Page 4 of Pain

She snorted, but the might-have-been-a-laugh didn’t reach her eyes, and it sure as hell didn’t sound like anything more than air escaping her lungs.

Right. I’d come down onto my knees thinking that I was going to rescue a damsel in distress, but evidently that wasn’t happening.

Because Saraya Post had already decided that we weren’t going to be friends. Even if I was here to help her in what seemed like it had to be a time of need.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” she asked again, her voice shaking slightly. “This is Devil’s territory.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Seems like it would be awfully hard for you to know that. Or are you able to see through that blindfold?”

She started talking, but I interrupted her. I didn’t need to hear her ask again what I was doing here.

“And while I’m asking questions, what the fuck are you doing with a blindfold on? And why are you flying out of a moving truck? Why not just get out of it the way any normal human being would? You know, when it’s stopped?”

No, it wasn’t friendly. Yes, I could have asked more nicely, especially considering what she looked like she’d been through.

But I’d stumbled off my bike and down to the sidewalk with every intention of making sure she was okay, and she’d started right out by treating me like I was the one there to kill her.

Like I was the one who’d been driving the truck she’d had to escape from.

It made it sort of hard to have friendly feelings toward her.

Then she opened her mouth to answer—maybe—one of the several questions I’d just asked... and started crying.

And I don’t just mean crying. Not gentle little tears dripping down her face or a pouty lip or an expression designed to get someone to do whatever she wanted them to. Not something cute or flirty or manipulative.

No, these were deep, heaving sobs that sounded like they were going to rip her apart. And the moment I realized that, every stubborn cell in my body—every sliver that had been holding her behavior against her—evaporated into thin air. And suddenly I was that guy my dad had made fun of me for being when I was a little kid.

I was the guy who just couldn’t see anyone suffering without doing something about it. Even when that person had just been glaring at me like I was their enemy.

Even when that person was the girlfriend of my declared enemy, and for all I knew, was here as part of some sort of plot to assassinate me or something.

I dove toward her again, covering the four feet between us in a single slide, and gathered her quickly into my arms, stopping to cut the rope from around her wrists before pulling her to my chest and shushing her tears as I ran my fingers through her hair, looking for any damage. She’d hit her head on the concrete when she flew out of the truck, I’d seen that much, and if there was any bleeding, I’d need to get her to a hospital. My fingers didn’t find anything, though, and I brushed them down her cheek, now wet with tears, trying to figure out what to do. What the hell was she crying about?

I mean, aside from having been thrown from a truck in a blindfold like she was an unwanted puppy or something.

She’d been so fierce, so defiant, so angry, that I hadn’t thought she’d wanted anything other than to get away from me. And then I started asking questions and she—

My fingers suddenly found a large contusion on her cheekbone, and I almost jerked back. That hadn’t happened when she escaped the truck. She’d hit the back of her head, not her face. When I drew back and glanced down at my fingers, I saw blood there. Not fresh blood—not from the fall—but dry, crumbling blood.

Blood from an old wound.

I pulled her even close to me, holding her as she sobbed, and let my mind process the information. Thrown out of a truck, blindfolded. A kid who was obviously just a prospect running away the moment I pulled over.

Saraya Post, girlfriend to Devil Davis. The man who had been my best friend once and was now my strongest—and most dangerous—enemy. The guy who constantly undermined the communities I tried to protect. Fought us when we were in the same area.

Tried to kill me if he saw me.

And his girlfriend had old wounds. Someone had hit her in the face, and then again in the nose. Enough to leave a goose egg on her cheek and make her nose bleed. And then they’d blindfolded her, bound her wrists, and shoved her into a truck.

Or they’d blindfolded her and then punched her.

It didn’t matter which order they’d done it in. The fact was they’d done it, and given the rumors I’d heard about what Devil was doing lately...

Rage roared to life inside of me, startling me with the heat and strength of it, until it filled every vacant spot in my body. Rage so red, so big, so overwhelming, that it took my breath away. It had been years since I’d felt this much anger—years—and I poked at it hesitantly, trying to figure out where it had come from.

It didn’t take me long, though. My instincts told me right away. I’d heard that Devil was abusing people in his club. I’d heard that he’d shot his best friend for nothing more than saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I’d heard that he’d moved from simple things like relatively harmless robbery and noise complaints to much bigger scams. Gun running. Drugs.

Murder.