Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC 5)

But I was still recovering.

It was like aftereffects of a migraine. The actual episode was over but the fragility of my head still remained. My sanity. The pain was a shadow that was hard to forget. So I was hiding from him until I found a way to build up my walls again, to forget that pain.

Without drugs.

How fun that would be.

That choice was taken away when I was deciding between skim and two percent.

Both milk bottles were ripped from my hands and set back down roughly. Then Gabriel had me by the wrist and was dragging me bodily from the store.

I struggled against him. “Let me go,” I hissed.

He didn’t look my way. “Not happenin’.”

I struggled again and people looked, but no one came to my aid. Probably because this was a small town and everyone knew Gabriel and the leather on his back.

I just didn’t know that the cut of leather gave him carte blanche to manhandle women in the fucking grocery store.

Obviously it did.

“Don’t worry. Only a woman getting dragged out of a grocery store by a fucking biker. Nothing to make you actually do something about,” I shouted at no one in particular.

One woman wearing a low-cut pink dress that looked like it belonged on a Vegas stage, not in a grocery store, actually grinned at me.

Grinned.

Not even the security guard did a thing, just nodded pleasantly at Gabriel as if we were strolling past hand in hand and I wasn’t getting dragged while struggling like a banshee.

“This fucking town has some serious fucking issues,” I said as we reached the parking lot. “Serious fucking issues,” I shouted back to the store.

We made it to Gabriel’s Harley before he turned.

“Get on,” he ordered.

“Not fucking likely,” I snapped back.

He stepped forward, toe to toe with me, his face granite. “Becky, get on.” Everything about that action was meant to intimidate—his voice, his height, his face devoid of the light humor that was his default. That, as I’d learned in the cabin, was his mask to hide his true face. The damaged, dangerous, broken man before me.

I didn’t back down. “I’m not scared of you,” I hissed. “And you may be able to drag me bodily out of places on account of the fact you have too few manners and too many muscles, but you can’t command me to do anything. So unless you want to hog-tie me to that bike, I’m not going anywhere.” I crossed my arms.

He held my stare like he was considering it, actually considering tying me to a motorcycle and driving off.

“Fine,” he relented, and I tried to hide my triumphant smile.

“Okay, now that we’ve established you’re a fuckin’ nutcase and this town has zero issues with kidnapping as long as the kidnapper is wearing a Sons of Templar cut, I’m going to go. Preferably over state lines.” I made to leave but he caught my wrist.

“I said fine to not putting your sweet ass in danger by forcin’ you on a bike, but I ain’t lettin’ you leave,” he growled. “Not until you’ve talked to me. And if it has to be in a fuckin’ parking lot, so be it.”

I struggled against his hold but he didn’t let go. It wasn’t painful, but it was firm. “You’re seriously doing this?”

Not a spec of his trademark humor danced behind his eyes.

“You’re seriously doing this,” I muttered.

“I’ve got no fuckin’ choice,” he growled. “You won’t answer my calls, you got Rosie as a fuckin’ sentry, and that bitch is scarier than Gage when she wants to be. This was a last resort. Not one I’m particularly comfortable with, but it’s necessary ’cause I’ve been goin’ fuckin’ insane with worry, and anger, over what happened last night. What I did.” As if the reminder was enough, he let me go, stepping back. He ran his hand over his bald head and I noticed the way his eyes were slightly bloodshot, indicating lack of sleep.

“Talk to me, Becky. What the fuck happened?” he asked, his voice softer. “How bad did I hurt you?”

I was taken aback. “You think you hurt me?”

His face was blank. “Babe, you recoiled from my touch seconds after my cock slid outta you. I was takin’ you rough, but fuck, I thought you could take it. I never would’ve fuckin’ done it if I knew you couldn’t.” His voice was laced with regret, and shame. Despite myself, I stepped forward, itching to comfort him.

“It wasn’t you,” I murmured. “Or what we were doing,” I added. “I can take it. With you, it’s better than I’ve ever had. The best, in the worst way,” I admitted quietly, aware of how exposed we were in the fucking parking lot. But I knew it was now or never. If I had time, a bike ride to think about what I was about to tell him, I’d pussy out.