Page 11 of Her Broken Biker
SEAL teams.
Extractions.
Night work.
Doors kicked in and bodies pulled out. Sometimes alive. Sometimes too late. I got good at moving through gunfire. Good at knowing which shadows held danger. Good at turning fear into math.
Distance. Angle. Threat. Exit.
That’s all tonight should have been.
Havoc, the Prez, had me running the back roads after word came in about a cartel dispute near the old logging cut. Nothing official. Just noise in the dark. A shipment argument. A crew moving stupid. Men with more bullets than brains.
I was supposed to check the area and report back.
Then I heard the shot.
Then I saw her run.
A man came out of that cabin with a gun aimed at her.
I moved.
Simple.
The bullet punched into my shoulder, shallow enough not to slow me much, deep enough to piss me off. He shot at her. That’s all my head had room for.
He shot at a woman running scared through the dark.
He shot at Reina.
My jaw locks.
Her fingers tighten against my stomach, like she feels the anger move through me.
I cover one of her hands with mine for half a second. I shouldn’t. Both hands belong on the bike. Both hands belong on the mission. Both hands belong anywhere but on her.
I do it anyway.
She stills behind me.
Then she melts closer.
Fuck.
One small touch, and I feel it through my whole body.
She trusts me.
After what those bastards did, after the gun and the cabin and the blood, she presses closer because my hand over hers makes her feel safer.
I don’t deserve that.
I want it anyway.
That is the problem.
My comms buzz in my ear.
