Page 4 of Wade’s Wrath

“It matters if you’re standing in my bar asking me to protect you from him,” Wade insisted.

“I never asked you to protect me,” she spat. Wade raised an eyebrow, and Harlow stared at him for a few seconds before looking away. “Fine,” she muttered. “Maybe I did.”

“Maybe?” he mumbled under his breath.

“I was desperate,” she hissed.

“That supposed to make me feel special?” he asked. Her head whipped around, and for the first time since she’d stumbled through his door, something other than fear flashed across her face—annoyance. Sure, it was directed at him, but he’d take it because Wade liked that a hell of a lot better.

“You’re an asshole,” she breathed. A laugh came from somewhere behind him, and Wade slowly turned his head. Every man in the room suddenly found something incredibly interesting to look at besides him. Fucking cowards. When he looked back at Harlow, she seemed horrified by what she’d said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said.

“But—” she started.

“I’ve been called worse,” he admitted. “Besides, I am an asshole.”

“I’m sure,” she mumbled under her breath. His mouth twitched. Whoever Harlow had been before Frank scared the hell out of her was still buried beneath all that fear. Wade wanted to know that woman, and the realization irritated him. He didn’t know her. She’d been in his bar less than thirty minutes and had brought a convoy of armed assholes straight to his front door. The smart move would be to call Butcher, let his Prez decide what to do with her, and stay the hell out of it. Too bad Wade had never been particularly good at doing the smart thing when someone pissed him off, and Frank had managed to do that in record fucking time.

The kitchen doors swung open, and Mitch walked out carrying a plate. “Burger and fries.”

Harlow looked at the food like she’d forgotten Wade had ordered it. “Sit,” Wade said.

“I’m not a dog,” she grumbled.

“There’s that attitude again,” he said. Her eyes narrowed, and Wade pointed toward the nearest table. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold,” she lied.

“You’re also running on adrenaline, and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while,” he said. Her silence told him he was right. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Breakfast, maybe.” Jesus Christ.

He pulled out a chair. “Sit your ass down.”

“You’re bossy,” she said.

“My bar, my rules,” he said.

“That doesn't mean you're the boss of me,” she countered.

“No, but right now, I'm the guy standing between you and the asshole who threatened to drag you out of here. Humor me,” he said. She stared at him, and Wade stared back. Finally, she sat. “See?” he said. “Wasn’t so hard.”

“Go to hell,” she spat. Someone behind him coughed to cover another laugh, and Wade smiled--actually fucking smiled. That surprised him almost as much as it seemed to surprise her.

“Eat,” he ordered. Harlow picked up a fry, and he considered that to be progress. Wade turned toward the bar. He had barely made it three steps when motorcycles rumbled outside. Harlow shot out of the chair so fast it tipped backward, and Wade caught it before it hit the floor. “Easy,” he soothed.

“They came back,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “They didn’t come back.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because Frank drives a black SUV like a douchebag. Those are Harleys,” he insisted.

She stared at him. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she stammered.