here are mixed. A bunch of people who have nothing to lose and no morals left,” he responded, his hands clutching the handles. “Hold on.”
The warning was all I had before he turned sharply, tearing down a road, his shoulders tense, the alley snug with people and carts.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunshots tore down the lane, clipping the back of the bike.
Screams broke out from pedestrians, causing them to scatter like confused squirrels.
“Get out of the way!” I screamed, but no one listened. Warwick skillfully wove through the chaos, but the people in our path forced him to swerve down another smaller alley, the walls almost grating the handlebars.
His shoulders tightened, but he punched the bike faster.
Shouts hurled down the corridor after us. Peering behind, I saw the lead horseman galloping toward us, the alley making us a perfect target—like a bowling lane with no gutter. His arm was raised, the gun glinting off lights from the building above us.
“Warwick.” The warning ground from between my teeth as the sound of a gun popped off behind us.
Warwick’s arm darted back, yanking my body around his torso, and ducking me down right as a bullet struck his shoulder blade. Right where I had been.
Holy shit. That would have been my head.
His fingers dug harder into my skin, a tiny grunt huffing his chest, but it was his only response to the shot burrowing into his flesh. He tore the motorcycle out of the alley, skidding back onto a main street, the large road giving the bike freedom to hit top speed.
Glancing back, the gang struggled to catch up, disappearing gradually into the darkness.
I exhaled with relief, the tension in my stomach ebbing. Twisting back, I noticed blood dripping down Warwick’s arm onto my knee, the new wound not far from the one he’d gotten the night of our escape.
Rolling and wadding up his shirt, I tried to slow the bleeding, my hands saying the thank you my mouth couldn’t seem to find.
He had taken a bullet for me. Once again protected me.
The infamous and feared Warwick Farkas, the man who killed without thought or conscience, appeared to have one after all. At least for me. The guy who could so easily snap a man’s neck in prison, but gently cleaned and attended my wounds. Who shared a bed with me, but did not take what I did not offer. Shared food and drink. Spilled memories and secrets.
If it was the adrenaline or gratitude for him saving my life, I didn’t care. I felt the feeble wall I had kept up against him bend. My opinions on him sharpened with chaotic emotion.
As if he felt every confused emotion, sensed every messy thought, his chest expanded, his spine stiffening. It didn’t stop me. I flattened my palm against his taut back, my hands caressing his glorious body, even as his muscles tensed under my fingertips.
With one hand, I kept pressure on the laceration, while the other explored, drinking in the heat and firmness, curving around his sides.
A strange ache started throbbing in my shoulder blade, as if I had been shot too, but I shoved the sensation away, concentrating on him.
He sucked in, his eyes darting to my hand, then back to the road. Not encouraging, but not discouraging either. My touch moved under his layer of clothing, electricity snapping at my chest as my fingers touched his skin. He went rigid, his breath hitching.
“Kovacs.” I heard my name. A threat. A warning. A question.
My hands moved farther over his ripped abs. Fuck, he felt good. Like I was drunk and clearheaded at the same time, dreamy and sharp. I stopped thinking…only feeling, everything around me disappearing.
“Brexley…” He curved his head to me, breathing shallowly. Hearing my name on his lips, the way he drew my name through gravel, husky and deep, shredded every fiber of my will.
My gaze met his. I had no idea what he saw in my eyes, but his head snapped around. Every moment the tension between us thickened to painful levels. The desire I’d shoved away now broke free, spilling everywhere, and I couldn’t seem to wrap it back up.
“Fuck,” I heard him snarl, the bike coming to a skidding stop. He stayed facing forward, boots on the ground, his grip tight on the handlebars. I watched his shoulders rise and lower with his heavy breaths, more blood soaking into his cotton jacket.
“You saved my life again,” I whispered, my hands once again moving up his spine, pushing up