“Gracie!” he yelled, doubling his efforts.
Neither of us slowed.
I threw myself behind him, hands clutching his shirt.
“Someone was in my office,” I gasped between breaths.
A growl moved through Perish at that.
His hands curled into fists.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. He grabbed me, but I got away.”
“Fuck, I need to get you out of here.”
He sounded conflicted.
I couldn’t blame him.
My uncles and cousins would feel the same. Split by the need to protect me… and to get the bad guy.
“I can take myself to—”
“No,” he cut me off. “Where’s your car?”
“Right over… shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t have my purse. Or keys.”
“Bike. Now,” he demanded, starting to walk backward, his hand under his shirt, likely holding onto his gun in case he needed to use it. His head was swiveling, glancing around, looking for threats.
I glanced around, spotting the bike and beelining for it.
“Helmet,” he growled, still walking backward toward me.
I didn’t hesitate.
Because now that I felt protected, I could think a little more clearly.
Perish had been running toward me.
There was no way he could have known I was in trouble.
So there was someotherkind of trouble.
I thought back to my cell, to the texts I had been ignoring, assuming they were work-related. But maybe it was the club.
Maybe the shit had hit the fan.
So by the time he got to the bike, I had on my helmet and had climbed onto the seat.
Perish paused only to holster his gun before jumping on and turning it over.
“Hold on,” he demanded in that deep growl of his.
