I made my decision.The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option.Not with those marks on her.Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.
“Let me help you up.”I stepped closer.“Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”
Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut -- Reckless Kings in bold stitching.For a moment, fresh fear washed over her face.I knew what she saw -- a thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more dangerous than whatever she was running from.
But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.
I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her.Club life had taught me how to move without threatening -- a skill useful whether dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads.Her gaze locked onto my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion.Behind the fear in her eyes lurked something sharper -- calculation, survival instinct.Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when terrified.
“Water?”I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag.I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance.“Small sips.Too much at once will make you sick.”
She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face -- desperate thirst warring with ingrained caution.Thirst won.She reached out with trembling fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips.Water dribbled down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.
“Easy,” I warned.“Been without long?”
She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly.Half-empty already.“Since yesterday morning.”
I crouched down to her level, still giving her space.The dried blood at her temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw.Head wound, but not fresh -- maybe twenty-four hours old.No active bleeding, pupils equal size.Good signs.
“Mind if I look at your head?”I asked.
She flinched back.“Don’t touch me.”
I nodded, respecting the boundary.“Fair enough.Can you tell me your name?”
A pause.She took another drink.“Callie.”
“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady.“You got somewhere safe to go, Callie?”
Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound.“Nowhere’s safe.”
“Someone after you?”
Her gaze darted back to the road.She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror -- they told enough of the story.
“How bad are you hurt?Besides what I can see.”
She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement.“I’ll live.”
“That’s a low bar.”
Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance.“Higher than it was yesterday.”
I found myself respecting her -- the spark still burning beneath all the fear and pain.The Kings valued resilience.This woman had it in spades.
“What happened to your head?”I asked, nodding toward the wound.
She touched it gingerly.“I’m not sure.Not the first time, though.This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”
The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt counted as just another Tuesday.I’d seen that kind of detachment before in people who normalized violence to survive.
“You need a hospital?”I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She shook her head vehemently.“No.They’ll look there.”
“They?”
Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.
