2. Chapter 2 #2
McKenna glances down before dragging her eyes back to my face. Color climbs beneath her freckles.
She noticed.
Good.
I retrieve the transport man’s abandoned gun and secure it in the left saddlebag for Torch to examine. Then I set McKenna’s suitcase upright, careful to leave space between us when I return it.
“We’re going to the clubhouse.”
Her attraction disappears behind fear. “I’m not going into a biker clubhouse.”
“Then give me somewhere safer.”
“There’s a motel two blocks away.”
“The men who tried to take you know that too.”
“I can lock the door.”
“They came armed and had your photograph. A motel lock won’t slow them down.”
“You don’t get to decide where I go.”
“You’re right.”
Suspicion pinches her expression.
I step closer, stopping before my size can force her backward.
“You decide,” I tell her. “I make sure you understand what each choice costs. The clubhouse has cameras, locked gates, and men who will bleed before they let anyone reach you. That motel has thin doors and one road out.”
Her fingers tighten around the handle of her suitcase.
“The Wolves ran Black Pines when I was growing up,” she says. “Women crossed the street when bikes came through town. Some disappeared.”
The Wolves used their cuts as permission to prey on anyone weaker. The Damned Saints tore them out by the roots, but knowing they are gone does not erase what McKenna learned as a girl.
“We aren’t the Wolves.”
“Every dangerous man claims he’s different.”
“Then judge me by what I do.”
She waits.
“You keep your phone. Send the clubhouse address to anyone you choose. You walk out when you want. If one of my men blocks you, he answers to me.”
“And if you block me?”
“I put the gun back in your hand and stand farther away.”
Her eyes widen. “You would let me shoot you twice?”
“Next time I’m showing you the safety first.”
That startles another laugh out of her.
The sound slides under my ribs and settles somewhere it has no business being.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “You accepted money to take me to Vegas.”
“I accepted money to protect you.”
Protection contracts are part of the club’s legitimate work. We guard people under threat and property worth stealing. This stopped being protection the moment her refusal became an obstacle.
“Those men said I was an asset.”
“That was before I heard what they meant.”
“The contract is legal.”
“A contract can buy paper, Angel. It can’t buy your yes.”
Her lips part.
I hold her gaze and let her see the truth without dressing it in softer words.
“I don’t sell women. Neither do my brothers.”
“What happens to the money?”
“It goes back.”
“Even if it was a lot?”
The fee would carry the women’s shelter through winter and cover repairs the clubhouse needs before the first snow, but I can replace the money without the brothers knowing where it came from.
My brothers will understand when they hear what happened. They value lives over money.
The Army branded me a sinner because it needed a scapegoat. I kept the name and built the club for men who had been blamed, disavowed, or discarded when the truth became inconvenient.
“There isn’t enough money in the world to make the Damned Sinners deliver a woman to a man who bought her.”
Something shifts behind her eyes. Her grip on the suitcase loosens.
“I’ll go to the clubhouse,” she says.
Relief hits harder than it should.
“Good.”
“But I keep my phone.”
“Already told you that.”
“And I can leave.”
“When you choose.”
“And nobody touches me without permission.”
My gaze drops to the bruises circling her wrist.
“Anyone forgets that rule, he loses the hand.”
Her breath catches.
I mean every word.
I unclip the spare helmet from the rear luggage rack. “You ridden before?”
“No.”
“You keep your arms around my waist and move when I move. If you need me to stop, tap my side twice.”
Her gaze drops to my waist. Heat flickers through her hazel eyes before she catches herself.
My cock responds with another hard throb.
This ride is going to hurt for more than one reason.
I hold the helmet toward her. “Let me.”
She hesitates before nodding.
I ease it over her hair and fasten the strap beneath her chin. My knuckles brush the soft skin of her throat, and her pulse jumps against them.
She feels it too.
The knowledge runs hot through my blood.
“I’m still afraid of you,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“It bothers the hell out of me.” I check the strap before meeting her eyes. “I’ll give you a reason to stop.”
She studies my face as if she expects to find a lie there.
I collapse the damaged handle of her suitcase and lift it onto the luggage rack behind the passenger seat. Two cargo straps come out of my right saddlebag. I thread them through the frame, cinch the case against the sissy bar, and pull until nothing shifts.
The broken wheel gives one last protesting squeak.
McKenna touches the suitcase. “Think it’ll survive?”
“It survived you. I like its chances.”
Her lips twitch. I pull on my helmet, mount the bike, and wait while she climbs on behind me.
Her thighs close around my hips, soft and warm despite the layers between us. Her hands hover at my sides, barely making contact.
“Closer. I need you secure.”
I hold my good hand beside my waist. McKenna hesitates before placing her hand in my palm. I draw her arm across my stomach, and her other arm follows until she is wrapped around me. Her breasts press against my back, and the soft weight of her body settles along mine.
The wound throbs beneath the scarf. Her thighs tighten when I start the engine, and the pain becomes the least important thing happening to my body.
“Hold on, Angel.”
Her arms lock around my middle.
Whoever paid to own McKenna Crane made a mistake when he sent her into my town.
He made a bigger one when he put her within reach of me.