She tastes like salvation and disaster.
She said "not yet" instead of "never."
That's enough. For now.
Chapter twenty-one
Blood and Claiming
Lena
Having him watch me work was foreplay I didn't expect.
Wednesday afternoon, and I'm in the back of my Mobile Mercy Unit treating a Viper—rival MC to everyone, equal opportunity assholes—who managed to get himself stabbed six times and still thinks hitting on me is a viable life choice. Meanwhile, Zane's leaning against the van's door frame like he's posing for "Dangerous Men Monthly," watching me work with an intensity that makes my hands shake slightly as I prep the suture kit.
"This gonna hurt?" the Viper asks, blood bubbling from his mouth in a way that suggests punctured lung, which means he should be in an ER, not my van. But ERs mean cops, and cops mean questions, and here we are.
"Yes," I tell him, not bothering with bedside manner for someone whose vest proclaims him "Pussy Slayer" in unfortunate font choices.
"Maybe you could make it hurt less," he suggests, his hand moving toward my thigh.
Before I can react—before I can even process the audacity of bleeding out while sexually harassing your medical provider—Zane's there. Not touching, not threatening, just suddenly present in a way that makes the Viper's hand retreat like it's been burned.
"Touch her and I'll make sure you need more than stitches," Zane says conversationally, like he's discussing the weather, not threatening grievous bodily harm.
"Who the fuck are you?" The Viper tries to sit up, which is medically inadvisable given the whole punctured lung situation.
"The guy who's letting her save your worthless life instead of watching you bleed out. Now shut up and let her work."
My phone buzzes. I shouldn't check it—sterile field and all—but it's sitting face-up and I can see it's from Bad Decision.
Bad Decision:You look beautiful covered in blood.
I nearly drop my forceps. He's texting me while standing three feet away, while I'm elbow-deep in someone else's poor life choices.
“That's disturbing.”I mutter loud enough for him to hear
Bad Decision:That's us.
He's not wrong. We're disturbing on levels that would require therapeutic intervention if either of us believed in therapy instead of mutual destruction via sexual tension.
I focus on suturing, but I can feel his eyes on me, cataloging every movement. The way I bite my lip when I'm concentrating. The efficiency of my hands despite the shaking. The fact that I'm saving someone who five minutes ago tried to grope me.
Bad Decision:Good girl, saving even the unworthy.
Those two words hit like a defibrillator to my vagina. I fumble the suture, have to redo it, while the Viper groans and Zane watches and my body performs its own rebellion against medical professionalism.
"You're enjoying this," the Viper says, because apparently blood loss doesn't cure stupidity.
"The medical challenge? Always," I respond, tying off another suture with perhaps more force than necessary.
"I meant him watching." He tries to nod toward Zane but winces. "You two fucking?"
"Not yet," Zane answers before I can, and the 'yet' hangs in the air like a promise and a threat and a diagnosis of inevitable disaster.
Tommy appears in the doorway with a box—medical supplies, the good stuff, not the expired donations I usually work with.
"Where did these come from?" I ask, though I already know.
