Precarious

“He doesn’t run me,” I growl, standing my ground.

“You see what happened to your friends?”

My stomach twists, but I don’t answer him.

“Well, did you?” he barks.

“Yes, I fucking saw it, you jackass.”

“Then what the hell makes you think he won’t do it to you?”

My next words are cut off as I realize he’s right. Nothing is stopping him from doing it to me.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he mutters. “Now move.”

He walks me down the hall and back to the room. When we get in, he slams the door shut and turns to me. “Get in that shower and clean yourself up.”

I don’t bother to argue. Instead, I take the towel hanging off the bed and walk into the shower.

“Don’t even think about climbin’ out the window. It’s barred.”

Of course it fucking is.

I shut the door to the bathroom and turn the shower on, then slowly and very, very painfully I step out of my clothes. I’m covered in blood, and not all of it is my own. The very thought makes my skin crawl. I step under the warm water and cry out in pain as it hits the battered parts of my body.

I can barely stand it. The minute I’m clean, I step out. I pat myself dry and straighten to stare in the mirror. My face looks . . . awful. My usually sky-blue eyes are dull and bloodshot. My skin, which is really quite pale, is now covered in ugly bruises. My long, chocolate-brown hair is messy and matted. I sigh and step away, not wanting to look for a second longer.

I dry myself off and stare around the room, realizing I’ve got no clothes. With a groan, I walk over to the door and peer out. Krypt is leaning against the bedframe, arms crossed over his chest. Gosh, he’s good looking. He flicks his grey gaze to me and it slowly moves down. “You need to get cleaned up before you dress.”

“I don’t think so, buddy,” I mutter.

“You don’t get a fuckin’ choice, Ash.”

The way he just said my name has shivers breaking out over my skin. I swallow and keep my arms tightly crossed. Krypt points to the bed. “Sit.”

I stare at the bed, where the first-aid kit is lying. I know I’m an idiot if I don’t go and let him help me. “Can I at least put some . . . undergarments on?”

His lips quirk. “Yeah, babe, whatever.”

I flush and rush out past him, taking the pile of clothes on the dresser. I hurry back into the bathroom and pull on the bra and panties. I’m grateful the panties still have the tag on them, but that doesn’t stop me from inspecting them to make sure they’re clean. They’re a little tight on my curvy body, but they’ll do. When they’re on, I pull the towel back over myself and walk out.

I sit on the bed next to Krypt, and he flips the first-aid kit open.

“You might need stitches in that wound on your arm,” he says, nodding to the ugly gash near my elbow. It hasn’t really stopped bleeding, even after my shower. A slow, thick rivulet of blood is already running down towards my wrist.

“You want me to let you put stitches in my arm?”

He meets my concerned gaze. “You want to die of infection?”

“No, but I’m not sure I won’t die of infection if I let you do it.”

He grins. God. Just, God. He’s perfect. How can someone be such an asshole and yet be so damned good looking? It hurts to watch him. “You make the choice, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe, and fine, do whatever you want.”

He flashes me a devilish grin. “You do know I’m goin’ to put a needle through your skin, right?”

“I know what stitches are!”

“With nothing to numb your skin.”

That has me swallowing. He sighs and turns, barking out, “Rex!”

Minutes later an older biker with a big, bushy beard comes in. “What?”

“Get me the whiskey.”

“Whiskey?” I squeak.

He turns back to me. “It’ll help the pain.”

Oh God.

He reaches over and presses around the wound. “Definitely needs stitches.”

Double oh God.

“Here ya go,” Rex says, coming back in and tossing Krypt a bottle filled with amber liquid.

Krypt hands it to me. “Drink this while I clean the rest of you.”

I stare at the alcohol.

“You scared it might bite you, princess?”

I jerk my head up. “Why the fuck do you think I’m such a princess?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are alight with humor. I get the feeling he’s having a dig at me. I unscrew the bottle to prove my point, and take a long pull. It burns, but it’s nothing I’ve never done before. Claire and I often go out drinking together, and shots are our thing.

I rest the bottle between my legs and meet his gaze. He’s watching me, his eyes intense. He turns away and begins cleaning up any wounds he can get to while I continue to sip the alcohol. His fingers grazing over my skin have me breaking out into shivers. He’s sending me over the edge, and I don’t even know him.

I bite my lip and turn away, crossing and uncrossing my ankles. “Stop fidgeting,” he mutters. “Shit, you’d think you’ve never had a man’s hands on you before.”

I don’t look at him; I just keep my lip in my mouth and I turn my face away. His fingers run down my arm until he stops at the gash. “You ready for me to stitch this?”