Chapter 3
Reina
Ace shuts the door behind us. The cabin goes quiet around us.
For a second, I just stand there with my tote clutched to my chest and my heart still trying to outrun the night, the gun, the blood, all of it.
The cabin is smaller than I expected, but warmer too.
A stone fireplace takes up one wall, with two worn chairs angled toward it. A small bed sits in the corner, made with military neatness, and a narrow dresser stands beside it. The kitchen is tucked off to the side, clean enough to make me wonder if he ever uses it for anything besides coffee.
There is only one other door.
Bathroom, hopefully.
The whole place feels like him. Quiet. Rugged. Private.
It should feel lonely. Instead, it feels safe.
That might be the shock talking.
Or the fact that Ace is standing between me and the door with blood soaking through his shirt, looking like he could still fight the whole mountain if it tried to come for me.
“Shoes off,” he says.
I blink at him.
His gaze drops to my sneakers. “You ran through half the woods. Don’t know what you stepped in.”
My brain catches up slowly. “Right.”
I bend down, but my fingers shake too badly to untie the first knot.
Ace notices.
Of course he does.
“Easy,” he says, and lowers himself in front of me despite the blood soaking his shoulder.
“I can do it,” I whisper.
His hands pause on my laces. “I know.”
Then he unties them anyway.
Careful. Efficient. Like taking care of me is just another problem he already decided to solve.
I should stop him.
I don’t.
He eases one shoe off, then the other, setting them by the door. His knuckles are split. There is blood on his shoulder, on his shirt, on his skin, and he is still more worried about my dirty sneakers than the hole a bullet put in him.
My throat tightens.
“Medical supplies,” I say, because if I don’t become a nurse right now, I might become something much messier. “Where are they?”
He stands, slower than before. Now that we’re in the light, I see the way his jaw tightens when his arm moves.
“Cabinet above the sink. Red kit. Black bag next to it.”
I turn toward the kitchen too fast, and the room sways.
Ace catches my waist before I can stumble.
His hand is warm. Steady. Big enough to make me painfully aware of how soft I am beneath it.
“You good?”
I nod, even though good feels generous.
His hand lingers for half a second.
So does my breathing.
Then he lets go.
I cross to the kitchen and pull open the cabinet. The red kit is there, just like he said, along with a black medical bag that is better stocked than some urgent care rooms I’ve seen.
Gauze. Sterile pads. Saline. Betadine. Gloves. Suture kit. Tape. Antibiotic ointment.
I look back at him. “You always keep this much on hand?”
“Saints bleed a lot.”
“Comforting.”
His mouth twitches.
It is barely a smile, but it hits me in a stupid place.
I set everything on the counter. “Sit.”
He lifts one brow.
I point at the nearest chair. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Then he sits.
Something warm flickers through me, ridiculous and dangerous. This man just took down two armed men and carried me out of the worst night of my life, but he sits because I tell him to.
I step closer. “Shirt off,” I say.
His gaze locks with mine.
Heat rushes straight up my neck.
“For the wound,” I add quickly.
“I figured.”
There is something in his voice. Low. Dry. Almost teasing.
My face burns hotter.
Ace reaches for the leather cut first, but the movement pulls at his shoulder, and his breath catches.
“Stop,” I say.
He does.
I swallow. “Let me.”
The air shifts.
He sits very still as I step closer.
My fingers brush the worn leather at his chest. The cut is heavy, warm from his body, marked with the patch that makes him look even more untouchable.
Damned Saints MC.
I ease it off his good shoulder first, then work it carefully down the injured side.
He lets me.
That feels bigger than it should.
I fold the cut over the back of the chair like it matters, because somehow I know it does.
Then I reach for his shirt.
My fingers touch warm cotton first. Then the hard plane of his stomach when I lift the fabric. My hands should be clinical. They know how to be clinical. I have changed dressings and cleaned wounds and handled bodies without letting my mind wander anywhere it shouldn’t.
Except this is Ace, and gorgeous feels too small a word for him.
And my hands are sliding his shirt up over ridged muscle and warm skin while he watches me with those green eyes.
My thoughts go straight into a ditch.
He is built like every warning my mother never gave me.
Broad chest. Hard stomach. Tattoos over one arm and up onto his shoulder.
Scars here and there, pale lines against tanned skin.
Rugged. Beautiful in a brutal way. The kind of man women like me look at from a distance and then remind themselves to be realistic.
I am in blood-stained scrubs. My hair is a disaster. My hips are too wide, my thighs too soft, my body too much in all the places I spent years wishing would shrink.
And I am standing between his knees with my hands on his bare skin, thinking about his mouth.
I have lost my mind.
That is the only explanation.
“You’re thinking hard,” he says.
My eyes snap to his.
“What?”
His mouth curves a little. “Your face gives you away.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
“I’m thinking about your shoulder.”
“Sure you are.”
I glare at him because it is easier than melting through the floor. “Do you want me to patch you up, or do you want to bleed on your own furniture?”
His smile fades, but the heat in his eyes stays. “Patch me up.”
“Then behave.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Ace goes very still.
So do I.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My heart makes a terrible, embarrassing little leap.
Then he leans back in the chair, giving me room, and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, that is worse.
Somehow that is much worse.
“I’m washing my hands,” I say, mostly because I need to move away from him before my brain does something unforgivable.
The sink gives me cold water first, then warm. I scrub until the last pink traces disappear down the drain, until my fingers feel like mine again.
Almost.
When I turn back, Ace is still watching me.
Shirtless. Bleeding. Too calm for a man with a bullet hole in his shoulder.
Too beautiful for my common sense.
I pull on gloves and step between his knees again.
The bullet tore through the meat of his shoulder, ugly but clean. No bullet inside. No arterial bleeding. Painful, messy, but survivable.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
“Been called worse.”
I press gauze to the wound a little harder than necessary.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
The sound rolls through me.
I hate that I notice. I hate that part of me wants to hear it again.
“This will need stitches,” I tell him.
“Do it.”
“I can numb it.”
“Save it.”
I look up. “This isn’t a toughness contest.”
His expression softens by a fraction. “I know.”
“Then let me numb it.”
He studies me for a second, then nods.
Small victory.
My hands steady once I start. Nurse mode settles over me, not enough to block out the fact that his skin is warm under my fingers, but enough to keep me focused. I numb the area, clean it properly, then thread the needle.
Ace doesn’t flinch when I start stitching.
He just watches me.
That might be worse.
“You always this calm?” I ask, tying off the first stitch.
“No.”
That makes my fingers pause. “No?”
His gaze stays on my face. “You’re here.”
My lungs forget what they’re for.
I look back at the wound very fast.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.”
My chest aches.
No one has ever said anything like that to me. No one has ever made me feel like my presence changed the shape of a room.
I finish the stitches, clean around them again, and cover the wound with a sterile pad.
His knuckles are next. I clean the split skin quickly and wrap them with gauze, trying not to think about how big his hand looks in mine.
Then my hands drift back to his shoulder.
I mean to pull away.
I don’t.
His skin is warm beneath my fingertips. Solid. Real. The same body that shielded mine from a bullet.
My thumb brushes the edge of his tattoo.
His breath changes.
Just slightly.
Enough.
I freeze.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“Touching.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice is gentle. “You can touch me, Reina.”
My name in his mouth again.
Soft and rough at the same time.
I lift my eyes.
That is my mistake.
He is so close.
Too close.
His bare chest rises under my hand. His green eyes hold mine, steady and dark, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller. The world feels smaller. Like there is only the space between his mouth and mine.
“You’re scared,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
I should say yes.
He is dangerous. Armed. Older. Bleeding in front of me like it’s nothing. A man with a leather cut, a bike, and brothers who know how to handle men like the ones who took me.
But fear is not what curls low in my stomach when he looks at me.
“No,” I whisper.
Something breaks in his expression.
Or maybe something gives in.
His hand rises to my cheek, slow enough that I could move away.
I don’t.
His palm cups my face like I am something precious, and that is the thing that undoes me.
Ace leans in.
The kiss is gentle at first.
So gentle it hurts.
His mouth touches mine like he is asking a question. Like he is giving me every chance to say no. But I have spent the whole night being dragged, ordered, shoved, threatened.
This choice is mine.
So I kiss him back.
Ace makes a low sound in his chest, and the kiss changes.
Still careful, but deeper now. Warmer.
His good hand slides to the side of my neck, thumb brushing just under my jaw, and I feel it everywhere.
My knees weaken.
I grip his arm, then remember the wound and jerk back. “Sorry.”
He pulls back too, breathing harder.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Then he closes them, jaw flexing.
“Damn it.”
My stomach dips. “What?”
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
The words hit colder than they should.
“Oh.”
His eyes open fast. “No. Reina, no. That’s not what I mean.”
I step back anyway because old instincts are fast. Faster than reason. Faster than hope.
He stands, careful with his shoulder, and keeps his hands at his sides like he’s afraid reaching for me will make it worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’ve had a hell of a night. You’re shaken. You’re under my roof because you need protection. I had no right to touch you like that.”
I stare at him.
At this huge, scarred, tattooed man who can drop armed criminals without blinking and somehow looks wrecked because he kissed me too soon.
The ache in my chest changes shape.
“I kissed you back,” I say softly.
His eyes darken.
“I know.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know that too.”
My face heats.
“Then why are you apologizing?”
“Because wanting you doesn’t make it right.”
The room goes very quiet.
Wanting you.
My heart grabs those words and holds on like an idiot.
I look down at myself. Blood on my scrubs. Dirt on my knees. Curves I usually try to hide under loose fabric. A body too soft for a man who looks like him.
“You want me?”
His expression goes hard in a different way.
Like I’ve offended him.
“Sweetheart.”
He says it like the answer should be obvious.
I swallow.
His gaze moves over me, slow enough to feel like touch, careful enough not to make me feel hunted.
“You have no idea,” he says.
Oh.
Oh, no.
My brain goes blank.
Then immediately fills with things it has no business imagining.
I take another step back, not because I want distance, but because I need air.
“I need a shower,” I blurt.
Ace blinks once.
Then his mouth twitches.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Okay.”
“I mean because of the blood.”
“I know.”
“And dirt.”
“I know that too.”
“And because if I stand here any longer, I’m going to say something stupid.”
His eyes heat.
“Then shower’s probably smart.”
I press my lips together, because there is no safe answer to that.
He points toward the small bathroom door. “Towels are in there. Soap too. I’ve got clean clothes in the dresser. They’ll be big, but they’re clean.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze softens again. “Take your time. Door locks from the inside.”
That detail nearly breaks me.
He knows I need to hear it.
I walk toward the bathroom on legs that still don’t feel entirely reliable.
At the door, I glance back.
Ace stands in the middle of the cabin, shirtless, bandaged, too handsome for my survival, watching me like he is fighting himself and losing by inches.
“Reina,” he says.
I pause.
“You’re safe here.”
I believe him.
That might be the most dangerous part of all.