Page 85 of Rampage

"I didn't freeze," I tell him, my voice stronger now despite the ache in my throat. "When they came in, I fought back.

Reid pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine with a mixture of pride and amazement. "You fought three men?"

I nod, a strange sense of power flowing through me. "I wasn't going to be a victim again. Not after everything."

Something shifts in Reid's expression, fierce pride replacing the last traces of rage. "My brave, beautiful woman," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. "Let's get you out of here."

Before I can respond, he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing. I notice him wince slightly when my weight presses against his injured arm, but he doesn't falter.

"Your arm—" I protest.

"Is fine," he interrupts, carrying me toward the door. "Christopher will handle the cleanup. I need to get you somewhere safe."

Outside, the evening air feels cool against my flushed skin. Reid's motorcycle waits at the curb, engine still running. Without setting me down, he somehow manages to swing his leg over the seat.

"I can ride behind you," I offer, concerned about his injury.

"No," he says firmly, situating me in front of him on the bike. "I need to feel you."

He arranges me sideways across his lap, my legs dangling over one side of the motorcycle, my head resting against his chest where I can hear the steady, reassuring thud of his heartbeat. His arms form a protective cage around me as he reaches for the handlebars.

"Hold on to me," he instructs, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath my ear.

I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the solid strength of him. The motorcycle vibrates beneath us as Reid maneuvers onto the street, moving slower and more carefully than usual with his precious cargo.

With each passing block, the adrenaline that kept me fighting begins to fade. Tremors work through my body as delayed shock sets in. Reid feels it immediately, his arm tightening around me.

"I've got you," he murmurs, the words vibrating through his chest. "You're safe now."

I press closer, drawing comfort from his warmth, his strength, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. Despite the chaos we've just escaped, a strange sense of peace settles over me. This is where I belong—in Reid's arms, protected and cherished.

We don't head toward the cabin as I expected. Instead, Reid takes us to the clubhouse, where several motorcycles are already parked haphazardly near the entrance.

As Reid helps me off the motorcycle, I notice my hands leaving bloody prints on his shirt. My entire body begins to shake as reality crashes in—Reid's blood is everywhere, covering his clothes, smeared across my skin, matting his hair. The realization hits me like a physical blow.

"You're hurt," I gasp, my voice breaking as I clutch at his arm. "There's so much blood?—"

"Most of it isn't mine," Reid says quietly, steadying me as my knees threaten to buckle.

The implication sends ice through my veins. Those men, the ones who attacked me, Reid had beaten them with such ferocity. I remember the sickening sounds of bone giving way beneath his fists, the spray of crimson across white countertops, the unnatural stillness of the bodies when he finally stopped.

"Did you…" I can't finish the question, my throat closing around the words.

Reid's eyes meet mine, unflinching. "I did what was necessary to protect you. I always will."

A tremor runs through me, but not from fear of him—never that. I'm terrified for him, for what might happen if those men died at his hands. My fingers leave scarlet smudges as I clutch at his shirt.

"You could go to prison," I whisper, horror rising in my chest. "If they're dead?—"

"They're not," he assures me, though something in his eyes makes me wonder if he's certain. "Christopher is handling it. The club has resources for situations like this."

I want to believe him, but the blood—so much blood, drying tacky on my skin, flaking from his knuckles—tells a different story. My teeth begin to chatter, shock setting in as Lane and Mason rush toward us.

"Jesus," Lane mutters, taking in our blood-soaked appearance. "Get her inside before someone sees."

Reid lifts me easily despite his injured arm, cradling me against his chest as he carries me through the clubhouse doors. I press my face into his neck, breathing in his scent beneath the metallic tang of blood, trying to ground myself in his presence.

"She needs a doctor," Reid says to someone I can't see. "Peterson's men attacked her at the bakery."

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