Then her gaze meets mine.
And the whole damn world shifts a fraction, like something inside me locks onto her before I get a vote.
Not because she’s pretty, though she is. Not because she’s curvy under that hoodie, soft lines in all the right places that any man would notice.
She is beautiful. Not in the polished, staged way. In the raw, breath-catching way that makes your chest tighten before your brain catches up.
But that’s not it.
It’s the way she looks at me. Like I’m a door out of the dark. Like if I shut it on her, she won’t survive the night.
Her lips part. No words come out. Just breath, shaking and white in the air.
She makes a small sound, more plea than voice, and her knees start to fold.
I catch her.
One arm around her back, the other under her legs, solid and sure. She’s all cold through, a chill that bites straight into my skin. Her fingers clutch my leather cut like it’s the only real thing left in her world.
That grip punches low in my gut.
Protective. Immediate. Ugly.
The kind of feeling I don’t let myself have, because feelings make you sloppy and sloppy gets people killed.
I back into the cabin and kick the door shut with my heel. Deadbolt. Chain. Lock. My hands do it without thought.
Lorenzo Grant is the name on my paperwork. Doc is what the Damned Saints call me. It’s what the men I served with called me too.
I carry her to the couch and lower her carefully. Her head lolls and I catch it before it knocks the armrest. My palm ends upcradling the back of her skull, fingers in soft hair, and for one stupid second, I hate how right it feels to hold her like this.
Her lashes flutter.
She tries to fight sleep like it’s dangerous to close her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, low. “Stay with me.”
Her gaze flicks to the door. Then to me. Then it slides out of focus.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath at the situation. At whoever put her here.
I pull a blanket over her, thick and heavy, and check her pulse at the wrist. Fast, but steady. She’s cold, dehydrated, and in shock.
And scared enough to run barefoot through pine woods until she landed on my porch.
I stand, already moving. I grab the med bag.
I kneel beside the couch and open it. Shears. Gauze. Antiseptic. My hands move on instinct, steady.
She stirs. Barely a sound, but her fingers twitch against the blanket.
I lean in, keep my voice low. “Hey. You’re safe. I’m a doctor. They call me Doc.”
Her eyes crack open. Glazed, unfocused, but locked on me.
“I need to check you over. You hurting anywhere?”
She doesn’t speak, just gives the smallest nod.
