The only question was how slowly Copper would make it happen. And that was okay with Saint. As long as the man couldn’t go after Beth again, he’d accept the outcome, even if he couldn’t make the kill.
As he approached the truck, the prospect rushed to the passenger-side door to open it, and Saint tucked her into the seat.
“Hey, prospect.” He dug in his pocket for his keys. “My bike is with the others about half a mile away. See that it gets back to the clubhouse in one piece, or you’ll never fucking patch.”
The guy’s eyes widened. He took the keys, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “You got it, Saint. I’ll treat it better than I treat my own.”
He chuckled. “You’d better. It’s a hundred times nicer than your piece of shit.”
When he looked back at Beth, she was shaking her head at him with a weak grin.
Saint grew serious. “Tell me how you’re really feeling.”
“Pretty shitty. Um… he, Demo, knocked me on the floor and kicked me with his boots a few times.”
Saint’s jaw ticked. “Then we’re definitely going to the ER.”
“I don’t think I need that.”
He seared her with a look that scared men twice her size. “It’s non-negotiable.”
Beth rolled her eyes, then she frowned and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I was scared,” she whispered.
He leaned in, cupping her hips. “I was fucking terrified.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
“Any fucking time, baby. Though, please never again.”
She chuckled, but it turned into a groan. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
Yeah, first stop, emergency room.
“I fucking love you, Beth.”
“I love you too,” she whispered.
Saint kissed her forehead, then backed away. After he buckled her in, he shut the door and started for the driver’s side, where the prospect left the keys in the ignition. As he turned, he found Copper watching them with a pensive stare.
Instead of barging over, chasing Saint away, or demanding to talk to his daughter, he gave Saint a single nod.
Saint returned the gesture.
Approval?
Maybe not, but it was a first step.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“SAINT, I’M FINE,” Beth said for the thousandth time.
“Shh, hold up. Don’t move,” Saint said as he patted her thigh while staring at the monitor above her hospital bed.
Beth rolled her eyes. Since Demo kicked her in the torso and she’d complained of difficulty breathing, the ER doctor ordered her to be placed on supplemental oxygen and a telemetry monitor. It kept constant tabs on her heart function and oxygen saturation, plus checked her blood pressure every thirty minutes, which it was currently doing.
Saint couldn’t tear his attention away from that damn monitor. Every time he heard the whir of the filling blood pressure cuff, he shushed her and demanded she lie still for an accurate reading. He focused on that screen as though it were the only thing keeping her alive.
“One ten over seventy. Oxygen is ninety-eight percent,” he said with a nod. “Good.”
