And yet when that fragile, broken woman looked at me with those wide green eyes, every protective instinct in me clawed its way to the surface.
"Wrath." Blake "Steel" Collins, our club president, approaches from his table in the back corner where he'd been conducting business. At fifty-two, he carries himself with the kind of authority that comes from three decades in the life. “A word.”
I nod toward his office, knowing this conversation was inevitable. As we walk past the bar, Trix emerges from the hallway.
"She's in your room," she says, meeting my eyes with a look of sympathy. "Gave her some of my spare clothes. Poor thing's dead on her feet."
My room. The thought of her in my space, surrounded by my things, sleeping in my bed, sends heat coursing through me.
Steel's office is spartanly functional—a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a wall covered with photographs of fallen brothers. He closes the door and turns to face me with crossed arms.
"You want to tell me what that was about?"
“She needed help." I keep my voice level, but Steel's known me too long to buy the casual act.
"Since when do you give a shit about strays?"
Since about twenty minutes ago, apparently. The unfamiliarity of these feelings gnaws at me. I've never claimed anything in my life except my Harley and my place in this brotherhood. Never wanted to. But something about her calls to me.
"She's not a stray."
Steel's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Oh? What is she then?"
I don't have an answer for that. Or rather, I have an answer that makes no goddamn sense. From the moment I laid eyes on her, something inside me claimed her so completely, so irrevocably, that the thought of letting her leave makes me want to burn down the world.
"Car's totaled," I say instead. "She's got nowhere to go."
"So call her people. Get someone to pick her up."
"Don't think she has people." The way she said she just needed a tow truck, like that was her only option, tells me everything I need to know about her support system.
Steel studies me for a long moment. "You know we got club business coming up. Negotiations with the Iron Serpents next week. Can't afford distractions."
"Won't be a distraction."
"You threatening your brothers over some girl you just met suggests otherwise."
Heat flares in my chest. "Anyone disrespects what's under my protection?—"
"Your protection?" Steel cuts me off. "Since when? You don't know shit about this girl, Wrath. Could be running drugs, could be running from the law, could be bait from a rival club."
The rational part of my brain knows he's right. But rationality doesn't explain why every cell in my body is screaming that she's innocent, that she's been hurt, that she needs me…that she’s mine.
"She's clean," I say with absolute certainty.
"How can you possibly know that?"
Because when she looked at me, I saw straight through to her soul, and it's beautiful and broken and pure despite whatever hell she's survived. Because she carries herself like someone who's been knocked down repeatedly but keeps getting back up. Because she apologized for being trouble when all she'd done was ask for help.
"I just know."
Steel sighs, scrubbing a hand over his graying beard. "You're not thinking with your head, brother."
Maybe not. But for the first time in a long time, I'm thinking with something other than cold calculation. And it feels like waking up from a long sleep.
"I'm thinking just fine."
"Are you? Because from where I sit, it looks like our VP just claimed some rando in front of the entire club. You know what that means? What kind of target that puts on her back if word gets out?"
