Three Kinds of Trouble (Sons of Templar MC 9)

“Freya,” I blurted out, my heart thundering in my chest, feeling seconds away from a full-on hysterical breakdown. It would not do well to break down with a biker badass in my house. A still bleeding biker badass.

He blinked.

“My name,” I offered. “It’s Freya.”

Something in his eyes changed. Giving me a glimpse of something other than pain. Then his eyes shuttered. “Phone.”

I stared at him. “I know bikers have some weird names, but—”

“No, phone in my cut,” he clipped out, not sounding at all amused. He moved underneath me, letting out a grunt of pain.

He reached over to where I’d carefully placed his cut over the back of the sofa. His hand wasn’t shaking. I found that interesting since my hand was shaking, and I wasn’t the one bleeding.

“Call Swiss, tell him to come with Sarah to this address,” he ordered, his jaw tight.

I nodded once, scrolling through his phone then doing as he said. I didn’t know why he wasn’t calling Swiss himself but I also figured he was trying to be a tough guy and those words sounded forced and full of pain. The sound of a dial tone echoed through the silent room.

“You fucker, you better be torturing someone or dead. You missed church,” was the answer I got.

I cleared my throat.

Torturing someone.

He hadn’t said it like it was meant to be a joke.

“Um, hey, Swiss. My name is Freya, and your friend...” Fuck, I still didn’t know his name. “The one whose phone this is, with the good hair and a jawline that will ruin your life, he’s here and he’s been stabbed. And he said no cops or ambulance, but he told me to call you, so I’m hoping you know what to do here because I definitely do not,” I uttered in one long breath.

He was looking at me, the bleeding man who had a jawline that could ruin lives. I didn’t hold his gaze because he likely thought I was fucking insane.

There was an extended silence on the other end of the phone then a chuckle. A chuckle. “Figures that motherfucker would get stabbed then get picked up by a hot chick.”

I blinked. “How do you know I’m hot?”

“Baby, I can tell.” His voice was saturated in sex, and my body quivered from it. Just a little. I was only human.

Something changed in the room, the energy. I risked a glance to the man on my sofa. His expression had been tight and pissed off before all of this—presumably because he was an alpha male biker with a square jaw who’d gotten himself saved by a woman—but for whatever reason, he was seriously pissed now. Likely because I was chatting with his friend about my hotness while he was bleeding without medical attention.

“Get Sarah to this address now,” the bleeding man grunted, though it was more of a growl.

Another chuckle came through the phone. “Alright, alright, man, don’t get your panties in a bunch. What’s your address, baby?”

I was guessing this was meant for me, so I rattled off my address to the man on the other end of the phone with a liquid sex voice that was calling me baby.

“We’ll be there in five.”

We?

I didn’t get the chance to ask any more questions since he hung up. I just stared at the phone, then looked up into one green eye and one blue eye.

“Um, I’ll just put this here,” I murmured, placing the phone on my coffee table. It was bloodstained. The phone. My fingers.

My hands started to shake as everything really sunk in.

“Freya.”

My attention moved back to the man who said my name. In a deep, masculine, throaty voice.

My couch was large. Very large. It had taken me four months to find and it had cost a lot more than a couch should’ve cost. But it was like a fucking cloud; it swallowed me up and cuddled me better than any man could. I’d covered it in expensive cushions and throws so it looked like something out of a home magazine.

Now there was a man on it. One that did not belong in any magazine. Stark against all the colors and textures. His hair was inky black, mussed in a way that had not taken him hours in front of a mirror, in the way that nature had intended. I wasn’t sure if he was pale naturally or from the blood loss, but he was working it in a big way. His brows were as dark as his hair, eyes like carved gemstones against the stark angles of his face. The tattoos, instead of looking like someone had inked them on his skin, looked like he was born with them, like they were part of him.

He was tall, stretched all the way along the length of my sofa, Sirius still on top of his legs. And I’d seen his stomach. Sure, it was a gaping, bleeding wound, but that wound was right in the middle of one ab.