Page 14 of Her Broken Biker
Her arms are still around me.
I give myself one heartbeat to feel it.
One.
Then I cover her hands and loosen them gently.
“We’re here.”
She pulls back, and the cold hits where her warmth was.
I get off first, ignoring the hot pull in my shoulder. When I turn, she’s sitting on my bike with blood on her scrubs and the kind of eyes that make a man want to burn down the whole world for scaring her.
Too young.
Too sweet.
Too damn good for my hands.
I reach for her anyway.
“Come on, Reina.”
She looks at my hand, then at the cabin, then back at me.
Trust is a fragile thing.
I can see the exact second she decides to give me another piece of it.
Her hand slips into mine.
I help her down, keeping my grip steady when her legs wobble. She lands close enough that I catch the soft sound she makes when my thumb brushes her wrist.
It hits me low.
Hard.
I step back because I’m not an animal.
Or because I’m trying very hard not to be.
Her bag is tucked in the side compartment. I pull it out and hand it to her.
She hugs it against her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Those two words do something ugly to me.
Make me want to kneel.
Make me want to rage.
Make me want things I buried years ago because wanting never saved anyone.
I turn toward the cabin before she can read any of that on my face.
“Inside,” I say, softer than I mean to. “Then you can check my shoulder.”
