Page 7 of Wilder's Promise
"You're dripping blood all over the car," I argue. "At least let me wrap it while you drive."
He glances at me, then nods toward the glove compartment. "First aid kit in there."
I retrieve the kit, pleasantly surprised to find it well-stocked. "Take off your cut. I need to see the wound."
Wilder shrugs out of his leather vest with a barely perceptible grimace, keeping his eyes on the road. The slash runs across his upper arm, maybe four inches long but not dangerously deep. His t-shirt is ruined, the entire sleeve now soaked in crimson.
"Looks worse than it is," he says, noticing my expression.
"You need stitches."
"Blade can do that when we get back. He was in the military and learned a few things."
Of course he was. Because why would any of my father's "brothers" have normal backgrounds?
I tear open an antiseptic wipe. "This will sting."
"I'll manage," he says dryly.
When I press the wipe to his wound, he doesn't flinch, doesn't even tense. I clean away as much blood as I can, then wrap a pressure bandage around his arm, working as the car speeds down the highway.
"You've done this before," he observes.
"First aid training is part of my forensics program." I secure the bandage with medical tape. "Plus, I grew up with Jackson Kane as a father. Blood isn't exactly new to me."
Chapter 3 - Wilder
"Blood isn't exactly new to me."
There's so much history in those six words: a childhood I can only imagine, marked by the same violence that nearly got us killed today.
"Your old man never wanted that for you," I say, keeping my eyes on the road. The pain in my arm is sharpening as adrenaline fades, but I've had worse. Much worse.
"What my father wanted and what he created are two very different things." She finishes with the bandage and sits back in her seat, wiping her bloodied hands on another antiseptic wipe. "Is it always like this? People shooting at you in broad daylight?"
"Not always." I check the mirrors again. No sign of pursuit, but that doesn't mean we're clear. "Sometimes it's worse."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so hollow. "Fantastic. And you chose this life?"
The question hangs between us as I push the Charger harder, putting more distance between us and the Vultures MC back at the diner. Did I choose this? Yes and no. The outlaw life chose me long before I found the Outlaw Order.
"The club gave me something I needed," I finally answer. "Brotherhood. Purpose. A way to protect what matters."
"And what matters to you, Wilder?" Her voice has lost its sharp edge, genuine curiosity replacing the sarcasm.
"My sister. This town." I glance at her. "And now, you."
Color rises in her cheeks, and she looks away. "Because my father ordered it."
"Because it's the right thing to do." I flex my injured arm, testing the bandage she applied. It's solid work. "You're innocent in all this. You deserve protection."
"I'm hardly innocent," she mutters. "I knew exactly who my father was when I cut him out of my life."
That surprises me. Most of the club assumes Emma distanced herself because she couldn't handle the MC lifestyle. But the way she says it sounds more like a deliberate rejection.
"What happened between you two?" I ask, then quickly add, "You don't have to answer that."
She's quiet for so long I think she's ignoring the question. Then she sighs, staring out at the pine forests flashing past.
