No one’s coming. No one cares.
I refuse to believe it.
Somebody will come.
They have to.
He tilts his head, eyes flat, like he’s deciding how much trouble I’m worth.
My stomach drops.
A shout carries from behind the bikes.
Then another engine cuts in, deeper and steadier, not frantic and showy like theirs. The man at my window stiffens and turns his head.
For a split second, I see it.
Uncertainty.
A lone motorcycle appears from the direction I came, eating up the road like it owns it. One rider. No formation. No backup in sight.
But the presence that comes with him feels bigger than the four men currently surrounding my car.
He pulls onto the shoulder and stops his massive bike between my car and the road, a deliberate block.
He kills the engine.
Swings his leg over.
Stands.
My breath catches.
He’s tall and built like a wall, faded jeans and a black Henley stretched across a chest that looks like it could stop bullets. A leather vest rides over it, and the patch on the back is unmistakable.
Skull.
Halo.
Damned Saints.
He doesn’t look at me at first. His gaze sweeps the men around my car, like he’s taking inventory. His posture is easy, almost relaxed, but tension sits in the set of his shoulders like a promise.
He pushes his helmet up.
Blue eyes. Sharp. Assessing.
When they finally flick to me, the impact is physical. Heat pricks up my neck, sudden and unwelcome, like my body is reacting before my brain can remind it to be smarter.
Not that it matters.
Men like him don’t look at women like me twice. I’m soft in places I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide, curves I can’t tuck away with good posture and a careful smile.
And even if he did look, I don’t want the kind of man who comes with that much power. I know what power can do when it decides it owns you.
The heat fades into something colder.
Recognition.
