Page 12 of Biker's Babygirl

I’m small, but I’m fast. If I hadn’t been weak from hiding out in the woods for days and half-starved, I probably would have gotten away, too, but as it was, I felt a hand close around my tiny wrist. I try to tug away, punch my captor with my other hand, and kick.

But it’s the tall, giant-like man, so I might as well be playing patty-cake with him for all the notice he takes. He yanks me right back over to the couch.

I’m nothing if not persistent, though, and I keep trying. I dig my heels in while punching his chest with a closed fist.

Finally, he turns toward me, narrowing those strangely beautiful eyes and growls. “Stop,” he says, in a voice so terribly menacing that I can’t do anything but freeze. He doesn’t look satisfied with my shocked obedience. He’s scowling as he nods toward the couch and orders in a voice every bit as severe, “Sit.”

And I do. As though my bones no longer comply to my wishes, my knees bend, and my butt plops onto the soft cushion of the couch.

“Good.” But for all the warmth the word and his face have, he could have said anything at all. “Now, listen up, because I’m gonna tell you what’s going to go down, and I’m only going to say it once. Are you listening?”

All too eager to prove I am, my head bobs up and down, even as I hate myself for it.

“I’m going to take care of that scratch.”

As though it heard him, the cuts begin to sting. I look down and see the angry red lines against the pale skin of my arm and know he’s trying to reassure me by calling it a scratch when it looks and feels like so much more than that. Just now, I wish I’d never run through the woods trying to escape them. Or found another place to hide altogether. But I clench my teeth and don’t say any of that as I clasp the wrist of that arm and bite my bottom lip to keep from speaking. Somehow, I have a feeling he won’t like being interrupted.

“Your job is to be as still as a statue and let me domyjob. You’re not going to try and stop me, and you’re not going to run. Understood?”

Still as a statue? He might now realize I’m female, but he apparently still thinks I’m an adolescent. Mutely, I nod.

I do my best, staying silent while watching as he uncaps the alcohol and uses a fat, fluffy cotton ball as a stopper before upending the bottle. Then he inspects the ball before holding out a hand for my injured arm.

Reluctantly, I release it and hold it out toward him, wincing as he takes hold of it. Before I can think better of it, I say, “Just be?—”

He’s looking down at my injury with intense concentration on his tanned, handsome face as he shushes me. “Shh. It’s okay, I promise. I’m going to be gentle.”

Maybe it is his melodic voice, or merely the shock of it after the stern scolding moments earlier, but either way, I shut down my protests at once. Even when he drags the alcohol-soaked cotton ball over my bloody arm, I manage to swallow back a scream.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, his voice as soothing as a lullaby.

I’m just hungry, I tell myself stubbornly.I’m tired, and I’m hurt and I’m running on days of adrenaline. I amnotfalling fora man because he has a nice voice. Killers have nice voices. Who knows better than me?

But I can’t help it. All the determination in the world can’t keep me from leaning a little closer toward him as he’s talking in thatDaddy’s-here-and-everything’s-going-to-be-all-rightvoice. Once upon a time, when I was a little bit younger and much, much stupider, I had thought that was something I wanted: a Daddy to take care of me. I’d been crazy enough to think Lucas, the man who claimed to love me, might want to fulfill my deep-seated need. But it had been a mistake to share a wish I should have only shared with the stars. Abigmistake, and I wasn’t about to make it again, not even in my thoughts.

“This is going to hurt; these scratches are pretty deep.”

I bite down hard, but then the girl that’s been hovering is there, holding my hand in a comforting, yet tight grip. I wish for a moment that I could smile at her in gratitude—it’s been so long since I’ve felt a comforting touch—but seconds later the large man called Duke is pressing down on my injury and the pain is so intense that I can’t trap the scream this time.

Blackness hovers on the edge of my vision, and I’m sure I’m going to pass out again. My chest tightens and my breathing gets frantic—so much so that when I come back to myself, I realize a conversation has been taking place while I’ve been completely unaware.

“…have to go,” the woman says, her voice soft, yet urgent.

“I think you’re right,” he replies grimly.

“Go?” I ask, only dimly aware of holding onto consciousness. “Go where?”

There is a beat of silence, and then the woman answers, “To the hospital.”

Blackness threatens again, this time a darker curtain, but I bat it away frantically. “No!” I try to yank my arm back, andDuke seems surprised that I nearly succeed. “No!” I yell again, threatening to make myself hoarse.

“Now you listen here, little girl.” Once again, I’m struck by his Daddy-ness when he levels me with a stern glare that would turn a much stronger woman to jelly.

If that woman hadn’t been through what I have, that is.

I’m able to meet his stare with one of my own and give a firm shake of my head. “No hospital. You can’t.”

“And just why not?” Duke’s tone is an even keel, but his eyes are narrowed and his mouth is set in a hard line.

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