Page 24 of Her Broken Biker
Chapter 4
Reina
Thebathroomlockclicks.
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.
