“No alcohol?” I ask.
“Want me to burn it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t complain.”
“I can complain and accept medical assistance. Women are complex.”
He huffs under his breath, almost a laugh.
Victory.
He wipes the fresh blood from my palm. It stings, but I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to flinch. His head is bent overmy hand, dark hair touched with silver, lashes casting shadows under the ugly lamp.
I notice things I should not notice.
The scar near his knuckle.
The vein along his wrist.
The way he smells like leather and cold air and something that makes the room feel less temporary.
“How many brothers are in your club?” I ask, because silence is dangerous.
“Enough.”
“Very informative.”
His gaze flicks up.
I lift my brows. “What? Am I under biker protection or joining a cult? I feel like I deserve basic orientation.”
His hand stills.
The air shifts.
Then I remember what he told me. Orphanage. Cult. Labor. Obedience.
My stomach drops.
“Oh God. I’m sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
But his voice is flatter now.
I swallow. “I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“I noticed.”
“I also talk too much when I’m not nervous, so this is less of a symptom and more of a lifestyle.”
That gets the corner of his mouth to move again.
Barely.
But it moves.
