Page 33 of My Protective Biker

I let sleep pull me under, holding onto her, and the house settles quiet around us.

Epilogue — Carina

Two Years Later

I'm wiping down the exam table when I hear the clinic door open.

It's after six on a Friday and I already locked the front door, which means whoever just walked in has a key. That narrows it down to exactly one person.

"Back here," I call out.

Footsteps in the hallway, familiar and unhurried. Roan appears in the doorway still in his cut, and the way he's holding his right hand slightly away from his body tells me everything I need to know.

"What did you do?" I ask, setting down the disinfectant spray.

"Had a situation at The Anchor."

"Show me."

He crosses to the exam table and holds out his hand. The knuckles are split open, two of them bleeding, the skin already starting to swell.

I take his hand and turn it under the light. "You hit someone."

"Three someones. College kids thought they could start a fight in Walt's bar."

"And you explained why that was a bad idea."

"Something like that."

I guide him to sit on the edge of the exam table and wash my hands at the sink, pull on gloves, gather supplies. He settles there without complaint, watching me move around the small space.

"This is going to sting," I tell him, opening the antiseptic.

"I know."

I clean the wounds, wiping away blood and dirt. He doesn't flinch, just watches my face the way he always does.

"How bad were the college kids?" I ask.

"Walked out. Won't be starting fights for a while."

"And Walt?"

"Fine. Appreciated the help."

I finish cleaning and reach for the antibiotic ointment. The swelling is getting worse but nothing looks broken.

"Ice when we get home," I tell him.

"I know."

"And if it's not better in two days—"

"You'll look at it again." His mouth quirks. "I know."

I wrap his knuckles with gauze, secure but not tight. When I finish I don't let go of his hand immediately, just hold it between both of mine.

"You could try not hitting people," I say.