"Will do."
After Tank exits, Claire visibly relaxes. "He's... intense," she says.
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "That's one word for him. Tank's all business, but he's solid. If he says he'll help you, he will."
"Will he? Help me?"
I consider the question. "Tank doesn't make promises he can't keep. If he thought we couldn't help, he would have said so."
She nods, finishing the last of her sandwich. "I appreciate the food. And the room."
"No problem." I gesture to the medical kit. "Ready to wrap those ribs?"
She tenses again. "I can do it myself."
"No, you can't," I say. "Not properly. And poorly wrapped ribs can cause more damage."
She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of me touching her. I don't take it personally. After what she's been through, I'd be surprised if she trusted any man near her body.
"I've done this before," I tell her. "For my brothers in the club. For myself. I'll be quick and professional."
After a long moment, she nods reluctantly. "Okay."
I open the med kit and pull out the elastic bandage. "You'll need to lift your shirt. Or you can go in the bathroom and take it off, put on one of the robes hanging on the door. Whatever you're comfortable with."
She considers, then stands and moves toward the bathroom. "I'll change."
While she's gone, I prepare the bandages and arrange the ice pack. When she emerges a few minutes later, she's wrapped in a black terrycloth robe, arms crossed over her chest.
"Sit on the edge of the bed," I instruct. "And open the robe just enough for me to wrap the bandage around your torso."
She complies, her movements stiff and guarded. The robe parts to reveal her bruised ribcage, and I have to consciously control my breathing at the sight. Up close, the damage is even worse. Whoever did this meant to cause pain, meant to instill fear. Succeeded at both.
"I'm going to touch you now," I warn her. "Just to wrap the bandage."
Chapter 3 - Claire
"I'm going to touch you now," Rage warns. "Just to wrap the bandage."
I steel myself as his large, tattooed hands approach my exposed skin. I hate how I flinch when his fingers first make contact—a learned response that I can't seem to control anymore.
But his touch is nothing like Tommy's. Where Tommy was rough and careless, Rage is surprisingly gentle, his rugged fingertips barely skimming my bruised flesh as he positions the elastic bandage.
"Deep breath in," he instructs.
I inhale as deeply as my battered ribs allow.
"Now exhale slowly while I wrap."
As I breathe out, he winds the bandage around my torso, applying just enough tension to support without restricting. The pressure immediately provides relief, taking some of the strain off my abused muscles.
"Again," he says.
We repeat the process as he works his way up my ribcage. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall beyond his shoulder, trying to ignore the intimacy of the moment… A stranger's hands on my bare skin, his face close enough that I can smell the faint scent of leather and something spicy, like cloves or cinnamon.
"Tommy liked to make it hurt," I find myself saying, the words spilling out unbidden. "Even when he was just touching me. Like he needed to remind me how strong he was, how easily he could break me if he wanted to."
Rage's hands pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. "Tommy. That's your ex?"
