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CHAPTER NINE

SAINT

I wish I’d never set eyes on the woman currently lying in my bed. Fuck knows why I let my curiosity get the better of me. I should have left well alone, never mind that she’d be dead. Better than being here and fucking up my life.

I’ve killed before, of course I have, but never someone in cold blood. When I served in the military, it was the enemy, insurgents and terrorists. On home turf, only people who’d injured my brothers, or who’d otherwise deserved to die. To take out my gun and put a bullet in her head? Fuck no. I shouldn’t be that bothered, after all, her profession alone classifies her as an antagonist toward our club. There’s just something about being responsible for a life once you’ve saved it that’s messing me up.

But what’s the alternative? To make her my old lady? Point one, I’ve never wanted to tie myself to a bitch. My sexual needs are well taken care of by the bunnies who hang around. Point two? If I did want a woman of my own, she’d be far from my ideal. I’d have to tame her and bring her to heel, and I just can’t be bothered.

I’m fucked whatever way I look at it. And currently, I’ve no idea how to get out of this predicament. As the VP, I know my prez far too well, and he’s not into making idle threats. As VP, I also accept that I’m only reaping the rewards of anyone who’s brought potential danger down on the club.

Do I believe she’s an undercover Fed? Actually, I don’t. If this was a plot to plant her in the club, it was a pretty risky one. Firstly, my actions couldn’t have been predicted, nor was I the right person to target. I’m not easily swayed by a pretty face or sexy body, though I admit, Pippa has both. If this had been a setup, there were too many ways in which it would have failed.

I wouldn’t have even brought her back to the clubhouse if she hadn’t rescued my cut – though, I accept, she’d been the one to suggest I took it off in the first place. Nah, I shake my head, there’s no way such an elaborate plot would work. If she was sent as a Fed, then she ended up in this club by accident.

Even if I don’t think she was planted here to spy on us, I won’t be letting her close to any club business. Her DNA runs different from ours, and if she learns something, she’d feel bound to report it.

What the fuck do I do with her?

I need time to think. As I watch, she shifts around, changing position, then moving back, obviously uncomfortable. Going to the bedside table, I lift the plastic bottles and tap out a couple of the strong painkillers and the antibiotic Doc had left. I hold them out to her. “Take these,” I instruct gruffly. “Fuck, woman, you’re dead on your feet and need rest.” When she starts shaking her head, I tell her, “The antibiotic is non-negotiable. Don’t want you getting an infection and puking up in my bed. As for the painkillers, you’re in my room. I’ll be right here with you. Worst that can happen is I’ll kill you in your sleep. I assure you, I much prefer my women conscious and willing. Tomorrow’s soon enough to deal with our problems. You’re hurt, injured, and need rest.”

Her eyes meet mine. She seems to be trying to pry into my mind.

“You don’t trust me, I get that. I don’t trust you. But tonight, it’s a truce. Pippa, take the fuckin’ tablets and get some rest.”

“Phillipa,” she replies with a challenging glint in her eye.

“Take the pills, Pippa ,” I stress.

War rages behind her eyes, but at last common sense wins out. A reluctant nod, then she reaches out her hand. I place the tablets in her palm, then pass her a glass of water. She swallows them down.

Having been on the receiving end of Doc’s brand of medicine in the past after I’d accidentally gotten in the way of a bullet, I know how this is going to play out. It will take maybe ten, fifteen minutes for the powerful tablets to dissolve, then she’ll be out, completely dead to the world, while her body gets the chance to heal.

I wait until her breathing evens, the tension leaving her features. Then, having had a shit day myself, I take off my boots, pants and shirt, and in my boxers, lay down beside her.

No judgment, please. It’s my fucking bed after all.

She might be sleeping, but my mind’s working a mile a minute. Images flit through my head as though I’m watching a video. She, a safe distance away from the car she’d just set on fire, clutching my cut in her hands. Then her, with only one working arm and dragging a broken leg behind her, making her way up the steep slope without complaint.

She earned my respect for her bravery. But, I suppose, with her being Secret Service, she must have been trained. Though, I’d served with some men who had all the knowledge but used to moan like bitches if they got so much as a scratch to their hand.

Willpower. That’s the word for what she’s got in abundance. The thing that drives a heroic man to ignore his injuries and rescue his teammates.

Fuck it! I admire her. If it comes down to protecting her or my club, then there’s no question I’d end her. But I certainly wouldn’t enjoy doing it.

I wouldn’t like the other option better. There’s no way I’d take her as my old lady. Sure, she looks the part, has the balls to stand up to me, and is intelligent, so I wouldn’t get bored of conversation. I’m certain that she’d be a spitfire in bed, or, if she wasn’t already, I could teach her to be. There’s one inherent problem. I like being single, having no one but my club to answer to, and a variety of bunnies and hangarounds who come to our parties to sink my cock into.

I turn onto my side, my brain still whirling. I could end this right now. She’s in a deep sleep due to the painkillers. She might not even notice if I put a pillow over her face… Reaching my hand behind me, grabbing said item, and twisting back around, I hold it above her, testing myself.

I can’t do it. Hell, I’ve taken lives and never thought twice about it. But her? Something tells me I’d live with more guilt on my mind than I wanted to.

So how can I sort this situation out? The answer hits me. I need to buy time. I need to test her story, find the truth of the matter, and see if I can trust her.

What then? I ask myself, breathing in and blowing air out, keeping my mumbled fuck low enough not to be audible. Chances are I’ll never be able to prove she’s no risk to the club, and in the end, she’ll gain hours, days, possibly a week, but little longer.

She’s already technically dead. No one knows she’s alive.

I still. Maybe that’s the way to approach it. See if I can sell her on starting a new life. Her old one would always put her in danger. She’d risk having a fanatic pop their head up every once in a while, to take a potshot at her. It’s not her fault she’s been used as a scapegoat for why Adams died. Perhaps there’s a way to draw a picture of a future, to paint it as a new chance she’s been given.

Yeah. Concentrate on the positives and put killing her on the back burner. At least for now. As long as she learns nothing about the club, what could she tell anyone about us? And if she’s reaping the benefits of having a new identity, that’s all the more reason not to tell anyone it was us who destroyed her original. It could work. Couldn’t it?

Having a plan helps relax me. Facing away from her, I rest my head on the pillow, feeling easier than I have for hours.

I barely recall falling asleep before I’m woken by a muffled shriek that has me reaching for the gun I’d placed on the bedside table, before realising it came from the woman next to me. She’s no longer still and breathing easily. She’s panting hard, and her hands flail as if to ward off some attacker.

The noises coming from her gradually form comprehensible words.

“No,” she cries. “No. Leave me alone.”

She’s in the thralls of a nightmare, and if I’m not mistaken, remembering actual scenes from her past. The strength of the ire that heats up my veins surprises me, hating that at one time, she was defenceless and weak.

I smack my hand to my head, forcing myself to remember who I am, why she’s here, and the options Bullseye has given me. I’m no saint. I’m no protector, no hero, and not even a good man. Why the fuck should I care what’s happened to her?

She starts thrashing now. Wiping away the idea I might be concerned she could cause herself greater injury, I focus on my worry that she could kick or punch me, or at the least, keep me from getting any more sleep.

I decide to wake her, but mindful of how my brothers suffering from PTSD react, I’m careful how I do it. Placing my hand gently on her shoulder, I speak softly.

“Pippa, you’re dreaming.”

Using a little force, I still the movement of her arm, and start to stroke her gently from elbow to shoulder, my touch soft and rhythmic. I keep whispering to her in a calming tone, telling her she’s safe and that whoever she’s fighting has gone. It takes a few moments and as much patience as I possess before she stills, relaxes, then stiffens. Turning her face toward me, she opens her eyes.

Seeing the clarity there, I lay it on her straight while fixing my features into a glare. “Fuckin’ woke me up with that nightmare you were having.”

Blinking rapidly, she takes a moment to shift completely from dream world to real life. “So sorry to have disturbed you,” she starts in a sarcastic tone. “But want to explain why you’re lying next to me in my bed?”

“My bed,” I correct. “And, woman, you ain’t got anything to fear from me.”

“Says my executioner,” she retorts, showing her memories are intact.

Withdrawing my hand from her arm, I lay on my back, placing my hands beneath my head. Air leaves me in a sigh. “I sense this kill-you-or-claim-you shit is a problem.”

“Well, um, yeah?” She sounds incredulous that I should question it.

Bullseye is going to kill me. Even so, I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “You’ve got to heal before you can do anything. So, focus on that for now. While you’re doing that, how about you try to get me to trust you? To believe you’ve no nefarious interest in my club.”

“Why should I? Your minds are already made up.”

Removing one hand from behind my head, I move it in a seesaw gesture. “Maybe, maybe not. But it’s your only hope of getting out of this. You convince me, and maybe, I can convince my club.”

“And what then? You’ll let me go?” she sneers. “You’ve made me dead, remember? I don’t exist anymore. If I resurrect myself and return to the agency, your abilities to hack into government systems will be discovered. Even if I don’t say anything, they’ll put two and two together.”

And there’s no way on this earth I’d risk Freak’s son being exposed. “You really want to go back? You’ve got a chance to reinvent yourself, to make a new start in life.”

She exhales loudly. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to do that.”

“You can take your time. You don’t need to make decisions now. If you go back, you know, there’ll always be some idiot wanting to make themselves an urban hero by taking you out. Moving on means no longer looking over your shoulder, and it could keep you alive.”

I feel her shrug. “But first, I’ve got to make you believe I’m not here to infiltrate your club.”

That’s the gist of it. “Yeah.”