Snatching it from my hand, she presses it against her face. “Thank you.” She drags her eyes up to my neck and settles at my face. I snag one end of the shirt and dab at a smudge of blood on her chin. She winces.

“I know it hurts.” The urge to continue cleaning her face is too strong. I drop my hand to my lap. “We should probably get you to the hospital—”

“No, please!” Terror flashes behind her light eyes. “No hospitals.”

“Shit, Mac.” She probably needs stitches. “There’s a lot of blood.”

Her free hand moves to the door handle. “I won’t go. I’ll run. I swear to God, if you take me to a hospital, I’ll—”

“Okay, okay, fine.” What the fuck is that all about? “I won’t take you.”

A long, deep breath and she relaxes. “Thanks, I um . . . sorry.”

It’s none of my business, but there’s something about this chick that makes me curious. I mean what kind of girl throws her body in front of a biker to protect a dude she hardly knows, but wants to cut and run at the mention of a hospital?

“You feel like telling me what that was all about?”

“I’m . . . afraid.” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear her.

Afraid. This girl?

Nothing I’ve seen from her yet points to her being anything but fearless. An irritating tick in the back of my mind reminds me of who I am. Live for a fight, the burn of a tattoo or pinch of a needle, yet I avoid the one thing in life most men can’t live without.

Yeah, I’m familiar with unreasonable fears. If she’s really afraid, then I don’t want to put her though more than she’s been through already. That only leaves one other option.

Anxiety pricks against my nerves. My chest gets tight, breathing shallow. “Okay, I’ll take you to my place. I have a first-aid kit.”

Fuckin’ shit! I throw the truck in drive.

This could possibly be a disaster.

~*~

Mac

Searing pain radiates through my cheek. Holding Rex’s T-shirt to my face, I inhale deeply, enjoying the smell of soap mixed with the salt of his clean sweat. The scent calms me enough so that I can replay in my head exactly what happened.

All I wanted to do was keep Rex from getting hit. Shielding him with my body was instinctual. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I’d take a punch every day of my life if it means saving him from pain. I’ll never let anyone hurt Rex again, not if it’s within my power to protect him.

Watching him get hit would’ve been worse than the stabbing burn I’m feeling now. Hell, as long as he’s been fighting professionally, I’ve yet to watch him fight. There’s no way I could handle seeing him take punches all in the name of a paycheck.

We pull into the lot of his complex. The thought of being taken into Rex’s home does weird things to my insides. Excited flutters mix with anxiety and apprehension.

The truck jerks as he throws it in park, sending another bolt of fire through my cheek. Shit. What if I broke something?

“We’re here.” He hops out and runs to the passenger-side door.

I push it open, and he slides his hand around my upper arm to help me climb down.

“Easy, one rough step will hurt like a bitch.”

“I’m good.” I mumble through the fabric and press it closer to my nose.

The security lights in the lot give me a good look at his tattoos. One in particular on his left pec catches my eye. Mom. The simple word inked against a scroll over his heart. I drag my eyes away as tears prick the backs of my eyes.

He clicks the alarm on his truck, and with his hand still in the crook of my arm, he guides me through his complex.

I know exactly where he lives, but I drag my feet a little to pretend that I don’t. It’s when he pulls me up short, just shy of his front door, that my feet betray my plan. Having taken a few more steps past the door he’s currently sliding a key into, I stumble back to him.

“Whoa, you all right?” He holds my hand tighter to steady me.

This isn’t his place. Where are we? “Oh, yeah. Just got a little dizzy for a sec, but I’m good.”

He doesn’t look convinced but opens the door and pulls me into a dark apartment. Panic licks up my spine until he flips on a light.

I exhale hard and watch as he moves through the small apartment to the kitchen. “Have a seat on the couch. I’ll grab you some ice.”

I want to ask him where we are, but then he’d know that I know this isn’t his place. I swing my eyes around the living room. Everything in this place is mixed-matched. The dining room table is surrounded by four completely different chairs. A green plaid, loveseat-style couch is the room’s centerpiece complete with a UNLV blanket thrown over the back. A few candles on the coffee table and a bowl of potpourri clearly communicate a feminine touch. This is a girl’s apartment. I move to study a few framed pictures on a nearby bookshelf.

“Sit.”

I jump at Rex’s command and hope he didn’t catch me snooping. I drop to the couch and he squeezes in next to me. He leans in to inspect my cheek, and I keep my stare to his lips. His bare torso tempts me to study his tattoos. They’re everywhere: his chest, stomach, shoulders, even his neck. I know if I let my eyes drift lower I’ll get lost in the beauty of his body. No, stay on his lips.

He leans in and the slight pressure and heat of his knee as it touches mine sends tingles through my belly. My breath hitches in my throat.

He grimaces. “Damn, hurts that bad, huh?”

I manage a nod, grateful that he saw my gasp as pain rather than the pure zip of pleasure that his touch provokes.

His long fingers wrap around my wrist, and he pulls my hand away, taking the soothing-scented shirt with it. His eyes narrow and flash with something deadly before he wipes some blood away. “Yeah, he nailed you pretty good.” His words come from deep in his chest, vibrating the air between us.

Heat builds beneath the skin at my thigh and crawls upward at a teasing pace. I clear my throat, afraid my voice will crack with the pressure of his proximity. “Is um . . . my cheek broken?”

He lifts his hand to my face and tilts his head, studying my cheek. The moment his fingertips brush against my sensitive skin I fight the urge to close my eyes and lean into him. Instead, I stay glued on his perfect blue eyes. This is how close we would’ve been as kids. Eye to eye, no more than six inches of separation, holding on to the weight in his stare, just as I am now.

My heartbeat throbs so loud I can feel it in my wounded cheek and hear it in my ears. He presses lightly, but I refuse to flinch at the resulting pain out of fear that he’ll pull away.

His thick, black eyelashes close in tight over his blue eyes. “Fuck.” He rolls his lip ring into his mouth and drops his hand from my face. I miss his touch instantly and fight the urge to drop to my knees and beg for it back. He opens his eyes again, and the softness I see there turns my insides to liquid.

He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen: eyes so blue they’re like glacial ice, black hair that’s spiky and mussed up as if he’s been running his hands through it, his jaw line strong and masculine leading to the most succulent pair of lips, full and begging to be bitten.

“I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Huh?” His words break through my thoughts.

He brings his hand back, but this time it’s holding a bag of ice wrapped in a dishtowel. “Here. Hold this there. Should get the swelling down.”

“Thanks.” I groan and hold the cold to my cheek, wishing it was his hand instead.

Snap out of it! Having dirty thoughts of Rex does me no good. Remember who he is and why I’m here. A wave of nausea rolls through me. I’m not ready for this. I drop my head back to rest on the couch.

“You’re one tough broad, Mac.” He stands and moves into the small kitchen. “You took that hit like a man.”

“Ha. Yeah . . .” Taking a hit for Rex feels good. I mean my cheek hurts like hell, but the pain is relative. Knowing that I saved Rex from even one hit makes it easy to take.

I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and it sounds as if it’s a space he’s comfortable in, one he’s been in before. But who lives here?

“You want something to drink? Water, there’s some red juice and um . . .” I hear him moving stuff around in the fridge. “Starbucks coffee crap.”

“Water would be great.”

He drops back onto the couch next to me with a bottle of water. Cracking open the lid, he hands it to me. “Here.”

I sit back up and take a shallow gulp to avoid hurting my face. “Ahh, that’s perfect. Thanks.”

Silence settles between us, so I take my chance to ask. “Nice place. How long have you lived here?”

“This isn’t my place.” He fidgets a little but catches himself before it’s too obvious. “I live a few doors down.”

We’re in an apartment, in his complex, that he has a key to. What the hell? “Whose place is this?”

He avoids my eyes. “A friend, um . . . my neighbor. She’s out of town for a few days.”

My stomach drops. She. She! The girl from this morning. That’s why he was helping her with her bags. Holy fuck! He’s seeing his neighbor. He probably spends the night over here most nights, wrapped up in her arms, curled together on this couch. Ugh . . . I feel sick.

My jaw locks so tight my teeth ache and pain rockets through my cheek. The room starts to spin. I pinch my eyes closed. “Oh no. I think . . .” Yeah, I’m going to barf all over Little Miss Perfect’s pea-green plaid couch.

“Whoa, you don’t look so good.” I feel his hands on my shoulders, laying me back. “You probably have a concussion. They’ll make you sick, puke . . . it’s not pretty.”