Page 105 of Wade’s Wrath

Ripper didn't answer immediately, because his first instinct was stupid. He wanted to tell her to come home with him, but that was absolutely not fucking happening. He lived alone, and Sarah barely knew him. Inviting a traumatized woman he'd known for a week to move into his house was exactly the kind of fucked-up decision Butcher would beat him over the head for. So he went with the less insane option.

“The club will help,” he offered.

Sarah's expression closed. “I don't want charity.”

“Didn't say it was going to be charity,” he said.

“I don't want to owe anyone anything,” she insisted.

“You won't,” he breathed.

“People always say that, but it never ends up being the case,” she said.

Ripper's jaw tightened. “Then I'll say something different.” She waited for him to continue. “You don't owe the Savage Bastards for pulling you out of that warehouse.” Her eyes filled. Fuck. “You don't owe Harlow.” He kept going. “You don't owe me.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and Ripper's hands curled into fists against his knees because every instinct screamed at him to wipe it away, but he didn't move. “If the club gives you somewhere safe to stay, it's because we've got somewhere safe to give you. That's it.”

Sarah wiped the tear herself. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why would your club care?” she said. Ripper thought about Butcher, Wade, Princess, and Harlow. He thought about the eleven women they'd carried out of hell. Then he thought about the men they hadn't found yet and the names still being pulled from Richard Kane's records. They were the people who'd made money off women like Sarah.

“Because somebody should care,” he breathed. Sarah stared at him, and Ripper stood. He needed air and a cigarette. Hell, he needed to get the fuck away from those blue eyes before he did something stupid like promise her everything would be okay, or offer her his house, or kill every remaining name on Richard Kane's list. He’d probably still do that last one, though.

“I'll talk to Butcher,” he offered.

“I didn't ask you to,” she insisted.

“Nope, but you didn’t have to,” he said.

“Ripper,” she warned.

He looked at her. “You said you don't know where you're going tomorrow when they let you out of here.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“I know a guy who owns a clubhouse with empty rooms,” he said.

Her mouth twitched. “You mean Butcher?” she asked.

“Yep, that's the asshole I’m talking about,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Does he know you call him that?”

“Yep, and I do it frequently,” he said. Ripper picked up his cut from the back of the chair. “Finish your cinnamon roll.”

“Stop telling me what to do,” she said.

“Nope,” he breathed on his way to the door.

“I'm beginning to understand why they call you Ripper,” she called after him.

He paused, and Sarah's smile disappeared. “What?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“No. What did you say?” he asked. Ripper slipped on his cut.

“You don't want to know,” she insisted.