Then I notice what he's wearing, and my blood turns to ice.
A leather cut with patches. Savage Riders MC.
I've escaped one nightmare only to run straight into another.
"Please," I whisper, unable to keep the fear from my voice. "I'm just trying to get out of town."
His eyes narrow. "I’m going to repeat myself just once. Are you running from something? Or someone?"
When I don't answer, he takes a step closer. I flinch, raising my arm as if to ward off a blow.
Chapter 2 - Rage
That flinch tells me everything I need to know.
I've seen it a hundred times before, that instinctive raising of arms to protect the face, the way her body curls slightly inward, bracing for impact. The universal language of someone who's been hit before and expects to be hit again.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm. I take a step back, giving her space. "Name's Rage. What's yours?"
She eyes me warily, arm still half-raised. In the moonlight, I can see the yellowing bruise on her cheekbone that makeup couldn't quite hide. There are probably more where that came from.
"Claire," she finally says, her voice barely audible.
"Claire," I repeat. "You got somewhere safe to go tonight, Claire?"
She hesitates, then shakes her head.
"That's what I thought." I glance around the deserted park. With nightfall, Blackwater Falls becomes a ghost town. Everyone knows better than to be out after dark these days. Everyone except this woman.
"You picked a bad time to be homeless in this town," I tell her. "This war's about to get a lot worse."
"I know," she says, surprising me. "The buses aren't running. I tried to leave this morning."
Smart girl. Trying to get out while she still can. Too late, though. Nothing's moving in or out of Blackwater Falls right now. Not with the Eagles promising retaliation for Vincent.
I consider my options. I could leave her here, but that doesn't sit right. Not with the Eagles getting bolder, sending scouts into our territory looking for weaknesses. Not with that haunted look in her eyes and those bruises on her face.
King would tell me to mind my business. To focus on club priorities. But King's not here, and I've got a seven-year-old son who still believes his old man is one of the good guys. Hard to face those innocent eyes in the morning if I leave a beaten woman alone in a park at night.
"Look," I say, running a hand over my short hair, "I can't leave you out here. It's not safe."
She clutches her bag tighter, suspicion clear in her posture. "I don't need your charity."
"It's not charity. It's common sense." I gesture to the empty park. "You stay here, best case scenario is cops pick you up for vagrancy. Worst case..." I don't finish the thought. She doesn't need me to spell it out.
"Why would you help me?" she asks, voice stronger now. "You don't know me."
Fair question. I'm not exactly known for my charitable nature. The guys at the clubhouse would laugh their asses off if they saw me playing Good Samaritan to some random woman.
But this isn't about charity. It's about the bruises on her face. About the way she flinched when I moved. About the piece of shit who put that fear in her eyes.
"I've got a son," I confess. "I'm trying to teach him that men protect people who need it. Hard to do that if I leave you here."
I can practically see the calculation in her eyes. The devil she knows versus the devil she doesn't.
"I'm a Savage Rider," I continue, nodding to my cut. "Which means I can actually keep you safe tonight. Get you somewhere to clean up, get some food. Tomorrow we can figure out next steps."
"Next steps," she repeats slowly, like the concept is foreign.
