“I had no idea it could be like that,” she said, eyes closed, voice small.
I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, feeling the rhythm of her breath and the strange, unfamiliar peace that came with it.
The outside world was still there—the wind, the dark, the endless threat. But inside, for a minute, there was only us, tangled together, sweating and alive.
She traced the scars on my hands, fingers gentle. “Why do you do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Save people.”
I stared at the ceiling, the old stains and the new. “Because no one else will.”
She considered that, then kissed the inside of my wrist, where the skin was thinnest. “You don’t have to save me,” she said. “Just stay.”
I promised nothing, but I stayed.
The house creaked and groaned, the wind hurling itself at the walls, and I lay there, watching the window, her body soft and warm against mine.
Every muscle wanted to rest, but the world wouldn’t let me.
I kept watch until sleep took us both.
10
Seraphina
There was a shuffle, the click of something metallic, the barely-there scuff of boot rubber on linoleum.
I waited, holding my breath, until I heard it again—near the door this time. Something more deliberate than a threat. Nitro’s voice, the soft side of rough, reached me across the dark.
“Time to get up, Doc.”
I squinted toward the door, saw his silhouette—shirtless, all tattooed tension and burn scars, head cocked in a way that suggested he was listening for more than just my answer.
“What time is it?” I croaked, voice sandblasted.
“Little after two. We’re burning moonlight.” He leaned against the door frame, the barest glint of light off the chain at his throat.
I propped myself on an elbow, found the sheet twisted around my knees, and remembered everything in a rush. The club, the aftermath, the taste of blood and sex, and borrowed adrenaline. My body hurt in interesting new ways.
“You carried me to bed,” I said, and he nodded.
He was already half-dressed, pulling a black tee over his shoulders, muscles—not overly done—flexing. There was a sense of motion to him, the engine idling even at rest. He watched me with an unreadable flatness, but his eyes traveled the length of my body, and he let himself look.
“You ever ride at night?” he asked, like it was a test.
“I prefer not to ride at all,” I said, but my heart rate ticked up.
He grinned, the scar on his jaw splitting the smile into two uneven halves. “You’re about to.”
He tossed something on the bed—a helmet, matte black, light enough to be carbon fiber. It landed beside me on the mattress, barely making a dent. I picked it up, felt the coolness of the shell against my palm, and the soft lining, already shaped to a different skull. I ran my thumb along the edge, then glanced back at him.
“Is this necessary?”
He shrugged, but there was a seriousness in the set of his mouth. “If you want to keep your brains on the inside, yeah.”
I smirked, but it was an automatic reflex, not humor. I sat up, pulling the sheet with me, and jammed the helmet on. It felt ridiculous, but it also made the room instantly quieter, the world reduced to the thump of my own blood and the smell of someone else’s hair product.
