Page 17 of Her Broken Biker
Then he lets go.
I cross to the kitchen and pull open the cabinet. The red kit is there, just like he said, along with a black medical bag that is better stocked than some urgent care rooms I’ve seen.
Gauze. Sterile pads. Saline. Betadine. Gloves. Suture kit. Tape. Antibiotic ointment.
I look back at him. “You always keep this much on hand?”
“Saints bleed a lot.”
“Comforting.”
His mouth twitches.
It is barely a smile, but it hits me in a stupid place.
I set everything on the counter. “Sit.”
He lifts one brow.
I point at the nearest chair. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Then he sits.
Something warm flickers through me, ridiculous and dangerous. This man just took down two armed men and carried me out of the worst night of my life, but he sits because I tell him to.
I step closer. “Shirt off,” I say.
His gaze locks with mine.
Heat rushes straight up my neck.
“For the wound,” I add quickly.
“I figured.”
There is something in his voice. Low. Dry. Almost teasing.
My face burns hotter.
Ace reaches for the leather cut first, but the movement pulls at his shoulder, and his breath catches.
“Stop,” I say.
He does.
I swallow. “Let me.”
The air shifts.
He sits very still as I step closer.
My fingers brush the worn leather at his chest. The cut is heavy, warm from his body, marked with the patch that makes him look even more untouchable.
Damned Saints MC.
I ease it off his good shoulder first, then work it carefully down the injured side.
