She huffs, but her body leans into mine as I pull her up from the mud. And when her knees buckle, I scoop her against me, ignoring her weak protests.
The rain keeps hammering, but I don’t feel it anymore. Not with her in my arms, curled into me like I’m the only thing tethering her to the world.
We get to my bike, and she’s so cold, she can hardly swing her leg over, so I keep her in my arms, sitting her sideways and tucking her against me. I put the spare helmet on her head, and once I’m satisfied she’s secure, I start the engine and take the quickest route back to the clubhouse.
I don’t stop to explain as I carry her inside. I don’t even nod to anyone. I just march through the clubhouse with her in my arms, dripping rain across the floor. Brothers glance up, but one look at my face and they keep their mouths shut.
I continue on up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door closed behind us. And then I go right into the bathroom, setting her down against the sink unit while I reach inside the shower to turn it on. The mirror fogs as I crank the water to hot. Steam billows out, mixing with the storm still clinging to us. Remi’s still shaking when I turn to look at her. Her entire body vibrates while her teeth chatter. Her hands fumble at the hem of her soaked dress, but she can’t get it up, her fingers too stiff and still trembling.
Her chin wobbles as silent tears streak her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound. Instead, she just stares at the tiled floor like it’s swallowing her whole. Like she’s giving up.
“Hey,” I say quietly, crouching in front of her. “It’s no big deal. You’re frozen solid. Let me help.”
Her eyes flick to mine. They’re wide, glassy, uncertain. Then she nods once.
Carefully, I peel the wet fabric up over her body. It clings like a second skin, forcing me to take it slow. I keep my gaze steady on her face, not her thin, pale frame, even though I see enough to make my chest ache.
“You’re alright,” I murmur, tossing the ruined dress aside. “Just you and me here, nothing else matters right now.”
She sways when she tries to step towards the shower, and I catch her elbow just in time, steadying her. “Easy.”
She grips the wall like it’s the only thing holding her upright, but even then, she’s too weak. My gut twists. There’s no way I’m leaving her like this.
I drag a chair in from the corner and set it under the spray. “Sit.”
She lowers herself carefully, still shivering, her hair plastered to her face. I strip off my shirt, boots, and jeans, until I’m down to my boxers, and climb in with her.
The heat slams into us, scalding at first then easing into something close to relief. I take the shampoo and lather it into her hair, my fingers working through the tangles. She sits silent, eyes closed, leaning into my touch like she doesn’t have the strength to fight it.
I rinse her hair then let the water pour over her shoulders, her arms, her legs. I take the bar of soap and lather it in my hands, crouching before her to run the soapy suds over her legs and feet, washing away the mud.
When she’s done, and when the shakes finally start to ease, I wrap her in the biggest towel I own, lifting her back into my arms. She’s lighter than she should be. Too light.
In my room, I set her gently on the bed. Keeping the towel tight around her to cover her modesty, I help dry her hair and arms with a smaller towel, never lingering longer than I should.
She doesn’t speak but closes her eyes like she’s enjoying being taken care of, and I wonder when the last time was that someone did that for her.
Something settles in my chest, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like an enforcer, like the bastard who dishes out pain for a living.
I just feel like a man who found someone worth protecting. And that’s when I realise . . . I’m screwed.
Remi
No one’s ever taken care of me. Not like this.
Mum tried, in her own way, I guess, but the truth is she was always more interested in whichever bloke was warming her bed that week. I learned early not to expect gentle hands, not to leanon anyone. You rely on people, they let you down. Every single time.
And yet, here I am, wrapped in a towel the size of a duvet, Shadow’s—no, Logan’s—hands moving carefully over my arms, my hair, never lingering too long, never taking more than I’m willing to give. His touch is tender, almost cautious. Like I’m breakable. Like I matter.
It’s nice.Too nice.
Dangerously nice.
Because I know how this story ends. Men are sweet until they get what they want, then the mask slips and they turn cruel, or bored, or both. I’ve built my armour too carefully to let some grumpy biker strip it away with clean towels and shampoo.
I fix my stare on the wall while he works, forcing myself to stay cold and indifferent even though my chest aches at the care in his movements.
When he’s done, he digs through his drawers and tosses me a shirt that looks like it could swallow me whole and a pair of shorts that will hang loose on my hips. “Put those on,” he says simply, turning away to give me space.
