Page 8 of Owned By Knuckles
"Yes."
That single word is somehow worse than everything else. They know and they want her to go back anyway. What kind of family does that? Then again, I grew up without one. Maybe they're all this fucked up and I just never had the chance to be disappointed.
I tie off the last stitch and sit back to examine my work. Not bad for a casino security guard with no formal training. It'll hold, and it shouldn't scar too badly if she keeps it clean.
"Done," I tell her. "I'm gonna bandage it and then you need to stay off it as much as possible for the next few days."
"Few days?" She laughs, and there's an edge of hysteria in it. "I don't even know where I'm sleeping tonight."
And there it is. The real problem underneath all the other problems. She's alone. She's hurt. She's got nowhere to go and a violent ex-fiancé probably tearing Vegas apart looking for her.
I should give her some cash and send her on her way. That's the smart move. The safe move. The move that doesn't get me or the club involved in whatever shitstorm she's running from.
But I look at her sitting there in that blood-stained wedding dress, holding herself together with sheer force of will, and I can't do it. Can't send her back out onto the street to fend for herself.
Can't be another person who turns away.
"You can stay here," I hear myself say.
She blinks. "What?"
"The casino. We've got rooms upstairs. You can stay in one until you figure out your next move."
"I can't. I don't have money for—"
"You're not paying. It's on the house."
"Why?" She's looking at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Why would you do that?"
Because I know what it's like to have nowhere to go. Because I spent two years sleeping in doorways and alleys and hoping I'd wake up in the morning. Because Pope gave me a chancewhen I was exactly where she is now, and maybe that means I'm supposed to do the same.
Because something about her makes me want to protect instead of destroy, and that's rare enough that I'm not going to ignore it.
But I don't say any of that.
"Because you need help," I say instead. "And I'm offering."
She stares at me with those amber eyes, and I can see her weighing the options. Trust the scarred biker in a casino she's never heard of or take her chances on the street with bleeding feet and a wedding dress that makes her a target for every creep in Vegas.
"Okay," she finally whispers. "Okay. Thank you."
I stand and offer her my hand. She takes it, wincing as she puts weight on her feet despite the bandages.
"Can you walk?"
"I'll manage."
She takes two steps and nearly collapses. I catch her before she hits the ground, one arm around her waist, feeling how she stiffens at the contact.
"Easy," I tell her. "I've got you."
"I can walk. I just need a second."
"Sure you can. But we're three floors up and you're not gonna make it on those feet." I make a decision that's either the smartest or dumbest thing I've done tonight. "I'm gonna carry you. That okay?"
She looks at me for a long moment. I can see her fighting with herself—pride versus practicality, fear versus exhaustion.
"Okay," she finally says.
