Page 40 of Wraith

This is a two-on-one, and Wraith’s probably a little drunk, and he’s fighting in his boxer briefs and — I can’t help but notice, even in the middle of this chaos — he’s still hard. Like, fully, prominently hard. His erection is just there, straining against the fabric, bouncing and pulsing with every movement, and my brain doesn’t know what to do with it.

Hawk lunges at Wraith from behind.

Wraith spins, catches Hawk’s arm, and uses his momentum to throw him into the wall. The drywall dents. Hawk bounces off it and comes back swinging, and this time his fist connects with Wraith’s jaw with a sound that makes my teeth hurt in sympathy.

Wraith’s head snaps to the side.

He spits blood onto the floor.

Then he smiles.

“That all you got?” he says.

And then he’s moving again, and I realize I’m watching something I didn’t know he was capable of. He’s fighting like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to protect. He takes a hit from Bruiser that should drop him — a solid punch to the ribs that I hear land from across the room — and he just absorbs it and keeps moving. Drives his forehead into Bruiser’s nose. Blood explodes across both their faces.

Bruiser stumbles back, cursing, hands going to his face.

Hawk comes in from the side with a kick aimed at Wraith’s knee, but Wraith pivots and the kick glances off his thigh instead, then Wraith grabs Hawk by the shirt and head-butts him again.

More blood.

More cursing.

Wraith’s still hard. Harder, even, if such a thing is possible.

And I’m still in the bathtub.

I’m still just standing here, watching, while Wraith fights two armed men to protect me.

And I could leave.

The thought hits me like cold water.

The front door is open. Broken on its hinges, but open. I could slip out right now while they’re focused on Wraith. I could run. Make it to the street, find someone, get to the Twisted Devils’ clubhouse. I’d be safe. I wouldn’t have to deal with Wraith or the Sons or any of this mess. I could just walk away clean.

The responsible thing.

The smart thing.

The thing that doesn’t involve me staying in an apartment with my abusive ex-boyfriend who might still be playing some long game I can’t see.

But he came back.

He came back to warn me. He made me breakfast. He let me cuff him so I could sleep. He barked like a dog to sell my lie to Molly.

And now he’s fighting for my life.

I watch him take another hit — Bruiser’s fist connecting with his ribs, the same spot as before, and this time Wraith’s face does something that tells me it hurt, that tells me he’s already injured there — and I watch him keep fighting anyway. Keep moving. Keep putting his body between me and them.

This isn’t manipulation.

You can’t fake this.

Bruiser gets behind Wraith and wraps a massive arm around his throat. A chokehold. Professional. Tight. Wraith’s hands go to Bruiser’s arm, trying to pry it loose, but Bruiser’s got leverage and weight, and he’s squeezing, and Wraith’s face is already going red.

Hawk sees it. Grins through his broken nose. He wipes blood from his mouth and advances on them, pulling a knife from somewhere, a nasty serrated thing that catches the morning light.

“Shoulda stayed loyal, Wraith,” Hawk says.