted saying it, but Sarah didn't, because he was right. So many people had told her how to react.
Her parents cried when she called them. Her mother kept asking when she'd come home, and her father said he'd drive down immediately.
The detective asked question after question.
The counselor told her what trauma might look like.
Doctors told her what healing should look like.
Harlow told her she didn't have to make any decisions.
Princess told her she could make all of them.
Everyone meant well, but somehow Ripper was the only one who didn't make her feel like there was a correct answer.
Sarah looked at him. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Strangely reasonable,” she said.
Ripper frowned. “Take it back.” She laughed, and he smiled.
There it was again—that weird ease she felt around him.
Sarah didn't understand it. She remembered exactly what he'd looked like in the warehouse with blood on his shirt, a gun in his hand, and his face hard enough to terrify anyone.
She'd been sure he was another monster. Then he'd seen her holding that piece of wood and had put his weapon down.
Not slowly because he was afraid of her, but slowly because she was afraid of him, and that mattered more than she wanted it to.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Ready, Ms. Mitchell?”
Sarah's stomach dropped, and Ripper noticed again. “Yes.” The lie came automatically.
The nurse smiled. “I'll grab a wheelchair.”
“No.” Both the nurse and Ripper looked at her. Sarah's pulse kicked. “I can walk.”
Hospital policy probably said otherwise. The nurse opened her mouth, but Ripper spoke first. “She can walk.”
Sarah looked at him, and the nurse hesitated. “It's standard discharge procedure.”