Page 7 of Her Broken Biker
Focused on me like nothing else in the world matters.
Deke comes out of the cabin with the gun in his hand and raises it again.
The biker moves without hesitation, putting his body between mine and the bullet.
The shot hits his shoulder.
His body jerks, and something tears open inside my chest.
“No!”
He barely looks at the wound. His gaze stays on Deke, cold and steady.
“You shot at her,” he says.
Then he hits him.
Deke drops hard, and the gun slides loose across the gravel.
The other man lunges from the cabin, and the biker turns, catches him, and drives him into the porch rail. Wood cracks. One more hit, fast and brutal, and the man goes down too.
The clearing falls silent.
The biker kicks the gun under the SUV, then turns to me.
All that violence drains from his face the second he sees me shaking.
“You hurt, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
My knees almost give.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
His gaze cuts to the cabin. “Anyone else inside?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “One man. Gunshot wound. I'm a nurse. I patched him as best I could, but he needs a hospital.”
Something cold moves through his eyes. “You did good.”
He steps toward me, and I should move back.
I don’t.
He is bleeding from the shoulder, his knuckles already split, his leather cut hanging open over a chest built like a wall, and all I can think is that he put himself between me and death like it was the easiest choice he ever made.
His hand comes up, slow enough for me to see it.
Two fingers touch my wrist.
Careful.
Barely there.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough enough to scrape. “Look at me.”
I do.
