Page 5 of Riot’s Revenge

I smirked before I could stop myself.

The nurse caught it immediately with sharp brown eyes that looked exhausted but deeply unimpressed. “You laughing at my patients?”

“Little bit.”

“Good,” she replied dryly while snapping gloves onto her hands. “You can help me cut his shirt off then.”

3

MARIA

I’d finished my shift half an hour earlier and was halfway through paperwork when the bikers walked through the clinic doors. I was exhausted, running on caffeine and irritation after a twelve-hour shift, so his amusement immediately annoyed me.

“Sit down before you fall down,” I muttered when we got to the examination room.

The guy dropped onto the exam bed dramatically while I grabbed a penlight from my pocket.

“Look at me.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

The quiet one sighed somewhere behind me. “Ghost.”

I ignored them both and lifted the light toward Ghost’s eyes, watching his pupils react.

“Any vomiting?”

“Not yet.”

“Blurred vision?”

“Your face looks fuzzy, but I’m hoping that’s temporary.”

I snorted softly before checking the swelling near his temple. The cut was ugly but not deep enough to need more than cleaning and dressing. The bruising around it worried me more.

“Mild concussion,” I decided. “You need rest, hydration, and someone to stop you doing anything stupid for at least twenty-four hours.”

Ghost looked toward the quiet biker. “Guess I’m fucked then.”

Someone snorted loudly behind him and, despite the blood, bruises and probable criminal records standing in my exam room, the tension in my shoulders eased slightly for the first time since they walked in. They were ridiculous. Violent, bloody and probably criminals, but ridiculous in a way that made them feel strangely human beneath all the leather and bruises.

I cleaned Ghost’s head wound quickly, taped gauze into place, then pointed toward the chair by the wall. “Sit there. Don’t sleep. Don’t flirt. Don’t bleed on my floor.”

“Bossy,” Ghost muttered.

“You have no idea.”

The injured biker with the bloody mouth dropped heavily onto the examination bed next while I reached for trauma shears.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Reaper.”

“Yeah? I’m Cinderella.”

Bruising had already spread across his side in deep purple streaks, and heat radiated beneath my fingertips when I pressed carefully against the damage. His ribs were definitely cracked.

“What happened?” I asked.