Page 8 of Brick’s Anchor

She looks at me finally. Those dark eyes are full of things I recognize, trauma, rage and determination all twisted together into something that could either make her stronger or break her completely.

"What's the easy part?" she asks.

"Letting someone help."

"I told you—"

"I know what you told me. I'm telling you that you don't have to do this alone. None of you do." I gesture toward the clubhouse. "There are women in there who've been through their own versions of hell. They survived. You will too. But you've got to get out of this vehicle first."

She looks toward the clubhouse. At Eden standing there in her scrubs, at Nora holding blankets, at Ivy organizing supplies. At women helping women. At proof that maybe not everyone in this world is determined to hurt her.

The blonde girl moves first. Opens her door, steps out on shaking legs. The dark-haired girl follows, then the others. One by one they emerge into the light.

The girl beside me is last.

She unwraps my cut from around her shoulders and holds it out. "Thank you," she says again. "For this. For getting us out. For—" Her voice cracks. "For everything."

"Keep it," I tell her. "Until you don't need it anymore."

"I don't want to owe you anything."

"You don't. It's a gift. No strings."

She studies me for a long moment. Looking for the lie, the trap, the inevitable betrayal. I let her look. Let her see whatever she needs to see.

Finally, she nods. Wraps the cut back around herself. "Okay."

I climb out first, then turn back to offer my hand.

She looks at it. At my scarred knuckles and tattooed fingers. At the hand that's broken bones, held weapons and done violent things.

She takes it.

Her grip is stronger than before. Less desperate. Like she's choosing this instead of just surviving it. I help her down from the SUV and she immediately lets go, putting distance between us. I let her. Watch her walk toward the other women, toward Eden who's already doing initial assessments, toward the possibility of healing.

Judge appears at my side. "She's got fight in her."

"Yeah."

"You gave her your cut."

"She was cold."

"Right." Judge's voice is dry. "That's definitely the only reason."

I look at him. "Don't."

"I'm not doing anything. Just observing."

"Observe somewhere else."

He chuckles. "That's a story I'm going to enjoy watching unfold."

"There's no story."

"Sure, there's not."

Phoenix calls us over for debrief. I follow Judge toward the group of brothers, but my eyes track the girl with brunette hair and bangs. She's standing with the others, Eden talking to all of them in that calm capable way she has. The girl's still wearing my cut. Still wrapped in leather and protection that belongs to me.