Page 39 of Angel’s Claim

I can't believe he just fought five guys.

Five.

For me. For his bike. But mostly for me, because this all started when he stepped in at O'Malley's last night and told Dusty to leave me alone.

And he didn't run. He didn't hide. He didn't call someone else to handle it or try to de-escalate by throwing me under the bus and apologizing for the inconvenience.

He stood his ground against five drunk assholes with weapons, took them down until the odds got too bad, and then held out until his brothers arrived.

He's a real man.

Not the kind of man my parents wanted me to marry. Chase would have tucked his tail between his legs and run the second someone raised a baseball bat. Hell, Chase probably would have apologized to Dusty for the misunderstanding and offered to buy him a drink just to make the problem go away.

But Angel?

Angel told them to fuck off and then proved he meant it.

I'm still shaking as we walk back into my room. My hands won't stop trembling, and there's this horrible knot in my chest that won't loosen because I keep seeing him on the ground, seeing those men kicking him, seeing the blood on the back of his head.

He could have been seriously hurt.

He could have been killed.

And it would have been my fault.

"Sit," I say the second we're inside, pointing at the bed.

Angel raises an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

"Sit down," I repeat, firmer this time. "You're bleeding, and I need to clean it."

"Bree, it's just a scratch—"

"Angel." I cross my arms and stare him down. "You just got hit in the head with God knows what, and you have blood in your hair. So, sit your ass down and let me take care of you, or I swear to God I will call your biker brothers and tell him you're being difficult."

His mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile. "You threatening me?"

"Yes."

"With my own brothers."

"Yes."

He sits down on the edge of the bed. "Alright. Do your worst."

I grab the scratchy motel towel from the bathroom and wet it in the sink, then come back and kneel on the bed behind him so I can see the wound properly.

The cut isn't as bad as I feared, maybe two inches long, just above his hairline on the back of his head. But there's dried blood matted in his hair, and fresh blood still seeping slowly from the wound.

I press the damp towel gently against the cut, and Angel tenses slightly.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"It's fine. Doesn't hurt."

"You're a terrible liar."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I am."