Page 36 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

Tyrant’s howl is the prettiest sound I’ve heard today. I grab Poppy the moment she ducks out of reach of his flailing arm, kick his knife out of the way, and rip the zip-tie free that secures her to the matchstick chair he had secured her to.

“It’s time to run,” I murmur, squeezing her tight.

She mutters something uncomplimentary about her sire before her bare feet pound the ground at my side, up the hill the way we came. Bullets ring out, single shots that cover our retreat. Crimson must have set back up. No screams come and I know he’s just laying down a path to secure our exit for funsies.

“Good man.” I pat his back as we reach the top and scoop Poppy into my arms, placing her on my bike over the lip of the dirt bowl. There’s no reason to linger here, and we have a place to call home.

For now.

Before all of this becomes the shit fight we never wanted but will happen anyway.

She needs to face her father and we need to work out if she still wants to kill me. But all that can happen after I clean her up and count the scratches on her body. Because if there’s a single scar...

I’ll go back to the Saints’ compound and end the old man’s life myself.

****

Dirt and blood filter through my fingers as I stand under the spray of the shower. Some of it’s mine, but most is from other men I’ve killed today. My eyes close, soaking in the silence, discarding the shouts and the bullet spray from earlier, reliving the engine noise, what it felt like to be part of a club again for a few minutes.

What it meant to be one of them again.

A Son of Sin.

Once, it was all I wanted. Craved the security of the family I found in club life. Then those days of excess and sleepless nights grew cold. The separation from everything called to me, and I cut ties. Savage let me leave on the condition that I would be on call to him—and in reverse—should the need arise. And that I would pay my dues as required, as penance.

Today would earn me a hefty fee. He would call on me at some future point, a bargain struck with a sinner for the facade of freedom. Her freedom. A necessity.

Cold fingers on my biceps jerk me out of dreamland. My eyes flash open, and I grip the thin arm, yanking her under the water fully clothed until her back hits the cold, tiled wall.

“You know better than to sneak up on a man after a gunfight,” I growl. The vibrations in my chest hurt, the tension there not yet dissipated. Damnit. I hoped to be rid of this fury that still lies on me before I spoke to Poppy again.

Wide eyes stare back at me, unable to look away as I tilt her jaw in my larger hand, making sure she sees the real side of me. “I know,” she finally whispers back. “I needed you.”

The concession tears at me. I pull her close, heedless of the fact that she’s still dirty and I’m clean. She refused the shower when I tried to get her to come in with me, sitting on the porch, looking out at the fields.

I got it. Sometimes, being alone was the only way to deal with the processing that came afterward. I still don’t know her history, how much of the Saint’s life she really saw. I suspect she was groomed for her father’s purpose, rather than the real club life. A princess in a gritty cage.

My fingers tangle in her hair, then I slide her clothes from her skin layer by layer. She doesn’t speak and I don’t break our quiet pact as she lets me clean her, stripping away the terror and bullshit factor of today.

All the things her father did and said to her trickle away down the drain with each grain of dirt coated in her own blood. Twenty-three cuts I count on her body, and bruises around her wrists, ribs, and throat. Someone choked my girl and I’ll cut their tongue out for it. Tyrant isn’t the only one who has fun with a blade.

The water won’t remove every stain from today. Plenty will remain on the inside, too. She’ll have to come to terms with what happened in her own time. What she feels. The betrayal of her family. That she can’t go back. What she wants from here on in. Those are her choices to make.

Poppy stands still, her eyes closed. Trusting as I wash her hair and smooth mud from her skin until she’s the woman I know beneath. But this version of my girl is changed. This isn’t the same woman who rode my fingers in the doc’s office when she wore my cut. She’s not the same woman who stabbed me to save herself. This is a fresh version of Poppy who neither of us knows just yet.

I lean down and kiss the corner of her mouth. “We’re gonna run out of hot water, cosita. Let me get you dry. I have some clothes.” They aren’t the sort she’s used to wearing, but they will do for now.

Poppy’s eyes open, and her hazel gaze is glossed with tears. The sight of her breaking shatters me. She’s been so strong, so relentless this entire time and now...

This is a changed version of her, but no less perfect for it. I turn off the water and gather her in my arms, drying her with care. She lets me, almost completely shut down. The tears never fall, but they’re there, right beneath the surface along with a shitload of other turmoil ready to burst at the seams.

She doesn’t object when I pull one of my long-sleeved black-and-white t-shirts over her head, and find her a pair of shorts to go underneath. It’s different, but seeing her dressed in my shirt leaves my chest tighter than ever.

Finally, she starts to walk. Not heading for the bedroom, but down the stairs of the two-story farmhouse. Poppy bypasses the kitchen, ignoring the food and coffee I have ready to prepare, and goes straight out the front door, back to standing where I left her before she found me in the shower. Only now she’s cleaner. Her long hair is tousled and hangs in a mess along her back. This version of her is raw and stunning and everything I want to protect. If she’ll let me.

My bike is parked a few feet away and my heart lurches in my chest when the keys jingle slightly in her hand.

I stand behind her, not touching her, just there. “Stay,” I rasp. “Please.”