Page 16 of Her Broken Biker
The whole place feels like him. Quiet. Rugged. Private.
It should feel lonely. Instead, it feels safe.
That might be the shock talking.
Or the fact that Ace is standing between me and the door with blood soaking through his shirt, looking like he could still fight the whole mountain if it tried to come for me.
“Shoes off,” he says.
I blink at him.
His gaze drops to my sneakers. “You ran through half the woods. Don’t know what you stepped in.”
My brain catches up slowly. “Right.”
I bend down, but my fingers shake too badly to untie the first knot.
Ace notices.
Of course he does.
“Easy,” he says, and lowers himself in front of me despite the blood soaking his shoulder.
“I can do it,” I whisper.
His hands pause on my laces. “I know.”
Then he unties them anyway.
Careful. Efficient. Like taking care of me is just another problem he already decided to solve.
I should stop him.
I don’t.
He eases one shoe off, then the other, setting them by the door. His knuckles are split. There is blood on his shoulder, on his shirt, on his skin, and he is still more worried about my dirty sneakers than the hole a bullet put in him.
My throat tightens.
“Medical supplies,” I say, because if I don’t become a nurse right now, I might become something much messier. “Where are they?”
He stands, slower than before. Now that we’re in the light, I see the way his jaw tightens when his arm moves.
“Cabinet above the sink. Red kit. Black bag next to it.”
I turn toward the kitchen too fast, and the room sways.
Ace catches my waist before I can stumble.
His hand is warm. Steady. Big enough to make me painfully aware of how soft I am beneath it.
“You good?”
I nod, even though good feels generous.
His hand lingers for half a second.
So does my breathing.
