Page 8 of Striker
She suspected if she refused, he’d pry open her mouth. She searched the men, trying to figure out who Viper was.
One guy, the largest of the pack, winked at her. His eyes were friendly. “Go ahead. Ain’t no one here gonna hurt you.”
The man holding her head sighed patiently. “My name’s Atlas, but the guys call me Striker. What’s your name?”
She swallowed. “Molly.”
He leaned in, bringing his ear to her lips. She said it again.
“Molly.” He said her name like he was tasting a delicacy. “Pretty. Drink this for me, Molly.” His casual tone made her unease ebb away.
Acutely aware of the grittiness in her mouth, she parted her lips. He poured the liquid inside. Salty water rushed down her throat, and she drank eagerly.
“Good girl,” he said soothingly. “You’ll feel a lot better once we get more fluids in you.”
He reached for her hand that had been shackled and inspected the torn skin. Tension radiated along his jaw. The straight slope of his nose matched the other sharp lines of his face. He was masculine, rugged . . . handsome.
His eyes found hers again. This time they were intense and laced with anger. “I bet that hurts.”
She said nothing. Trying to speak over the noise of the helicopter would take too much effort. He positioned a backpack behind her head, then adjusted the blanket so it was beneath her chin, but he left her injured wrist hanging out.
He pulled out a first aid kit from under the seat and began cleaning the wound. The medicine stung, but she didn’t flinch. Her head roared along with the propellers and her eyes grew heavy again. She watched him secure a bandage around her wrist then smooth his thumb over the spot.
He leaned in close. “You’re safe, Molly. Rest.”
Tears stung her eyes. They weren’t going to hurt her. She wasn’t drugged.
The nightmare was over.
She grabbed Atlas’s hand with her good one and squeezed his fingers. “Thank you,” she breathed.
He sat beside her on the floor and held her hand between both of his. She shifted her gaze to the empty seat he could’ve taken.
She fell asleep to the gentle caress of his thumb over her knuckles.
Chapter
Three
Atlas kept his gaze on Molly’s slouched form. The sight of her ashen cheeks and sunken eyes made him want to wake her for another dose of electrolytes. Her cold, slim fingers twitched in his palm. He held them tighter.
He looked at Viper, who sat in the seat across from where Atlas sprawled on the helicopter’s floor. His friend shook his head sympathetically. He reached for his headset and pulled it on over his ears. “Go,” he said to Viper.
“You’ve got it bad, man.”
“I’ve got nothin’ but a headache. What’s your deal?”
“He’s not wrong,” Rogue said from the seat behind him.
Atlas glared at his boss. “She’s been through hell. A little compassion goes a long way.”
Rogue snorted. “You’ve got more than compassion. Besides, for all we know she was screwing Rex.”
His body temperature rose. “Even if she was, doesn’t mean it’s okay to chain her up and fucking starve her.”
Rogue nodded, his attention now out the window and disengaged from confrontation. “So what do we do with her?”
“She needs a hospital—or a place to rest at the very least. We should take her to Panama City.” With supervision, he thought. He couldn’t imagine dropping off the woman at a motel and leaving her.
