Chapter 4
Reina
The bathroom lock clicks.
I stand there for a second, one hand still on the knob, listening to the cabin beyond the door.
Quiet.
No men shouting. No gun pointed at me. No boots scraping across old wood. Just the faint creak of the cabin settling and the soft rush of my own breathing.
I am safe.
Ace said so.
That should be enough.
It is enough.
Almost.
The mirror above the sink is small, the glass old enough to soften my reflection at the edges.
I barely recognize the girl staring back.
My hair hangs in tangled waves around my face. There is dried blood near my wrist, smeared across the front of my scrub top, and dirt streaking both knees. My freckles stand out too bright against skin gone pale from shock.
I look like someone who survived a nightmare.
Maybe because I did.
My hands shake when I peel off my scrub top. The fabric sticks where blood has dried. My stomach rolls, and I breathe through it, slow and careful, the way I tell patients to breathe when pain is too big for the room.
In.
Out.
Stay with me.
I strip down piece by piece and leave everything in an ugly pile near the sink. Then I step into the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand.
For a second, I just let it hit me.
I press both hands against the tile and lower my head.
How did this happen?
I left work. That’s all.
I walked out with sore feet, a coffee stain, and a plan to go home and sleep. Now there are armed men bleeding somewhere in the woods, Damned Saints cleaning up a cabin, and Ace on the other side of this door with stitches in his shoulder because he stepped in front of a bullet for me.
Ace.
My breath changes just thinking his name.
It is unfair, honestly.
There should be rules about this kind of thing. A woman should not be kidnapped, forced to patch a criminal, nearly shot, then rescued by a man who looks like temptation learned how to ride a motorcycle.
There should be a waiting period.
A recovery window.
A sensible gap between terror and wanting.
My body did not get the memo.
I make myself reach for the soap.
For a few minutes, I do what I came in here to do.
I wash the blood from my wrists, the dirt from my knees, the streak near my elbow.
I scrub gently at the places that feel bruised, careful with skin that already feels too sensitive.
Shampoo smells like cedar and something clean, masculine, Ace, and that is its own kind of problem.
I should feel better.
I do.
A little.
Then I close my eyes, and there he is.
Broad shoulders under black leather. Green eyes finding mine in the dark. His body moving in front of mine like the decision had already been made before either of us existed.
“You shot at her.”
His voice in that clearing had been low.
Certain.
Possessive in a way I should probably examine with a clear head and a therapist.
I do not have either.
I have steam, trembling knees, and the memory of his mouth on mine.
My fingers touch my lips.
Bad idea.
The kiss comes back all at once. His palm at my cheek. The warmth of his mouth. The restraint in him, like he wanted to take and chose to ask instead.
That is what undoes me most.
The choice.
Mine.
His.
The way he stopped even though I could feel how much he wanted me.
The shower water trails down my chest, my stomach, over skin that suddenly feels too sensitive. I am clean now. The blood is gone. The dirt is gone.
The need is still there.
My hand drifts lower.
I freeze.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
I cannot be doing this.
I cannot be standing in a stranger’s shower, after the worst night of my life, thinking about the man bleeding in the next room.
Except Ace does not feel like a stranger.
That is the dangerous part.
My fingers slide over my stomach.
Lower.
A soft sound slips out of me before I can bite it back.
I go still, horrified.
The cabin is small.
The walls are probably thin.
Please do not let him hear me.
Please.
I should stop.
I really should.
Then I remember his hands on my waist. His voice saying nobody touches me now. His eyes going dark when I asked if he wanted me.
“Sweetheart.”
“You have no idea.”
My knees weaken again.
My fingers move, tentative at first, then with a little more need. I touch myself the way I have only ever done alone, in the dark, where no one can see how badly I want something I’m afraid to ask for.
Heat curls through me, sharp and embarrassing and impossible to ignore. My hips rock into my hand before I can stop them, chasing pressure, chasing relief, chasing the memory of Ace’s mouth and the way his eyes went dark when he looked at me.
I brace one hand against the tile, head bowed, water rushing over my shoulders while my body forgets every reason this is a terrible idea.
I try to stay quiet.
I fail.
His name breaks from me in a whisper I cannot catch.
“Ace.”
The sound of it wrecks me.
Pleasure rolls through me, soft and fierce, leaving me shaking in a different way than before.
For a few seconds, I cannot move.
Then reality returns with teeth.
I just touched myself in Ace’s shower.
I whispered his name.
I may have whispered his name loud enough for him to hear.
I turn off the water and stand there dripping, staring at the curtain like it might have answers.
It does not.
The towels are stacked on a narrow shelf beside the sink, thank God. I grab the biggest one and wrap it around myself, tucking the corner tight under my arm.
Clean clothes are in the dresser outside the bathroom.
Naturally.
I consider living in this bathroom forever.
Then I remember Ace’s shoulder, the men in the woods, my phone, my life, and the fact that forever is a long time to spend hiding beside a toilet.
I open the door.
Ace is standing near the fireplace.
He has put on a clean pair of dark sweatpants, but his chest is still bare, the fresh bandage bright against all that tanned skin and ink. He turns when the door opens.
His eyes hit me and stop.
The air changes.
I know it before he says a word.
He heard me.
Heat floods my face so fast I feel dizzy.
“I, um.” My grip tightens on the towel. “The clothes?”
His gaze drags back to my face, but it takes effort.
I can see the effort.
That somehow makes it worse.
And better.
“Dresser,” he says.
His voice is rough.
I take one careful step into the room. “Right. You said that.”
“I did.”
“Forgot.”
“I noticed.”
My heart jumps.
His mouth curves.
Cocky.
Dangerous.
“Manage to cool off in there, Reina?”
My entire body catches fire.
He definitely heard me.
“I was showering,” I say, with all the dignity of a woman wearing only a towel and a guilty conscience.
“Mmhmm.”
“I had blood on me.”
“You did.”
“And dirt.”
“That too.”
“And trauma.”
His expression softens for a second, but the heat stays in his eyes. “Yeah, sweetheart. You did.”
The gentleness nearly knocks the embarrassment out from under me.
Nearly.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth.
“But that’s not what I asked.”
Oh.
My fingers tighten on the towel until the fabric digs into my palm.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
I swallow.
Ace takes one step closer.
I should retreat. I should go to the dresser. I should put on clothes and rebuild whatever common sense I had before tonight broke it into pieces.
I stay where I am.
His eyes flick down once, then back up, careful enough that I do not feel hunted, but honest enough that I know he sees me.
All of me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
My pulse pounds.
“You’re not doing anything.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
My breath catches.
His jaw tightens. “And I need you to tell me if that scares you.”
It should.
It does.
But only because I want him so badly I don’t recognize myself.
“No,” I whisper.
He comes closer, slow enough that I can move away.
I don’t.
When he reaches me, he lifts one hand and touches the edge of the towel near my shoulder. He does not tug. He does not take.
He just rests his fingers there, warm against terrycloth.
“You want my hands on you, Reina?”
My eyes close.
The words roll through me, dark and soft and impossible.
“Ace.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I open my eyes.
He is watching me like I am the only fragile thing he has ever wanted and the only fight he is afraid to win.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
His expression goes still.
Something vulnerable opens inside me before I can stop it.
“I’ve never...” My voice breaks. I try again. “I’ve never been with anyone.”
The silence that follows is charged enough to make my skin prickle.
Ace’s hand leaves the towel immediately.
Not like he is rejecting me.
Like he is giving me space before I even ask for it.
“Reina.”
My name sounds different now. Careful. Almost reverent.
“I should have told you,” I whisper.
“No.” His voice is firm enough to steady me. “You don’t owe me that before you’re ready.”
My throat burns.
“I wanted to tell you.”
His gaze moves over my face, like he is trying to read every fear before it can hurt me.
“Then I’m glad you did.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“But if you want me to step back,” he says, “I step back.”
I stare at him.
The rough biker who kisses like restraint is a battle, who drops armed men without blinking, who takes a bullet and calls it barely, is standing in front of me with his hands at his sides because I told him I am untouched.
He makes no move to claim.
No move to push.
He waits.
My chest aches so sharply I almost press a hand to it.
“I don’t want you to step back.”
His eyes darken.
“No?”
I shake my head.
“What do you want?”
My face burns.
The answer feels too big for my mouth.
“You.”
His breath leaves him slow.
“Sweetheart.”
“I know it’s probably stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I mean, we just met, and I know there are a thousand reasons this makes no sense.” My voice turns smaller. “But my body trusts you before my head knows what to do with you.”
Something rough moves through his face.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
His hand rises, slow as a promise, and cups my cheek.
“Then we don’t rush.”
The heat in his voice makes my stomach flutter.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “I’m taking care of you first.”
The words hit low.
Everywhere.
He sees it.
His mouth curves, but the tenderness in his eyes keeps it from feeling like teasing.
“Can I kiss you?”
I nod too fast.
He leans in and kisses me like he has all the time in the world.
No rush. No taking. Just his mouth on mine, deep and slow, coaxing until I forget everything except his hand at my cheek and the warm, careful pressure of him.
When his other hand settles at my waist, over the towel, I make a sound into his mouth.
He stops.
I almost whimper at the loss.
“Still good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Need words, Reina.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
His eyes flare.
Then he kisses me again. This time his hand slides to the small of my back and draws me closer.
The towel stays between us, but I feel the heat of him anyway.
His chest is bare against my damp shoulder, careful of his bandage, and I am suddenly aware of every curve of my body pressed near all that hard muscle.
I stiffen without meaning to.
Ace feels it.
“What?”
I shake my head.
He tips my chin up. “Talk to me.”
“I’m...” My laugh comes out small and mortified. “I’m not exactly built like the women men like you usually want.”
His expression changes so fast I forget how to breathe.
“Men like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
My gaze drops.
His thumb catches my chin before I can hide.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“You think I took a bullet for you, brought you into my home, and stood outside that bathroom trying not to lose my damn mind because I heard you say my name, but I don’t want you?”
My lips part.
The room tilts again, but this time it has nothing to do with shock.
Ace lowers his mouth near my ear.
“Reina, I have wanted my hands on every inch of you since the second you looked at me like I was safe.”
A shiver moves through me.
He kisses just below my ear, soft enough to undo me.
“But I’m going to go slow,” he says. “Because your first time should not feel like something you survived.”
My whole heart stops.
Then starts again in a different rhythm.
“Ace.”
“I’ve got you.”
And this time, when he says it, I believe him with my whole body.