Page 32 of Angel’s Claim

"Yeah. Now come on," I say again, holding out my hand. "Let's get you fed."

She takes my hand without hesitation, and that simple gesture, her fingers sliding between mine, trusting me to lead her somewhere safe, makes something fierce and protective rise up in my chest.

We head toward the door, and I'm already planning where to take her. Somewhere quiet, somewhere she won't have to deal with curious looks or questions. Maybe Lou's. Lou wouldn't ask, would just feed us and leave us alone.

We're almost to the door when I hear it. The sound of metal on metal. Loud, and way too fucking close.

I stop mid-step.

"What—" Bree starts.

"Stay behind me," I say, already moving toward the door.

The sound comes again, louder this time. The unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting chrome and steel.

My bike.

Someone's fucking with my bike. I shove open the motel door and step outside, and rage floods through me so fast I see red.

There are five men in the parking lot, surrounding my motorcycle. Dusty Martin is front and center, holding a fucking baseball bat. Two of his buddies have wrenches. Another one has a tire iron. The fifth is just standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching.

My bike is on its side.

The chrome is dented. The mirror is shattered. There's a fresh gash in the fuel tank where someone took a bat to it.

"Angel!" Dusty calls out, grinning like this is the funniest thing he's ever done. "There you are! We were starting to think you weren't coming out."

I don't answer. I'm too busy calculating.

Five against one. Three of them armed with weapons. Dusty's drunk. I can see it in the way he's swaying slightly, in the too-bright gleam in his eyes. The others are probably drunk too, which makes them unpredictable.

This isn't good.

Bree appears beside me, and I feel her hand grip my arm.

"Angel," she whispers, her voice shaking. "Don't. Please don't go out there."

I glance down at her. She's terrified, eyes wide, face pale, fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise.

"It's okay," I tell her.

"It's not okay. There are five of them and they have weapons. We should go back inside. We should call the police—"

"The police won't do shit," I say, keeping my voice low and calm despite the fury burning through me. "Dusty's cousin is a deputy. He'll make this disappear before anyone even writes a report."

"Then we go back to my room. We lock the door and wait for them to leave."

I look at her, and I see the fear in her eyes. Not fear for herself. Fear for me.

She cares. This girl I met less than twenty-four hours ago cares enough to be terrified that I'm about to walk out there and get the shit kicked out of me.

I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. She sucks in a sharp breath, and her grip on my arm tightens.

"I need you to trust me," I say against her skin.

"Angel…"

"I didn't join the military because I was afraid of a fight, Bree. And I didn't join the Iron Phoenix because I needed protection. I can handle this."