Chapter Six
Morning crept in, filtering through the narrow window of the clubhouse room Elena had barely slept in.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, heart already tired.
Her body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.
Her muscles were sore from tension, nerves still buzzing from last night’s fear.
For a few seconds, she almost forgot where she was. Then memory snapped back sharp and unkind. The cartel. Reaper’s hand on her arm, iron and heat and urgency. The way his mouth had felt against hers, rough and real enough to linger in her dreams.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Elena flinched before she could stop herself, then let out a slow breath and reached for it.
Mercy General ER: Hey Elena, sorry for the short notice. Maria called in sick. Any chance you can come in today? We’re already short-staffed.
She closed her eyes. Of course they were.
She sat up, the thin sheet sliding down her legs, and rubbed her face with both hands.
She could almost hear the ER already. The constant beeping, the sharp smells, the organized chaos that somehow felt more stable than this strange limbo she’d landed in overnight.
Reaper’s voice echoed in her head, telling her to stay down until the storm passed. Elena looked to the overnight bag at the foot of the bed. Her scrubs were folded neatly inside.
She had packed them out of instinct. Nurses packed scrubs the way soldiers packed boots, just in case. Elena exhaled slowly and stood. She showered.
By the time she was dressed, the woman in the mirror looked like herself again. Elena had pulled her hair back, kept her face bare except for the faint shadows under her eyes. She looked tired, yes, and maybe a little shaken, but she was still standing.
She slung the bag over her shoulder and opened the door. Reaper was there. He leaned against the opposite wall like he’d been there all morning, his arms crossed, and his jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept either.
He dropped his gaze from her face and to her clothes and his expression darkened.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I’m going to work,” she said, steady even as her pulse spiked.
“No, you’re not,” he said.
She shifted her weight but didn’t back up. “An ER nurse called in sick. They need me,” she pointed out.
“Elena,” he said, her name rough like gravel. “The cartel is still out there. You don’t think they’ll try the hospital again?”
Heat rushed to her face. It wasn’t just from anger, but memory. From the way his mouth had claimed hers last night and even the way he was looking at her now ... it was like he wanted to lock her behind a door and throw away the key. She forced herself to breathe.
“I do think about that,” she said. “Constantly. It’s my job.”
“This isn’t a shift swap,” he snapped. “This is your life.”
She met his gaze head-on. Elena didn’t flinch. “It’s my choice,” she stated.
For a split second, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. There was possession and frustration. Fear wrapped so tight it almost looked like anger.
She wondered, absurdly, what he’d think if she told him she’d dreamed of him last night. Of his hands and the heat in his eyes as he straddled her in bed. The thought sent an unwelcome curl of warmth through her stomach. She shoved it aside. Focus, she reminded herself.
“I can’t just disappear,” she said. “People depend on me. Patients don’t stop bleeding because I’m scared.”
“They might if you’re dead,” he shot back.
The words hit harder than she expected.
She swallowed. “You don’t get to decide that,” she said.
Silence stretched between them. Reaper straightened slowly, uncrossing his arms. For a moment, she thought he might actually block the hallway. That he might reach out and stop her physically. The idea scared her.
The fact that part of her wondered what his hands would feel like if he did scared her more.
“No one’s ever told me what to do,” she said quietly. “Not my parents. Not the foster system, the hospital, and certainly not you.”
His nostrils flared. “This isn’t about control.”
“Then what is it?” she challenged.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked uncertain.
“I’ve seen how this ends,” he said finally. “Good people think doing the right thing will protect them. It doesn’t.”
Her chest tightened. He stared at her like he wanted to argue, to drag her back into the room, to wrap his body around hers and keep the world out by force if necessary. She didn’t move, drop his gaze, or apologize.
“I’ll take you,” Reaper said at last. His voice was flat, controlled, but something in his eyes burned. “To the hospital. And back.”
The compromise surprised Elena.
She blinked. “You will?”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he replied.
The air between them shifted. They headed for the parking lot together, the morning sun already warm on the concrete. Elena walked beside him, aware of the way his presence changed the space around her. Some of the bikers gave her looks, curious and assessing.
Halfway across the lot, one of the MC brothers leaned against a truck, coffee in hand, grin sharp and lazy.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “Morning, Reaper. Didn’t know you started escort services.”
Reaper didn’t break stride. He reached out, fingers closing around Elena’s upper arm, and drew her in against his side with a possessive ease that stole her breath. What was that about?
“She’s mine,” he said. “And she’s under my protection.”
His? What the hell? Elena then reminded herself Reaper had agreed to accompany her to the hospital. The grin slid right off the other biker’s face. He even lifted his hands slightly in surrender. It was interesting, Elena silently mused, that some of Reaper’s MC brothers were scared of him.
“Easy, brother. I was just curious,” the biker said.
Elena stiffened, heat flaring under her skin. She stepped out of Reaper’s hold, even as her pulse raced from the contact. This was getting ridiculous.
“I belong to no one but myself,” she said, meeting the MC brother’s gaze. “Got it?”
The man chuckled, holding up his coffee. “Message received, sweetheart.”
Reaper grunted, but he said nothing more. He simply turned and led her the rest of the way. The Harley waited at the edge of the lot, black and gleaming like a predatory animal at rest. Her stomach dipped.
“I’ve never...” she started, the words catching as she looked at the motorcycle. Up close, it looked even more imposing. All black steel and polished chrome, heat radiating from it like a living thing.
“You’ll be fine,” Reaper said, already reaching for a helmet. He pressed it into her hands with decisive certainty. “Get on.”
His confidence didn’t leave room for debate. That helped more than it should have. She swallowed, then swung her leg over the seat. It was narrower than she expected, her balance wobbling for half a second before the solid weight of the bike steadied her.
The engine vibrated beneath her thighs, a low, restless thrum that traveled straight up her spine. She adjusted awkwardly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was to him and how exposed that closeness felt.
“Hold on,” he said.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. The reaction was instant and overwhelming. He was heat and muscle and restraint under her palms, every inch of him coiled tight like he was holding something dangerous back.
Leather creaked softly beneath her fingers. For one suspended heartbeat, her breath stuttered, her body forgetting how to exist anywhere else. Then the engine roared.
The sound tore through the morning like a challenge.
The bike surged forward and the world snapped loose, colors smearing into motion as they shot down the street.
Wind ripped past her face, tugging strands of hair free, stealing the breath right out of her lungs.
Her fear burned off in seconds, replaced by something wild and electric.
She laughed, the sound ripped from her without permission.
The town rushed at them and fell away again, traffic lights flashing past, pavement humming beneath the tires.
She leaned into him instinctively as he maneuvered through the streets with lethal grace, trusting his hands, his balance, his control without thinking twice.
Every shift of his body communicated intent, and every turn felt deliberate and dangerous and perfect.
For the first time since this nightmare had started, she felt alive instead of hunted.
By the time Mercy General came into view, her heart was pounding hard enough to bruise her ribs.
It wasn’t from fear but from exhilaration and from Reaper.
He pulled in near the entrance and cut the engine. The sudden silence rang in her ears. As she climbed off, her legs trembled slightly, adrenaline still buzzing through her veins.
Reaper caught her at the waist, his hold steady and firm. His possessive hold grounded her, his thumbs pressing just enough to remind her she was upright, real, and breathing.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, breathless, a little dazed. “Yeah.”
Inside, the hospital swallowed them whole. The familiar antiseptic smell hit her immediately, monitors chiming, voices overlapping. It should have felt safe. Instead, the unease returned like a shadow slipping back into place.
Reaper stayed close, maybe a little too near to be casual. He rested his hand at the small of her back, not pushing, not restraining. He was guiding her, claiming space around her without asking permission.
They rounded the corner near the ER desk and almost collided with a man in a tailored jacket that didn’t belong in a hospital. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who never waited his turn. His shoes seemed too expensive for linoleum floors, and his posture was too relaxed.
The man looked up. Recognition struck instantly when they landed on Reaper. He tightened his jaw, a muscle jumping once beneath his skin.
“Vega,” he said quietly, voice smooth but edged. “Didn’t expect to see you here, and not with her.”
Reaper didn’t step back or shift aside. He moved closer instead, flattening his hand against Elena’s back. The contact was deliberate and possessive. He gripped her closer, claiming space, claiming her, a silent warning written in flesh and pressure.
“Cruz. She’s under my protection,” Reaper said. His tone left no room for negotiation.
Cruz slid his gaze to Elena then. Elena avoided a shiver. She felt herself catalogued in a single breath, reduced to value and leverage, a thing that could be used. Cold prickled along her spine.
Then Cruz looked at Reaper again.
“Didn’t know she mattered,” Cruz said, almost lightly.
Reaper held his stare, unblinking. “She does now.”
He said nothing more, and he didn’t need to.
The silence stretched, heavy and taut as a wire pulled too tight.
Nurses moved around them, but they weren’t oblivious.
A few slowed. They lingered a second too long, their gazes flicking between Reaper’s cut, the cartel man’s retreating back, and Elena caught in the middle.
She could already imagine the questions later, the lowered voices at the nurses’ station, the curious looks that would follow her through the shift. Elena couldn’t deal with that—heck, she wouldn’t. She’d bury herself in work instead. That was why she was here, to help people.
Finally, Cruz inclined his head. “Understood. This changes things,” he said.
What the hell was that all about? Elena couldn’t ask Reaper that question now. She had work to do. Cruz finally walked away, much to her relief. He seemed wary of Reaper, respected him a little even.
Elena exhaled shakily, her knees weak with delayed fear. Reaper leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, voice low and steady.
“You’re safe,” he said.
After everything Elena had been through the last twenty-four hours, she wasn’t sure she believed that yet.