I tumble forward and the beast in front of me catches me before I can face plant into the dirt road.
I have a limited number of options before me. I could dodge and weave around this guy and hope he doesn’t catch me.
Not likely, my brain argues.
I could hit rewind and go back the way I came.
Err… that won’t do, either. The Vultures will kill me before they let me escape.
Fight?
Ha. Yeah, that’s a solid no.
“Layla,” he calls again.
“How do you know my name?”
With a quick once over, he takes in my state of clothing, or lack of, the trickles of blood running down my legs from my tumble through the thorns, and my lack of a real weapon no doubt.
“I’ve been hunting for you for a very long time. You and I have a friend in common.”
I snort and raise my wad of papers when he takes a step closer. “Unlikely. I don’t hang around assholes, willingly that is.”
The smirk that twists his lip up is cute and makes his scowl turn into a sexy smolder. What? I have eyes. It doesn’t mean I believe him though.
He keeps his expression calm and his voice pitched low, yet soft at the same time when he answers. “I hear you, Doc. I think you know an FBI Agent by the name of Harlow Montgomery?”
My brain tries to catch up with the idea of actually having someone that is on my side but it’s not that easy hitting the reset button after five months of trauma.
I take in his leather biker cut, the white T-shirt and black jeans. “But you’re a Vulture.” My brow creases with confusion.
He shakes his head. “That is a negative, Doc. I’m a Savage.”
“But the leather cut,” I counter and take a half a step back. Just because he can toss out a name I know doesn’t mean he’s a friendly.
“You’re about to learn there’s more than one crew of bikers in this area and we are the good guys.”
He gives me his back and sure enough the emblem on the back of his cut is totally different from the Vultures.
And then the bullets start up again.
Men shout profanities and the few moments of calm turn into pure chaos.
Before I can get my brain on board and my feet moving, the dude moves in front of me, blocking me from the violence.
“Stay behind me and move.” He shrugs out of his cut and forces my arms through the holes and urges me deeper around the bend in the road until we are fully out of sight.
His body heat wraps around me like a shield, grounding me. The strong coil of his arm around me, anchoring me to his side calms my racing heart.
My breath catches when his hand falls to the bare skin of my hip forcing me to a stop.
“Hold up here, Doc.”
For a moment, my vision narrows to the way his shirt stretches across broad shoulders, the cut of his jaw, the intense darkness in his eyes. He smells of leather, gun oil, sweat, and a deep, unmistakable note that is all him. Not a cologne. Something wilder.
I cling to it. I don’t know why but the rampant insane energy bouncing around my insides settles the deeper I inhale.
A Vulture barrels into view, weapon up. The man in front of me—my protector—fires without hesitation. The crack of the shot echoes across the grass. The Vulture drops, and for the first time in months, I feel safe.
